"You ready? " I lock eyes with him. They're large, keen and bloodshot. Usually Kris's complexion is strong and assured, defined by dark eyes formed like almonds, tan skin and soft black hair. Today it's thinly masked by the effects of little sleep and nerves. I run four shaking fingers through the unwashed dirty blond hair I inherited from my mother and sigh. My wandering hands rest around the neck of my twenty-five year old, eighty- five dollar guitar and I allow my finger to trace down the E string past frets one to twenty-two repeatedly as my stomach turns nauseously, and I remain silent.

Kris stares unblinkingly at me. "We're." his eyes search the room for words. "Kurt played in there," he whispers, acknowledging the nearby egress with a nod of his head. My eyes follow instinctively, looking past my surroundings of old newspapers, back issues of Playboy and Guitar World, empty beer cans and shattered lighting equipment spread across the stained puke-green carpet.

"I know." I unconsciously kick a nearby aluminum can into the head of a busted amp. Emotion mercilessly fires at me, shooting anxiety, self-doubt, contempt, unease and nausea directly into the pit of my stomach. I breathe in a mixture of beer, dust, mold and marijuana-the nausea worsens.

Kris fingers his worn drumsticks, dented, coarse and chipped away at; he hates new drumsticks, claims they have no life in them. We've been alone in here for some time-Johan forgot a heavy pick for our song 'Shatter the Water' and is running among the other bands' guitarists looking for one and Yestin is on the pay phone giving his girlfriend directions to the club. I rise from the destructed amp case I've made my seat, straighten out my fringed tie and readjust the buttons pinned to it: a nautical star, NOFX, Anarchy, and two that the Anti-War Campaign of Seattle gave everyone that participates tonight, one that reads 'No more blood for oil' and another with the word 'War' crossed out. We were encouraged to display our protest in some form, given the concert is itself an anti-war rally. I'm sweating- the air conditioning unit is broken and the cord of the twenty-year-old fan with no back is frayed. And I'm about to play for half the population of Seattle, it feels like.

I begin to walk around the small room that was assigned to us for prepping for the show. Posters from early gigs adorn the peeling faux wood walls- Soundgarden, the Melvins, Pearl Jam, Screaming Trees. I find myself standing in front of a blown-up photo of Kurt suspended by one thumbtack to the wall at an odd angle as if it was pinned up in a hurry. It's the familiar black and white photograph of him with shaggy hair identical to mine, wearing a worn jacket and looking straight into the camera lens with heavy dark eyes, his head at an angle. It's worn at the edges, stained and has several small holes in it, probably from mice. Below it someone has scrawled 'Forever 27: Kurt Cobain 1967-1994 R.I.P.' in black Sharpie. For some reasoning beyond my own, I tear down the stiff paper, roll it up and stuff it into the pocket of my faded jeans.

Yestin walks in just as the lead singer of Mandie's Doll is talking into the mic on the stage through the door to my right. "Hey guys, thanks for coming out tonight. Just so everybody knows, profits tonight benefit the Anti-War Campaign of Seattle-" heavy applause and cries interrupt him. He claps with them. "Yeah. You guys ready to rock Bush out of office?" More screams; Yestin joins in with a holler.

"YEAH!" the lead guy screams again. Punk-rock guitar riffs and a machine- gun fire drumbeat kick in-the show's begun.

Kris looks at the clock hanging on the wall, realizes it's stopped at 1:34 and glances at his own wristwatch. "Fifteen minutes."

I pick up my guitar and play the intro riff to 'Shatter the Water' on the twelfth and fifteenth frets of the low E and A. Yestin looks at me disgustedly. "We never practice before a show."

I know this; I'm only trying to soothe my nerves, which are still going haywire. "Yeah-bad luck." I pick up my electronic tuner and hook it up to my guitar's connecting cable to busy myself, even though I've tuned it three times since we've been here and twice back at my mom's apartment before Kris picked me up.

"You're scared, aren't you." A statement, not a question. Typical of Kris, who has an acute ability to detect emotion in any human being.

