Right Where it Belongs

Soundcheck was fine this time. It’s a lot easier when you’re not trying to make a statement.

Hearing Little Lies echo through an empty arena felt strange—like a glimpse of our future, if we could just hold it together and put in the work.

Stan and Doug pulled us aside afterward to show the new intro package Jason wanted for any venue with LED boards. We used to walk on to the theme from the ’90s X-Men cartoon. Licensing killed that—and now the label had vision.

The new version opened with Aerosmith’s Sweet Emotion—a forced nod to our Boston roots—cut over a heavily stylized montage of the Lowell stunt.

I didn’t hate it. But it wasn’t something we would’ve made ourselves.

Scott was still being a prick, and I felt like I needed to be the bigger man before we went on.

I pulled him backstage.

We passed Phil Collen from Def Leppard on the way, which was surreal in its own right.

“Scott,” I said, “what do I need to do for you to get it together?”

He sighed.

“I’m sorry about Saturday. I’ve just been on edge. I’m scared. I know I crossed the line—but we all did.”

“Scott—I don’t care. What do I need to do for you to get it together?”

He hesitated, then: “Ask Stan if he can get me some blow.”

“Okay. If I get you some blow, will you stop being a bitch and start acting like yourself again?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Good. Because we’re not dragging this shit on stage.”

I texted Stan.

Meet me backstage. Alone.

When he showed up, I didn’t waste time.

“I have a request from my singer.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “That’s a first from you.”

“He wants to know if you’ve got a coke hookup tonight.”

Stan laughed—harder than I’d ever seen him.

“Of course. Tell him I’ll come to your dressing room in fifteen. I’ll say I need him to check the stage lighting.”

Thirty minutes to curtain, and Stan delivered.

Scott came back from “checking the lights” looking like himself for the first time in weeks.

We hugged.

We were ready. Even if our glass castle was already full of cracks—we could still make a statement.

***

The dull hum of voices in the arena was about to change.

The house lights went down. Aerosmith’s Sweet Emotion filled MSG. The video started. Strobe lights flashed across the Embers of Twilight banner above Jim’s drum kit.

We got the flashlight signal from the event coordinator—showtime.

Jim emerged behind the drums, leading us into Daddy’s Drunk. Kenny’s antics started immediately—he did a full body roll across Jim’s rackmount.

Yeah. This is where we belonged.

I hit the opening chords and the Firebird ripped through the arena. The mix was tight. Kenny’s bass locked with Jim’s kick drum. When Scott came in, the energy was electric.

We weren’t even thinking about the crowd yet. They didn’t know who we were.

By the end of the song, we were locked in.

We launched straight into the second song.

No chatter. No pause.

If we stopped to play nice with the crowd—probably 8,000 strong by now—they’d eat us alive.

Kenny and I thrashed around the stage—pure punk chaos. We were tight from the last month of practice, but still inches from wiping out or crashing into each other.

The crowd was loving it.

Before the third song, I switched to my Les Paul while Scott talked to the crowd. I gave Kenny a quick heads-up on how we’d start the next one—and made sure he was cool playing the acoustic part on Darker Days.

On Scott’s scream, we exploded to the front of the stage, jumping onto the monitors.

This was the version of us Stan had wanted all along. We were dangerous. And the crowd wasn’t ready. They came to see some safe nostalgia act—but we were a shot of adrenaline.

“Alright, New York City, we are Embers of Twilight… and this next song has been playing on the radio lately… it’s a little slower, but we hope you fuck with it—this is called Darker Days.”

Kenny picked up the acoustic, drawing a loud pop from the crowd. They didn’t expect that from him.

Scott draped himself over the mic stand, one foot on the monitor, pouring everything into the vocal.

The pace may have slowed, but the emotion spiked.

I played harmony notes under his melody, thickening the sound in the arena. As we slid into the solo, I planted my foot beside his and leaned in.

I played the solo I’d written—but freer now, letting my vibrato and legato stretch into the space between us.

We were feeding off each other. And the crowd was feeding off us.

Coming out of the solo, I improvised around the vocal line. It must’ve sounded good—I could hear the screams break through the house mix.

While Kenny grabbed his bass again, I hopped up on Jim’s bass drum.

“Okay… we’ve got one more song for you tonight. You guys are beautiful. This is Little Lies.”

I hit the opening solo with my back to the crowd, guitar raised above my shoulders, standing on the edge.

When Jim and Kenny dropped into the verse, I flipped down off the drum.

This was EoT—no bullshit, no drama. Just the fire.

If we’d been playing shows all summer, we’d have been fine.

After the final chord, Scott thanked the crowd and we walked off to roaring applause.

Man, I was soaked.