The feedback starts first.
Not the instruments—just noise. A low, weird swirl coming out of the PA, like a tape someone forgot to rewind properly. A couple people in the crowd squint, tilt their heads. Someone laughs and says, "What the hell is this?" Kurt's crouched near his amp, fingers twisting knobs, half-smiling like he's letting the room marinate in discomfort on purpose.
Rory's already seated behind the kit, sticks loose in his hands. He lets the noise roll for a few seconds longer than it needs to.
Perfect, he thinks. Make them wait. Make them lean forward.
He watches Kurt stand back up, hair in his face, guitar already humming. Krist glances back over his shoulder, eyebrow raised, that familiar "we doing this now?" look.
Rory nods once.
Krist hits the bass riff alone.
It's immediate. Thick. Slithering. The kind of line that crawls into your chest before your brain catches up. The room shifts—people stop talking mid-sentence. Someone near the front mutters, "Oh shit."
Rory lets it breathe. No rush. Four passes of the riff, clean and hypnotic.
Don't step on it, Rory tells himself. Let the bass be the boss.
When he comes in, it's simple—kick and snare, wide-open hi-hat. Heavy, but relaxed. Bonham weight in the kick, Grohl snap on the snare. Nothing fancy. Just confidence.
This groove doesn't need proving, he thinks. It needs belief.
Krist locks in harder the second Rory enters, shoulders loosening, bass swinging low. Kurt slides in with distortion, not loud yet—just texture. Feedback creeps around the edges like smoke.
From the crowd, a girl leans toward her friend, both of whom came in late. "It's like… it doesn't go anywhere. But it does."
"That bass line's insane," the friend says. "Who's that kid on drums?"
Onstage, Rory grins without meaning to.
Kurt steps to the mic.
His voice comes in low, half-buried in the mix, like he's singing to himself instead of the room.
"Would you believe me when I tell you…"
It's lazy. Detached. But it lands.
Rory stays steady, riding the pocket. No fills yet. Just space.
Let Kurt sound bored, Rory thinks. That's where the tension is.
The verse rolls forward, the band glued together by that riff. Kurt bends notes that almost fall apart, then don't. Krist's bass keeps pulsing, relentless.
When they hit the chorus, Rory opens the hi-hat wider, cracks the snare harder.
Kurt's voice lifts, not clean—just louder.
"Can you feel my love buzz?"
The word buzz hangs, stretched, echoed. Someone in the back actually laughs, but it's nervous.
The manager near the side of the stage crosses his arms, eyes narrowing—not unimpressed, just calculating.
They're not flashy, he thinks. But they're dangerously good.
Back into the riff.
Rory keeps the groove the same, but he starts adding tiny pushes—ghost notes on the snare, heavier foot on the kick.
'Dave energy, but don't explode yet,' he tells himself. Save it.
Kurt's second verse is rougher. Less mumble, more teeth. He grips the mic stand like it owes him money.
A guy near the bar shakes his head slowly. "This doesn't sound like punk."
"No," his friend says. "It sounds like something else."
The second chorus hits harder. Rory crashes the cymbals longer, lets them wash. Krist leans back into the riff like he's daring it to break.
Then everything gets ugly.
Kurt steps back from the mic and just attacks the guitar. Feedback screams. Notes bend sideways, wrong on purpose. It's not a solo—it's a fight.
Rory answers.
He starts filling between snare hits now—big, rolling toms, Bonham-style, but faster. He slams crashes, then pulls back into the groove like snapping a rubber band.
This is where Dave would go feral, Rory thinks. But Chad-era chaos still grooves.
The room gets loud in a different way. People aren't cheering—they're reacting. Flinching. Laughing. Shouting things like "Jesus!" and "What is happening?"
The venue owner watches from the back, arms folded tight.
They're not clearing the room, he realizes. They're pulling it in.
Krist never breaks the riff. That's the magic. The anchor. Rory watches his left hand work, calm as hell.
That's why this song works, Rory thinks. Someone always has to stay sane.
When Kurt comes back in for the final verse, his voice is shredded. No more pretending not to care.
Rory pulls the drums back just a hair—less fills, tighter hits.
Let the vocals climb, he tells himself.
The last chorus hits like a confession screamed into traffic.
"Can you feel my love buzz?"
Kurt screams it now. Full-throated. Ugly. Honest.
Rory goes all in—open hats, huge snare, pounding kick. Grohl power, Bonham swing. Every hit lands like it means something.
This is it, Rory thinks. This is the sound that changes things.
The song doesn't really end. It just fades into feedback and repetition. Rory keeps the beat until Kurt lets the noise swallow everything, then cuts it with a final crash.
Silence for half a second.
Then the room erupts—not polished applause, but yelling. Whistles. Someone pounding on a table. Someone else just shouting, "Holy shit!"
Kurt looks surprised, like he didn't expect it to work.
Krist laughs, breathless, shaking his head.
Rory twirls a stick once and sets it down, heart steady.
Yeah, he thinks. They felt it.