Backstage was loud in that chaotic small-venue way. Chatter from the crowd leaked through the walls, amps buzzed in the distance, and some unknown band's last song thumped like a heartbeat beneath the floor. The whole room smelled like old carpet and cigarette smoke.
Kurt paced. Not fast — just enough to show he wasn't calm. He kept tugging the sleeve of his thrift-store sweater, eyes drifting to the stage every few seconds. His foot tapped — not to a rhythm, just nerves.
Krist tried to look relaxed, leaning against a stack of cases and tuning his bass for the hundredth time even though it was already perfect. But the way he kept swallowing and adjusting his grip said everything.
The manager — some scruffy dude who barely looked older than them — was doing his best to pep talk the two.
"You guys already did this in practice. People are gonna love it," he said, clapping both Kurt and Krist on the shoulders. "Just hit 'em hard, yeah?"
Krist nodded a bit too aggressively. Kurt let out a tiny laugh that sounded halfway between amused and terrified.
Rory, meanwhile, sat on a little folding chair with sticks in hand, tapping lightly against his thigh. Completely chill. Like he was waiting for a ride home, not about to debut a band that would later change music history — though nobody there knew that except him.
He hummed a tune under his breath, something not even invented yet — a faint future melody only he recognized. Every so often he stretched his fingers, rolled his wrists, flexed his grip on the sticks. Efficient. Focused. Calm.
He caught Kurt looking over.
"You good?" Kurt muttered.
Rory just grinned. "Better than good."
Kurt blinked, like he was trying to figure out how a literal kid was more composed than him. But it helped — a little bit of Rory's calm rubbed off.
Krist tried to laugh it off too. "Dude, you're twelve. You should be freaking out."
Rory shrugged. "It's just a crowd. We play loud. That's the whole job."
That line — for some reason — snapped both older guys into place. They weren't here to look cool or impress anyone. They just had to be loud and real.
Before any more doubt could creep in, a staff guy popped his head in.
"You're up next. Let's go."
The manager clapped once. "Showtime."
The club guy walked onstage with a wired mic, tapping it twice before speaking.
"Alright everybody, last act tonight! They're from Aberdeen — give it up for… Nirvana!"
There it was. Their name. Out loud. In a venue. Official.
Applause. Not loud. Not wild. Just… curiosity with a sprinkle of skepticism.
They stepped out into the lights.
Kurt went straight to his pedal — that orange Boss DS-1 like his life depended on it — clicked it on and off, fingers brushing the strings to test the distortion. The amp spat a messy growl. Good enough.
Krist plucked a slow line down near the nut — low, thick rumble vibrating through the monitors. He nodded once, satisfied.
Rory slid onto the drum throne like he'd been doing this for decades — which, technically, he had. A quick check: snare crack, a roll across toms, a punch of the kick, hi-hat bounce — all tight. All strong.
The room murmured.
A couple guys near the front stared at Rory like they couldn't believe what they were seeing.
"Dude. That drummer's just a kid," one whispered.
"No way," the other replied. "He looks like he should be at a school talent show."
"I bet they're gonna suck."
But three people over — a pair of girls who looked like they practically lived in Fallout Records — were buzzing.
"We bought their tape yesterday, remember?" one whispered excitedly. "The one with that weird cover?"
"Yeah! Those songs were raw as hell. I wanna see if they can actually play them live."
Another group, from Cellophane Square, nodded in agreement with themselves.
"I dug track three. If they play that one, I'm gonna lose it," one said.
Their expectations hung in the air — good and bad — all swirling into the same anticipation.
Kurt adjusted the strap on his guitar, stepped up to the mic, and said:
"This song's called 'Downer.'"
Rory locked eyes with him. Kurt nodded.
Rory counted in.
One — two — three — four.
//
It starts messy and heavy — like the song wakes up already annoyed.
Rory slams the kick drum slow and solid, nothing fancy — thump-thump that vibrates ribs. Krist jumps in with that low rumble, sticking to the same notes, making the stage floor buzz. The bass doesn't try anything clever — it just pushes, thick and stubborn.
Then Kurt's guitar crashes over the top — distortion and attitude, like metal on concrete. No polish. No showmanship. Just noise that means it.
And Kurt doesn't sing the first line — he spits it:
"Portray sincerity…"
His voice: bored and pissed at the same time. Everything he hates compressed into one sound. His mouth barely opens, but the words crack at the edges like they're fighting to escape.
The guitar chugs — clipped, palm-muted, pure punk irritation. Krist follows, tight and stomping through the verse like they want to break the floorboards.
Rory's snare snaps sharp — no frills, just pure driving force.
That first verse feels uncomfortable — on purpose. Kurt sounds like he's calling the world stupid and using the lyrics as his complaint form.
Then his voice jumps, tension rising:
"Holy now is restitution…"
The band speeds — just a bit — pressure building. Rory throws in fast rolls, Krist climbs, everything twitches like a fuse about to blow.
Then the chorus hits — full acceleration:
"Somebody said that they're not much like I am…"
Kurt gets harsher — practically yelling, daring the mic to keep up. Big fuzzy chords spill everywhere like the amp's barely holding together. Rory smashes the crashes now, loud and commanding. Krist doubles his attack, hammering each note like it personally offended him.
It's the moment the song exhales anger.
No breath — straight into verse two.
Kurt drops low again, colder:
"Sickening pessimist hypocrite master…"
Every syllable is a finger poking someone right in the chest.
Guitar stabs between the lines — short bursts of irritation.
Krist holds steady, heavy tone carrying the whole thing.
Rory keeps the beat violent but controlled, swing just enough to make the hits feel harder.
Then:
"I feel very privileged in debt for my thirst!"
He barks it, mocking life itself. Bitter grin hidden under dirty blonde hair.
Back into the pre-chorus — louder, rougher — the band pushing like they're trying to outrun everything wrong with their lives.
Final chorus — pure chaos.
Kurt's voice tears itself apart — raw, reckless — because the song deserves pain. Guitar full blast, Rory smashing everything he can hit, Krist pounding like he could break his bass in half.
A fast, pissed-off sprint to the finish.
No fancy ending.
Just:
"Dowwwwwneeeer—"
Feedback squeals.
Cymbals ring out.
Bass hums into silence.
Cut.
For a beat — no reaction.
Then a cheer starts — awkward at first — but growing. Real applause. Surprised shouts. A couple genuine whoops.
Someone near the front yelled, "Holy shit, the kid can play!"
Rory hid his smile by taking a drink of water.
Kurt looked over at him — grin spreading wide, relieved and fired up.
Krist leaned toward him and muttered under his breath:
"…Let's do the next one."
Rory twirled his sticks once.
Ready.
Like he always was.
//
Listen to Nirvana's Downer (Incesticide)