The reaction after "Paper Cuts" isn't loud at first.
It starts with whistling—long, sharp notes cutting through the leftover hum from the amps. Someone near the front stomps once, then again, and the floor answers back with a dull, shared thud. Heads start bobbing, slow and instinctive, like people are still stuck in the tempo even though the song's over.
A few cheers break out, scattered at first.
"Jesus Christ…"
"What the hell was that?"
"That was sick."
It's not polite applause. It's raw approval. The kind where people don't know the rules yet. Some look genuinely shaken. Others are grinning like they just discovered something they shouldn't have.
Rory notices how different this reaction feels from "Love Buzz." That one pulled people in. This one pinned them down.
Yeah, he thinks. That's exactly how it went the first time, too.
Back in the original timeline, people didn't clap right away either. They stood there, absorbing it, deciding whether they liked how uncomfortable they felt. In late '85 Seattle, that discomfort isn't a dealbreaker—it's a challenge.
Someone near the side yells, "Play it again!"
Another voice answers, "Nah—play something worse!"
Krist looks out over the crowd, eyebrows raised, half-laughing like he can't believe they're still on their feet. Kurt just stares at the mic, breathing hard, guitar hanging low.
Off to the side of the room, the other bands are watching closely now.
Buzz Osborne doesn't say anything right away. He just folds his arms tighter, eyes narrowed, chewing on it. Dale Crover leans over slightly, smirking.
"That kid hits hard," Dale mutters. "Too hard for a kid."
Buzz snorts. "Yeah. And that guitar stuff? That's not accidental."
Near them, the Skin Yard guys are whispering.
"That drummer's got Bonham arms," one of them says.
"And punk timing," another adds. "That's not normal."
Green River's crew looks split—some nodding along, others skeptical.
"Feels like Melvins slowed down and fed through a broken radio," someone says.
Mark Arm shrugs. "Or it's the next thing."
Jack Endino stands a little apart, hands in his jacket pockets, watching Rory more than anyone else. One of his bandmates leans in.
"You record these guys already, right?"
Jack nods. "Yeah. The EP."
"Think it'll sell?"
Jack doesn't answer right away. "I think it'll scare the right people."
Back onstage, Rory rolls his shoulders once, loosening up. Kurt glances over at him, then at Krist. They nod at each other—no big discussion needed.
Kurt steps up to the mic.
"Uh," he says, clearing his throat. "This is our last song."
A groan rolls through the crowd, mixed with cheers.
"We, uh… wrote it a few weeks ago."
That gets a reaction—people leaning forward now, curious.
Rory grips the sticks tighter.
Alright, he thinks. End it ugly.
Kurt hits the first chord of "Floyd the Barber."
No warning. No feedback.
Just a slow, grinding riff that lands like a door slamming shut.
Krist's bass locks in immediately, thick and low, vibrating the floor. Rory comes in hard—kick and snare, deliberate and heavy.
'Bonham weight,' Rory thinks. Don't rush it.
Every hit feels spaced out, intentional. The groove drags, but it never falls apart. He keeps the cymbals controlled, ride cracking through the sludge.
Kurt's voice comes in low and detached, like he's telling a story he doesn't care whether you want to hear or not. It's unsettling because of how calm it is.
The crowd quiets again.
Someone whispers, "This one's fucked up."
Rory stays locked in, letting the beat breathe. No fills yet. Just pressure.
As Kurt's delivery sharpens, Rory adds more force—slightly bigger snare hits, toms creeping in underneath.
Grohl power now, he thinks. But keep it slow.
The chorus hits and Kurt yells the hook—raw, ugly, full of disgust. Rory answers with a heavy fill, toms rolling like thunder, cymbals crashing wide.
A couple people flinch. Someone laughs nervously.
Back into the riff.
Krist doesn't move much, but his bass feels massive, every note like a punch to the chest. Rory keeps the groove tribal now—kick, snare, floor tom—primitive and crushing.
This is a short song, Rory reminds himself. Make every second count.
When Kurt's voice starts cracking near the end, Rory hits harder. Full arms. Full body. Cymbals ringing wild now, just barely under control.
The final screams come fast and overlapping, Kurt's voice breaking into noise. Rory drives straight through it—no slowing down, no mercy.
Then—
Everything stops.
Final chord. Final crash.
Cut.
The silence afterward is sharp and sudden, like the room got its breath knocked out.
Then the crowd erupts.
Cheering, shouting, stomping. Someone whistles so loud it hurts. People are yelling the band's name now—some of them for the first time.
Kurt steps back, shaking his head, almost smiling. Krist laughs out loud, lifting his bass in the air.
Rory lowers his sticks, heart pounding.
Yeah, he thinks. That's how you close a set.
And somewhere in the room, more than a few people realize they just saw something they're going to be talking about for a long time—even if they don't quite know why yet.