In a revelation that feels less like an interview and more like a confession torn from the pages of rock and roll mythology, Metallica’s indomitable drummer Lars Ulrich has finally opened up about the darkest chapter in the band’s storied history — the infamous showdown with bassist Jason Newsted that erupted around Echobrain and tore Metallica to its very core. For decades, the departure of Newsted in 2001 has hung over the band like a shadow, whispered about in backstage corridors, dissected endlessly by fans, but rarely addressed with such nɑƙeɗ honesty. Now, Ulrich lays it bare — the fear, the jealousy, the grief, and the near-collapse of a musical empire built on rage and unity. “It wasn’t just a disagreement,” Lars confesses with a haunted calm. “It was war. And it was personal.”
The early 2000s should have been a triumphant time for Metallica — titans of metal who had weathered deaths, lawsuits, addiction, and still emerged as kings of the stage. But beneath the thunderous riffs and pyrotechnics, something fragile was breaking. Jason Newsted, long seen as the loyal soldier who carried on Cliff Burton’s legacy, felt his voice suffocating under the weight of Hetfield and Ulrich’s iron grip. Echobrain was supposed to be his salvation — a side project, a chance to exhale creatively. Instead, it became the spark that ignited a civil war. “When Jason told us about Echobrain, I didn’t hear the word ‘side project,’” Ulrich admits. “I heard abandonment. I heard betrayal. I thought we were losing him — and after losing Cliff, I couldn’t bear that again. So I lashed out.”
What followed wasn’t just a disagreement in a rehearsal room. It was an icy standoff, a collision of egos that metastasized into something poisonous. Ulrich and Hetfield, united in fear but divided in approach, pushed back against Newsted’s dream. Jason, proud and stub𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧, refused to bow. “I felt cornered,” Newsted later admitted in another interview. “It wasn’t about leaving Metallica. It was about surviving as an artist.” But to Ulrich, survival looked like betrayal. And so the band, already fragile from years of unspoken grief over Burton’s death, cracked further. “We didn’t scream at each other,” Lars remembers. “It was worse. It was silence. That silence was the loudest thing I’ve ever heard in Metallica.”
When Jason finally walked away in 2001, the shockwaves rippled through the music world. Fans were stunned. Reporters speculated. Was Metallica breaking apart? Could the gods of metal fall to something as human as insecurity and pride? “Yes,” Ulrich admits now. “We were on the brink. Jason’s leaving was the closest we ever came to destruction.” He pauses, his voice cracking. “And it was my fault. I couldn’t see that he wasn’t leaving us — he was trying to save himself. I should’ve protected him. Instead, I pushed him out.” Beneath it all lay an older wound — the 1986 death of Cliff Burton. Ulrich now sees how that trauma warped their reactions. “Cliff’s death made us cling to Metallica like it was oxygen. Any threat — real or imagined — felt like death all over again. Jason didn’t deserve that weight. But we made him carry it.”
Time, therapy, and brutal honesty during the Some Kind of Monster era helped Metallica limp toward healing. Ulrich admits that facing his demons on camera was the only way he could understand the truth. “We were broken men pretending to be gods,” he says. “Jason bore the cost of that lie.” Now, more than two decades later, there’s no reunion in sight, but there is mutual respect. “Jason and I can look each other in the eye again,” Ulrich explains. “That’s worth more than any record.” The Echobrain battle isn’t just a Metallica story. It’s a parable about ambition, grief, and the fragile line between brotherhood and rivalry. Ulrich’s final words drive the point home: “If I could go back, I’d tell Jason: ‘Do Echobrain. We’ll figure it out. Just don’t leave us.’ But I can’t. The scars are part of our story now. And maybe that’s the only way Metallica could survive — through fire, even if it meant burning each other first.”