My emotional dam that I've been holding back finally weakens and breaks apart. Words flood out. "Fucking scared out of my mind. I don't even know why the hell we're here. I don't know why your cousin thought we'd make the cut, why we're about to get up and play with some of the most talented local bands in the area who have managers, record deals and fan bases. All we've got is our cheap instruments, a couple of licks and a handful of people who only come to the shows when there's nothing else to do on Friday nights. We're screwed. The best we can do is fourth place in the FHS Battle of the Bands and we're playing with Crescent Dagger and Mandie's Doll in fifteen minutes. No one knows who we are, and no one is going to remember us after this night. Why the hell do they even want us?" I cut off, everything that's been tormenting me in the last hour finally out in the open.

Yestin raises his eyebrows and continues to doodle on the back of his hand with a pen he found on the floor. Kris's eyes haven't left me this whole time. "Because we have talent. We are the only high school band in the Seattle area that is original, that doesn't play a cheap four blink-182 songs and says that's a band. We are unique; we're unlike anything any of these people have ever seen. We know why we're doing what we're doing. Like you Ches, I don't care how cheap you claim that guitar is, you wrap your hands around the neck of that thing and you melt into it, you're conjoined, one with the music, you can see the passion in your face. These other guitarists, they get up there, strum completely expressionlessly, and walk off. We will not be forgotten. Forget that we're the smallest band here, we're here. That is what matters. And when a bunch of angry citizens come together to something like this, you can guarantee that they will remember you. Someone in the crowd will. And they have a right to. Remember what that rhythm guy from Phobotic said to you after the second show?"

"Said something about the strum-effect-picking overlay in 'Yonder' and 'Permanent Graffiti'," I mutter.

Yestin scoffs. "Said it kicked ass."

Kris stares at me. I can read his eyes-they're saying something encouraging, and around them is the definition of one who has the confidence many wish for. I look back at him; I've always been slightly jealous of his strong self-assurance. My thoughts rewind and replay our previous shows in coffee houses and Kris's grandparents' basement, the picking patterns I created paired with Johan's strumming and Yestin's lyrics and bass lines, finished off with Kris's fine-tuned percussion. "So much hard work." My thoughts slip out of my mouth without my knowledge, but I continue. "We deserve this. We're playing in the same venue Cobain played in September of '91, we damn well deserve this."

I pull the worn picture out of my back pocket and search Kurt's eyes, desperate for answers and divine guidance and hopeless as to where to look besides a self-martyred legend.

Yestin looks over my shoulder. "Everyone starts somewhere," he says. I meditate on those words for a few minutes then return the photo to my pocket; it's come to be something of a talisman in the last half-hour.

Yestin polishes up his treasured six-string bass, tucking a few strands of his shoulder-length russet hair behind his ears and massaging the guitar's body with the rag in his callused palms. Five minutes.

"Where's Johan?" Yestin asks.

"Went to find a pick from some other guitarists. He needs a heavy for 'Shatter the Water' and forgot it."

"Shit. We're on in five." He picks up his bass and throws the polishing rag on the carpet. Kris looks up from twirling his drumsticks between his fingers, concern on his face. "Should we wait?"

"Yeah," I say.

"We can't play any of our songs without the rhythm," Yestin says, thumb and forefinger toying with his lip ring.

"Thanks, you guys! Peace!" The lead guy's voice again and lots of cheering: our preceding act is done. The three of us exchange looks of utmost panic.

A short kid with spiked blue hair runs into our disgraceful hovel. "Dude, what the hell are you guys doing? You're on like now!" he darts back out.

We all freeze for a few seconds, and, not knowing what else to do, I gather my guitar, stuff a handful of picks in my pocket and make my way to the swinging metal door. Yestin and Kris look at me, eyes wider than ever.

"What else are we supposed to do?"

They follow me out behind the stage despite looks of doubt, where we look and frantically call for Johan. I cautiously stick my head out in front of the curtain from stage left-the crowd is screaming, drunk and moshing, even during the present state of no music. At that second, a beer bottle flies three inches next to my head and smashes against the cinderblock wall. Shards of amber glass rain down on me and I wince when one particularly sharp point grazes my cheek, leaving a trail of scarlet blood.

