Throughout their year of playing together onstage, the members of The Saints had changed and evolved in all kinds of ways. Their wardrobe, their playing styles, their onstage antics, the between-song banter, even the music itself had all shifted as they gained experience.
One thing that hadn't changed, though, was the sacred rule: no getting high before rehearsals or gigs. Matt and Jake treated that like gospel.
But for the last six weeks or so, Darren had been pushing that line. He'd show up to rehearsal stoned out of his mind, claiming he'd smoked "hours ago" and was fine now. Worse, he was starting to slip out before live sets and come back reeking of weed, eyes glazed, voice heavy and slow in that unmistakable way.
Tonight was the first time Matt, as band leader, had finally called him out.
"Dude, I'm not stoned," Darren insisted, eyes half-lidded.
"I can smell it all over you, asshole!" Matt shot back, exasperated.
"That doesn't mean I've been smoking it," Darren argued. "Jesus, man, I walked by some people out back toking up. The smoke must've gotten on me."
The two of them went back and forth for ten minutes before Matt finally walked away, frustrated. That was a rare emotion for him.
Now, backstage, Jake brought it up again.
"What are we gonna do about it? I mean, this can't keep happening. I'm pretty sure he was lit when he tripped over his power cord."
"Yeah," Matt said, stubbing out his cigarette in a soda can. "He was."
"And if it keeps up, he's gonna drag Coop with him. You know how close those two are. Darren's like the human embodiment of peer pressure."
"I know," Matt said, voice hard. "I've known him since freshman year. I know what he's capable of. But this ends now. Mark my word."
Jake looked over. "So what are you gonna do?"
"He's an old friend and I hate to do it, but I'm laying down the law tonight. If he shows up stoned for rehearsal or a performance again, even if we think he might be, he's out."
Jake winced. Harsh. But not wrong. "You think he'll believe you?"
"If he wants to test it, I'll remind him where he really stands. He's a bass player. Pretty good, but not irreplaceable. We put an ad out for a bassist in The Saints, we'll have two hundred responses in a day. At least twenty of them will be better and more reliable than Darren."
Jake raised an eyebrow. "And what if he tries to drag Coop out with him?"
Matt shrugged. "If you were Coop, would you follow Darren?"
"No."
"Exactly. And I don't think Coop will either. But if he does, the same rules apply. Coop's a better drummer than Darren is a bassist, sure, but he's not Bonham. We post an ad, five hundred replies. Twenty-five of them could probably outplay him. Let's be real here. Those two are support. You, me, and Nerdly are the heart of this band. Agree?"
Jake nodded. "That's a fair assessment."
"So if the rhythm section wants to screw around with weed, they can do it outside this band. I'll talk to Darren tonight, you back me up, and it'll settle."
"I'll support you," Jake said.
A moment later, O'Donnel appeared, all puffed up with energy, that familiar coke-glint sparkling in his eyes. Darren, Coop, and Bill trailed behind him. Darren looked sullen and wounded.
"You boys ready to do this?" O'Donnel grinned, throwing an arm around Matt and Jake.
"We're ready," Matt said, shooting Darren a warning look. "Aren't we?"
Darren wouldn't meet his eyes. "Yeah. Ready for Freddie."
O'Donnel picked up on the tension but decided not to touch it. "All right, let's get the show on."
The crowd erupted when he walked out onstage. After a syrupy, drawn-out intro, he finally dropped the name The Saints, and the place went ballistic.
The band did their usual hand-stack gesture backstage, a quick hit of camaraderie, then stormed the stage.
"You ready to rock and roll?" Jake asked into the mic, both hyping the crowd and checking the sound levels. As headliners, they didn't get a soundcheck. They had to rely on pre-set levels and instinct.
The crowd was more than ready.
Coop counted them in and they tore into Waste Not, Want Not, one of Matt's hard-charging numbers about never turning down sex or drugs. Jake's fingers danced across the fretboard, his voice tearing through the speakers with clarity and force. The room pulsed with the beat, the audience swaying, clapping, some screaming along.
When Matt ripped into the first solo of the night, a furious finger-tapping blaze, the crowd surged with him, fists raised, eyes wide.
They ended the song in a tidal wave of drums, keys, bass, and guitar. After a short break to let the crowd scream their love, Coop hit another four-count and they dropped straight into Descent Into Nothing, a D Street West favorite.
Stage movement had leveled up over the past year. Early on, they'd all stuck close to their mic stands, only shifting positions during solos. Now? Jake, Matt, and Darren moved constantly. Matt and Darren flanked Jake, drifting in and out of formation, sometimes back-to-back, sometimes shoulder-to-shoulder. Jake joined them when he wasn't singing, throwing in the occasional spin.
When Matt soloed, he put on a show. Bending backwards, forcing the guitar neck high or low, acting like every note was some brutal extraction. None of it was choreographed. Matt forbade it. They moved on instinct and rhythm alone.
No staged floor rolls. No string licking. No amp-jumping.
Just raw, chaotic, live energy.
Every Saints show was different.
And tonight?
Tonight was already on fire.