It was an airport departure lounge in Portugal, and it was a pocketful of euros, which changed the life of a fourteen year old me. Checking in early coupled with an overestimation of airside facilities. Two hours with nothing to do except try and spend the last few notes and coins of the holiday.

A record shop, stocked with the typical exotic foreign sounds you'd expect to hear abroad, and the usual international stars, the kind that you can never escape no matter where you go in the world. The artwork on the sleeves held the colours of safety, of popularity; of nothing I felt.

I think it was the rack furthest on the left, and two sections down, where I found it though. The snake in the corner, barely visible. The pitch black which engulfed the case and even though effectively created a blank canvas, held an incredible power over my gaze. I turned over the record, and read the titles of the songs, and knew this was for me. The album was untitled, and it was by a band I'd never actually listened to, but had been told were something I'd like.

They were called Metallica.