I quickly jerk my head back behind the curtain. "We have to find Johan NOW."

Yestin runs to the left towards the bathrooms and exit signs, Kris back to our prep room. I dash among innumerable musicians and stagehands, shouting at the top of my lungs, which is essentially pointless; I can't even hear myself scream. Tugging the hair out of my eyes, I cut my hand on tiny fragments of glass tangled in my hair and continue meandering through people. Voices follow me: "Hey, aren't you on now?" "This is a real concert, kid! You're outta your mama's basement! Get on the damn stage!" The crowd is now chanting, "Next band!" over and over. I press on, until I find myself staring at a wall. Their laughter and insults resonate through my brain like church bells and I run back, sprinting, screaming though my raw throat for Johan. Suddenly my arm is jerked by someone to my right. I turn-it's Yestin. "I found him. He doesn't have a pick."

"Doesn't matter!" I scream. "Stage! NOW!" The three of us take off with our equipment. Kris veers off to drag his drum set onstage, and the rest of us hurry in front of the curtain; I reach into my pocket and toss Johan a medium pick, the closest to what he needs. Thunderous applause and more flying beer bottles greet us, most of them unfinished. The stench I inhale is now exclusively the reek of cheap beer sold illegally to high school kids and young college students at nearby gas stations. Shaking and cautious of any objects randomly catapulted on stage, I plug into the Marshall stack to my right and begin fumbling with the switches.

After hooking up my effects pedal and adjusting my strap, my fingers find the strings beneath the blinding light and rest on an A minor chord. Suddenly, excruciating pain shoots through my fingers and up my arms-the shards of glass have cut deep into the fingertips of my fore and ring fingers; the slightest pressure results in agonizing pain where flecks of glass are embedded deeply. Glancing down at them helplessly, the stage lights wash out all color to white, but the red stripes across the pads of my fingers stand out vibrantly.

I frantically look over to Johan and Yestin for help, but they're quickly readying their equipment for the impatient crowd that looks as if it's about to riot. Kris is out with the drum set.

Johan strums the opening bar chord to 'Permanent Graffiti' and lets it ring as usual. He looks at me-my cue is soon after. I close my eyes in a desperate attempt to regain composure, ready my pick, settle my fingers on the appropriate strings and apply pressure. Blood, pain and the vibrations of the strings mingle into a beautiful display as my fingers travel the fret board: A, sixth fret, E fifth, A, seventh, ninth, twelfth, fifth, fifteenth; the sweet distorted melody pours out if me like the blood running from my fingers over the chipped white body of my instrument. Yestin grips the mic and his low gritty voice echoes through the venue, sending chills up my spine like it always does. I hear the tremor of the snare and the cymbals crashing behind me. Atypical of most songs with simple bass parts, the beautifully detailed bass lines Yestin has created from listening to Brand New and the Red Hot Chili Peppers countless times are like silk chocolate as he gracefully slides to each note. I listen to Johan's flawless strum pattern and smooth transition from chord to chord, just the right amount of reverberation. Closing my eyes I breathe it all in, the sound washes through me, caressing my soul and I cease to feel the pain. The solo kicks in with the perfectly arranged chords and our famed strum-effects-picking overlay. The bass notes shake me from the inside and ring throughout my skull. The strumming is intertwined with the rapid picking as my fingers sweep from fret to fret, the music my life support, the strings my IV. As I look down at the fret board, I see that my guitar and I are both covered in sweat and rivulets of blood that's dripped down my neck from the cut on my face, from my gashed fingers over the fret board and down the guitar's body, and now down my arms. It doesn't matter though- the aura surrounding me dulls the severe stinging. Johan screams into the mic in front of him while Yestin continues singing in his aggressive voice like sandpaper. Every layer pieced together makes a masterpiece, lyrical, musical, visual, physical, emotional, spiritual. It sustains us and fills us with sheer exhilaration and indescribable feeling. The accumulation of people in front of us, jumping, moshing, screaming, smoking, drinking, throwing their trash at us or throwing their hands up for us all fades away gloriously and all that is left is the raw sound, Yestin, Kris, Johan and me.