Shock Rock

Saturday afternoon, and we were ready to disturb the peace. Kenny and I had decided to open the show with a bang.

Usually, I played a black Les Paul through my Orange half-stack—a tone somewhere between NWOBHM and vintage metal that Boomers loved. But today, I was borrowing Kenny’s Mexican Strat. I wanted the single-coil feedback, the raw hum to spill out into the open air of the festival.

Objectively, this was going to sound worse, but it was all part of the spectacle.

Kenny made a similar call, dragging in a speaker cabinet with a slashed cone. This festival was all blues rock and folksy singer-songwriter types. We wanted to make sure they knew we were here. The sound guy was going to fucking hate us.

During load in, I got a text from Julia:

Good luck at the show. I’ll be there with Skye.

I wasn’t sure what the goal was with that text. It’s not like my hookup with Skye was a secret. But it worked. Now I had a captive audience—if I wanted to do something obscene.

Soundcheck went about how you’d expect.

“Guitar—dude, roll back some gain. If it sounds like shit going in, it’s gonna sound like shit coming out.”

“Fine, I’ll roll it back.”

I couldn’t lie my way out of this one. I obliged, not mentioning my overdrive pedal was off for now—it didn’t hit right with single coils anyway.

“Bass player—dude, you sound like shit and I can’t fix it.”

“Can you do a DI on one channel and the mic on another?” Kenny asked.

“I guess… but running two bass tracks against one guitar’s gonna be muddy as hell in an open space.”

“Can you mic the guitar cab twice—left and right comp?”

“I can,” the sound guy grumbled, silently wishing death upon us.

We ran through level checks, then did a full-band run of Pet Sematary. It sounded more evil than the Ramones ever intended.

“Alright, thanks guys… I guess we’re making it work,” he muttered.

We had six hours to kill before our seven o’clock set. The worst part of being a musician—waiting around.

So I decided to be the worst version of myself and called Skye. I didn’t particularly want to see her, but if she was with Julia, it’d help me get into character.

“Hey, Wes, what’s up?”

“Not much. Just killing time before the set.”

“Oh, well, Julia and I just got to Lowell… did you want to meet up?”

“I mean, only if it’s alright with Julia. She was pretty adamant about never seeing me again,” I said, knowing I was on speaker.

“Well, you know she was just overwhelmed. You have that effect on people sometimes.”

“Yeah… we can meet on the riverwalk, just past the concert grounds.”

“Sounds great. See you in fifteen.”

I was looking forward to seeing how much of a mess I could make of myself before stepping on stage. This was becoming a sickness.

We met as expected.

“Wow, Wes, still in shorts? Haven’t done the big costume change yet?” Skye joked.

“Yeah, it’s hot. I’ll throw on the jeans, boots, and jacket later,” I said.

“Any makeup tonight?”

“Definitely eyeliner. Probably some shadow. Nothing else.”

“Why is my ex prettier than me in makeup?” Julia muttered.

Skye elbowed her.

“He doesn’t have to be your ex, you know.”

Julia kept shifting her gaze between us.

“Why don’t you two just date already?” she said. “You’re both toxic type-A personalities. Perfect for each other.”

I looked at Skye, smirking with a raised eyebrow.

I wished Julia had more good ideas like this—maybe then I wouldn’t have fucked Skye the first time.

“I don’t know, Julia. He’d have to ask me. And I’d need your permission.”

“Please. Take him.”

“So, Wes? How do you feel about this arrangement?”

“I don’t know. Meet me after the set. We’ll see if you still want me,” I said with a grin.

I didn’t have any control over my life at this point—and it felt incredible. I couldn’t wait to bleed all over the stage lights and call it a show.

***

On the way to the stage, I saw something I shouldn’t have. Scott was off with the headliners, laughing—clearly having a great time—when I caught him doing a quick bump. Making it worse, he shook his head, glanced sideways, and saw me watching. Great. Now we were going to have to talk about it eventually.

I kept walking, heading over to where Jim and Kenny were lounging backstage. Kenny stood up and met me halfway, just far enough from Jim to speak privately.

“Wes,” he said, low and serious. “During the last song, I’m handing my bass to Scott. I need you to put on the show of your life.”

“Why?”

“That’s a surprise... for everyone except Scott. He gave me the greenlight.”

Ominous.

We grabbed our gear. Scott came jogging over to join us.

There were no words—just fist bumps and a few nods.

The intro track hit.

Showtime.

Jim came in heavy. The rest of us followed—swinging hard, raw energy crackling from the stage. Our opener was an original, but it landed. The crowd was with us. Scott was magnetic—commanding attention with every motion.

As we wrapped the first song, Kenny and I gave each other the cue—it was time to ruin the city’s chill vibe. I slammed on my overdrive and pressed my pickups against the amp—pure feedback hell erupted. Kenny jumped up on top of his amp screaming at the crowd.

The cacophonous roar was backed by Jim’s kick drum bringing us into our next song. My back was to the crowd, but I could sense the tension beyond the stage. Scott hit the opening to the song, leaning into the micstand, signaling me to come back to stage left to play the song.

By the last note, the crowd knew who we were.

We pushed through the next five songs of the set, balancing our heavy songs and ballads. We threw in a cover of “High Voltage” by ACDC for the old-timers. Despite the early theatrics, this was a fairly tame show for us. We’d never been better, but it didn’t feel authentic enough.

Kenny handed his bass to Scott.

Then came the moment. On cue, I stepped forward, one foot on the monitor. I pulled the switchblade from my pocket and sliced a clean line into my palm. Blood dripped as I raised my arm. I hit the opening legato run with my left hand, bleeding from the right. After the initial shock wore off I played some generic blues guitar solo as Scott and Jim joined in.

I watched the blood pool in my palm for half a second before I smeared it on the strings. The pain was dull, the attention sharper.

As Scott’s vocals came into the monitors, the crowd wasn’t paying attention anymore.

Shock, awe, and fear had taken over the audience, with people pointing up.

I didn’t need to look. I knew.

Kenny had climbed the fucking pavilion. He was twenty-five feet up, and no one in security was going to reach him before whatever he was going to do.

The question was: Is he jumping to his death in the crowd, or is he possibly jumping to his death in the river behind the stage?

We played out the song like nothing was going on. We were locked in, and we were giving these people a once-in–lifetime show.

The crowd lost it during the final chorus—he must’ve jumped.

No screams. No stampede. Must’ve been the river. As we hit the last notes of our set, I gave him a 50/50 shot at best of getting fished out of there alive.

“Thank you, we are Embers of Twilight,” Scott roared into the microphone.

The air buzzed long after we left the stage. I didn’t care if they thought we were good or trash. They’d remember.

They’d remember what they saw.