The Gospel of Excess

The kickoff party for the tour was exhausting.

We were back at a hotel in New York with the R&R top brass—but this wasn’t really about us. The night was a tribute to the 30th anniversary of the second X-Mass record. An homage to excess. We were background noise.

The stories floated like ghosts in champagne. Stevie and Jack swapped tales of stolen cars, overdoses, and near death experiences like they were just part of the job. The younger label guys hung onto every word, wide-eyed and starstruck.

I’d heard it all before.

“You two don’t seem interested in the golden years,” Tony Black said, his voice low and unreadable. He was staring at Kenny and me from across a table.

“No… not particularly,” I muttered.

He cracked a dry smile. “That’s the thing—no one ever tells it right. Our fans, and time, have been incredibly kind to us.”

It was an invitation. He wanted us to ask for his version.

Kenny took the bait. “Everyone knows about X-Mass’s ‘Decade of Decadence’—how you guys became the most notorious band on earth. But now that we’ve toured and seen the festival scene up close... it almost feels impossible.”

Tony laughed. Not bitter—just tired. “I always hated that name. From ’81 to ’90, we were famous. That’s true. But it wasn’t a great decade.”

He let the silence hold before continuing.

“We were a fucking mess for eighty percent of it. ’82 and ’89 were the only years we actually functioned as a band. The rest? Myth. The press demonized us—rightly so. But somewhere along the way, all the highs and lows bled together. Excess, excellence, self-destruction... one big blur.”

I’d always wondered what they thought of the stories themselves.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Kenny said. “We’re in year two and I can count our highs on one hand.”

Tony nodded slowly. “It’s harder now. Everything’s documented. Every mistake gets screenshotted. But I’ll say this—McSorley pulled off a miracle for you last year. Most bands wouldn’t have made it.”

His voice wasn’t harsh. It was seasoned.

Kenny tilted his head. “What’s the secret? How do you survive this long?”

Tony didn’t answer right away.

“Luck and timing,” he said finally. “That’s it. Once you’re inside the machine, you’re always at its mercy.”

Kenny took that in. He already had doubts about where EoT was headed—Tony had just put them into words.

Later that night, the four of us regrouped with Doug near the bar.

“Man, this is a lot to take in,” Scott admitted. “Are we even going to be okay out there?”

“You’ll be fine,” Doug said easily. “You might actually be able to take it easy for once.”

He turned to me. “Wes—you’ve played with them. What did you think?”

“It was electric,” I said honestly. “Tight band. Huge presence. It felt like nothing else.”

“Exactly,” Doug replied. “Which is why you shouldn’t be nervous.”

Jim looked confused. “How do you figure?”

Doug leaned against the table, speaking low.

“X-Mass is a great band. But what you saw was their first show of the year. They were fresh. By night three, Tony’s the only one who’ll still be sharp. By the end of August, your worst set will sound better than their best.”

We just stared at him.

“Their fans aren’t showing up to listen—they’re there to say they saw them. X-Mass is here for the paycheck. Don’t forget—they didn’t tour from ’95 to ’04. All their solo records flopped. They’ve been washed up since before you were born.”

He paused.

“My advice? Pull your punches by the end of the summer. Try not to embarrass them too badly.”

We didn’t say much after that. Just nodded and drifted back to our rooms.

Scott was bunking with Kenny. Jim and I were together this time.

Back in the quiet, we talked about Doug’s warning. I wasn’t sure if he was right.

But we’d find out soon enough.

***

By mid-July, Doug’s prophecy had come to pass.

The first few shows were tough—we pushed ourselves to prove we belonged. Every night was tight, deliberate, just dangerous enough to feel alive.

The crowds weren’t always sure about us, but more people started showing up early. Videos of our sets circulated online, drawing younger fans to the tour. Social media had taken over the narrative.

By the fourth show, Jack Slye’s vocals were shot—and by mid-month, he was a punchline. Stevie Jonez, ever the showman, had his techs swap in pre-recorded bass on certain songs so he could move more onstage.

For the average fan, it still sounded okay. But for us, seeing their decline night after night was brutal. Tony Black looked miserable on stage. Offstage, he started spending more time with us.

Following Doug’s advice, we dialed back our theatrics. No stunts. No extra risk. We still played like we meant it—still had the edge X-Mass lost—but the pressure to push further was gone.

By the time we rolled into LA at the end of July, the X-Mass guys invited us to a party at their headquarters.

I knew it was a bad idea, but I wasn’t going to talk the others out of it. Touring with them had seeped in. Scott was using again—more regularly now. Kenny, casually. The road was catching up.

Looking at the schedule: Thursday night party, Friday night show, another party, Saturday night show, then San Jose. If anything spiraled this weekend, it could derail both bands.

I called Skye on Thursday, hoping she’d talk me out of it.

“Do you think we could just... not go?”

She paused. “No. With how things are online, that’d be a powder keg. It’ll look worse if you bail.”

I exhaled. “Is there any way to keep it under control?”

“No, Wes. Everyone’s an adult. They’re responsible for their own choices,” she said, lightly teasing.

I swallowed the irony. “I’ll show up. Stay for a bit. But I’m not staying late.”

“That’s smart.” She hesitated, then added, “I know I don’t need to say this, but… please don’t sleep with anyone.”

I smiled, her voice grounding me.

“I know. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

We hung up. I stared at the wall.

The party was happening either way.

***

10 p.m. in downtown Los Angeles, and I wished I were in bed. The flickering neon signs outside run-down shops told me everything I needed to know about where we were. Despite the soundproofing attempts, you could still hear the shouting and thumping music bleeding onto the street.

The four of us met up—our hotel was only two blocks away. I’d already told Jim I’d leave the second things got sketchy, but that felt pointless now. The whole thing was already sketchy.

We knocked six times on the metal door and gave the password—“Starry Eyes.” Their security waved us in.

The lighting inside was low and murky. What we walked into was chaos. Judging by the cracked furniture, concrete floors, and lazily decorated walls, this wasn’t a party—it was a glorified traphouse. Everywhere I looked, something questionable was happening. Graphic sex. Open drug use. Binge drinking. All of it set to the sounds of the best-selling X-Mass record.

I’d been to less depressing funerals.

Scott immediately found Jack and Stevie, then disappeared to the second floor. Kenny was already making himself comfortable among the drunks on the main level.

I looked around.

I needed to get the fuck out of there. Something in my gut was screaming.

“Jim,” I said, trying to stay calm. “We need to leave.”

He glanced around. “I don’t know… after the initial shock, it doesn’t seem that bad.”

“I won’t stop you from staying,” I said. “But I’m out.”

I stepped out into the night and made the two-block walk back to the hotel alone. My knife stayed visible the whole time. I didn’t expect to get jumped—but in this city, you never knew.

Around 11, I called Skye—forgetting the time difference.

“Are you okay?” Her voice was groggy. I’d definitely woken her.

“Yeah,” I said. “I just got back from the party.”

“Oh—you just popped in and out?”

“Yeah. I got a bad feeling the second I walked in. Can’t explain it.”

“The other guys stayed?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s probably not good,” she said, voice tightening. “But they’re adults.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’ve got the same bad feeling. I know how you get when something’s off. You’ve been in enough situations to know when to listen to it.”

“I guess I’ll text Doug—give him a heads-up.”

“Yeah… just don’t go back.”

We hung up.

I shot Doug a quick text: The guys are at the party. I left. Bad vibe.

He replied in less than a minute: Heard.

I was asleep before midnight.