Matt flipped open his guitar case and pulled out his most prized possession. Of the five guitars he owned, this one was sacred—the only one he'd sworn to ever play on stage.
He didn't know it yet—no one could've—but twenty-five years from now, that same guitar would sit behind glass in the Smithsonian. A relic. A piece of music history.
Right now though, it was just his Strat.
A 1977 Fender Stratocaster, deep black on the body with stark white trim around the pickups and knobs. It was, in Matt's eyes, the greatest guitar ever built. The sound it made was thick and heavy, rich enough to cut through noise and chaos, and it felt like a part of him every time he touched it.
The Strat wasn't just a guitar. It was his guitar. A partner. A lifeline. The most important thing in his life, period. He would've mourned its destruction more than the loss of his own family—and honestly, he wouldn't even have felt bad about it.
Sometimes, when he was high or drunk—or just feeling it—he talked to it. Whispered to it. Praised it after a killer session like it had done all the work.
He ran his fingers over the strings now, soft and reverent, then slid the strap over his shoulder.
"We're gonna kick some ass tonight," he murmured. "Serious fuckin' ass."
Jake was already plugged in. He flipped the switch on his amp and gave the tuning knobs a careful twist. The volume was low, pre-amp turned up, effects off for now. He strummed a few clean chords and listened hard.
He'd tuned it earlier that day—double-checked it before leaving home—but still, a part of him always feared it had somehow fallen out of tune in the car. It hadn't. The sound that came out was warm, rich, and clear. Even better, he'd changed the strings two days ago, and they sang.
"That tone's clean enough to drink," Matt said, flipping on his own rig and hammering out a fat, distorted power chord. It bounced off the walls and settled in his chest. With a quick hand, he muted the strings. "Now let's dial it in. You ready, Nerdly?"
"I'm ready," Bill replied, not missing a beat.
The nickname had started as a jab—Matt's invention, of course—but over time, it had stuck. Bill had even started using it himself.
"Then let's go."
What followed was forty minutes of meticulous setup. Tedious to some. Ritual to them.
Bill was the band's unofficial sound engineer. He made sure they didn't just play loud—they played right. He hated how most club bands sounded like mashed-up static: everything loud, nothing clear. His goal was harmony. Clarity. A mix where every note mattered.
So while the others tweaked their gear, Bill knelt at the soundboard like a priest at an altar.
Each instrument and mic had its own amp. Each amp had to be placed, adjusted, recalibrated—then adjusted again. Everything had to line up perfectly with Coop's acoustic drumming. It wasn't just plug and play. It was a process. A system.
First came Darren's bass, balanced against the thump of the kick drums. Then Matt's guitar—distortion levels fine-tuned with and without effects. After that, Jake's Les Paul, which was trickier thanks to its dual nature. Clean and distorted settings had to be balanced individually.
Then the piano.
Bill's keyboard sat right at the edge of acceptable volume. Too soft, it vanished. Too loud, it overwhelmed. Hitting that exact point where it floated above the rhythm, but below the vocals—that was the art.
And then came the mics.
Backup vocals were the hardest. Each one had to be adjusted solo, then together. Too much variation and the harmonies would collapse. Too little and they'd sound like mush.
Last came Jake's mic—the crown jewel. It fed into their best amp: a $400 Marshall designed specifically for vocals. It was meant for venues with crappy acoustics, like this one. Bill had insisted they save up for it.
And now it was earning its keep.
For the next ten minutes, Jake ran through vocal warmups and partial lyrics while Bill adjusted the levels again and again.
"Give me more," Bill called, ear pressed close to the board.
Jake stepped up. "Falling without purpose," he sang, his voice steady, chest expanded.
"Too bright," Bill said. Twist of a knob. "Again."
"Sliding without cause."
Another tweak.
"No hands held out before me, no more hope for pause."
Bill nodded slowly. "All right. Now everyone."
They kicked into the chorus in full, all five voices layered together, just like they'd rehearsed.
"Descent into nothing, life forever changed. Descent into nothing. Can never be the same."
The line echoed, clean and haunting. They repeated it again. Then again. Mixing in lyrics from other songs, adjusting tones, testing harmonies. Sometimes Bill had one instrument play. Sometimes all five. It wasn't glamorous—but this was where the magic got built.
No one joked. No one messed around. The rehearsal vibe was gone. This was the real thing, and they treated it like it mattered. Because it did.
Jake's throat was starting to tighten when he looked up and said, "I think we got it, Nerdly."
"Damn straight," Matt agreed. "We're locked in tighter than a virgin at Bible camp."
That line always meant the same thing: stop touching knobs now.
Bill sighed. "Guess it'll have to do."
He knew if they hadn't said something, he would've gone on tweaking for another hour. Maybe more. Perfection was always one dial away. Always just out of reach.
But that's why they trusted him.
Because when Bill said they were ready?
They were.