The noise after "Love Buzz" doesn't stop right away.
It turns into whistling first—sharp, loud, echoing off each other. Someone near the front starts rocking on their heels, and it spreads. Not jumping, not moshing—just this slow, shared sway, like the floor itself is breathing. Heads bob in time with nothing at all. People clap overhead, off-beat, yelling stuff that doesn't quite form words.
"Yeah!"
"Holy hell!"
"Do that again!"
A couple people are laughing, not because it's funny, but because they don't know what else to do with the energy. That's how it was supposed to feel. Rory knows that reaction. He's seen it in grainy footage, read it in old zines, heard it in interviews decades later—the first time people heard Love Buzz, nobody knew what box to put it in.
Except this is 1985, and the crowd's younger, rougher, less ironic. No one's thinking about "grunge" yet. They're thinking: That bass line won't get out of my head.
A guy near the side yells, "Play that slow one!"
Someone else shouts, "You guys sound fucked up—in a good way!"
Kurt steps back from the mic, rubbing his face with the heel of his hand. He looks half-embarrassed, half-pleased, like he didn't expect them to stick around. Krist grins wide, lifting the neck of his bass like he's acknowledging a toast.
Rory watches the room instead of the band for a second.
Yeah, he thinks. They're locked in now.
He clicks his sticks together once.
The feedback comes back—lower this time. Thicker. Not playful like before.
Kurt drags the guitar into noise, letting it howl and scrape, not tuning it away. Just feeding it. The sound sits heavy in the air, uncomfortable. The whistling dies down. People stop moving so much.
Someone mutters, "Uh… what's this?"
Rory leans forward slightly on the stool.
Okay, he thinks. Time to crush them.
Kurt hits the riff.
It's slow. Ugly. Just a few low chords, dragged across the floor like something heavy being pulled down a hallway. Krist comes in right on top of it, bass thick and low, doubling the weight. The sound feels physical now—less groove, more pressure.
Rory doesn't rush.
He brings the kick in like a stomp. Not fast. Not flashy. Big, deliberate hits. Snare comes down hard, echoing longer than it should.
Bonham weight, he thinks. Make every hit feel unavoidable.
The groove settles into something mean. No swing. Just mass.
From the crowd, a girl near the back crosses her arms without realizing it. A guy next to her says quietly, "This is dark, man."
Rory keeps it slow. Toms instead of hi-hat. Let the space feel empty between hits.
Kurt leans into the mic.
His voice comes out low, barely lifted, like he's reading something he doesn't want to remember.
"At my feeding time…"
It's not theatrical. That's what makes it worse.
Rory feels the shift immediately. This isn't Love Buzz. This isn't hypnotic fun. This is claustrophobic. He keeps the beat simple, heavy kick, sharp snare.
Don't decorate it, he tells himself. Let it rot.
Krist doesn't move much—just rocks with the riff, eyes down. The bass hums like a machine that doesn't care who's under it.
When Kurt's voice sharpens in the pre-chorus, Rory responds by hitting harder. Bigger crashes. Let the cymbals ring ugly.
Grohl power now, he thinks. But slow it down.
Then the chorus hits.
"I said so!"
Rory slams into fills—big tom rolls, nothing fast, just thunder. The crowd flinches. Someone actually takes a step back.
"I said so!"
Kurt's voice is shredded, veins popping in his neck. Krist digs in harder, strings buzzing.
"I said so!"
The floor shakes this time. It's not dancing—it's impact.
A guy near the bar shakes his head slowly. "Jesus… this kid's so good!"
Back into the grind.
Kurt starts chanting "Nirvana," over and over, and it doesn't sound peaceful. It sounds bitter. Like he's daring the word to mean something else.
Rory locks into a tribal-feeling groove now—floor toms, kick, crash. Primitive. Heavy.
This is where Dale would just flatten it, Rory thinks. So flatten it.
The second verse feels longer, even though it isn't. People are quieter now. No cheering. Just listening. A couple heads still nod, but slower.
Someone whispers, "This is messed up."
Rory hears Kurt's voice grow tired, almost resigned.
Good, Rory thinks. Let it feel trapped.
As the song builds again, Rory adds more weight—bigger fills, louder crashes, but still slow. Every hit lands like a door slamming.
When Kurt explodes into the final outburst, Rory goes all in.
Full arms. Full body. Snare cracking like it might split. Kick punching through everything.
This is the release, he thinks. Don't let them breathe.
The last "Nirvana" chants stretch out, Kurt's voice dissolving into echoes. Rory lets the cymbals wash and then brings it down to final, massive hits.
Then—cut.
Silence.
Not instant applause. Not cheering.
Just that half-second where no one knows how to react.
Then it comes—louder, rougher than before. People yelling, stomping, clapping. Someone whistles again, but it sounds strained now.
Kurt steps back, eyes wide, almost confused.
Krist exhales a laugh, wiping sweat from his face.
Rory sits still for a second, sticks resting on his knees.
Yeah, he thinks. They didn't just hear it. They survived it.
And in 1985 Seattle, that's how you knew it worked.