Chapter 5: First blood on “ stage”

Late April 2001, Costa Mesa, California

By morning our last chance of survival had evaporated when the fan—our apartment’s fifth tenant and only true friend in the heat—suddenly started coughing like a chain-smoking uncle. Cayde even slapped its side, as if that would fix it, but the whole contraption rasped in protest and then died. For a few seconds we just stared as the blades came to rest, then Roxy shrugged. “Well, that’s the end of luxury.”

During the afternoon rehearsal the riffs dissolved into the air. The sounds hung for a moment and then vanished. Sweat beaded on the ceiling, then trickled down the walls. Dark patches spread on Nova’s shirt as she hunched over her bass. The drum kit gleamed. My own shirt clung to me like wet paper. When I gripped the mic too hard it slipped through my fingers, leaving silver streaks on my palm. Everything felt underwater—the heat crawling into our lungs and refusing to let go.

Nova was the first to break the silence, not dramatically or in complaint, but simply as if thinking aloud. “Should we open a window?”

Cayde waved his hand before she’d finished. “Yeah, about as useful as kissing a corpse.” His tone carried that weary humor—the kind that lets you know he’s right even if you want to argue.

Roxy balanced drumsticks on her knees, shrugged one shoulder, and smiled crookedly. “Then let’s move out to the garage.”

Nova answered instantly, almost reflexively: “Half an hour. Max. Then the cops will show up.”

A thick, almost pleasant silence fell. I heard water dripping from a plastic cup in the corner. I heard Cayde breathing. I heard my heart pounding too fast.

“The park…” I said at last.

Nova turned her head so I could see her red hair, now darkened by sweat. “But there’ll be people there.”

Roxy chuckled softly, as if she’d been waiting for that. “What, squirrels at the concert?”

Cayde grinned wider as he leaned on his amp. “This isn’t a concert, Nova. Just a rehearsal. With air.”

At the word air we all glanced around as though noticing for the first time how little of it there was. I felt the slow dawning in everyone’s eyes: stay here and we’ll suffocate; go outside and it might be awkward, people will see how amateurish we are—but we have to start somewhere. After all, this will be our life, right?

I nodded.

“Ready to go?”

No one spoke. Then Roxy’s lips curved into that “all right, let’s do it” grin. Cayde shrugged, as though he’d been decided ages ago. Nova exhaled in one long breath.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

We exchanged looks. Unspoken, but each of us knew the park would not be a romantic, movie-style debut. No lights, no stage—just grass, concrete, and strangers who had no idea who we were. Yet in that moment it seemed the only sane decision if we really wanted to rehearse.

Five minutes later we were packing as if in a secret evacuation drill, hauling half our lives out to the park on a total whim. Cables tangled stubbornly and I wrestled them into a torn sports bag with one hand while the mic handle stuck out, as if screaming to the world that yes, we really were leaving. Nova slung her guitar over her shoulder in one smooth motion. Cayde circled the bass drum like a predator.

“You’ll take care of it?” Roxy asked, her tone like she was dictating a will.

“Obviously.”

“Because if anything happens to it, you’ll lose a body part as precious to you as this drum is to me. Think long and hard which one that might be.”

Cayde thought for a moment, then lifted the bass drum as gingerly as though he were carrying a newborn home from the hospital.

Roxy winked, patted his shoulder, and with a wicked grin left it in the middle of our pile.

After the first load we dropped our gear at the park’s edge. The concrete still radiated heat, but the air finally shifted, as though someone had opened an invisible door. Roxy collapsed onto the drum throne, flicked the snare with two fingers, and surveyed the scene.

I looked at the girls, then at the mountain of gear.

“Okay. You two stay here and guard the base. We’ll go back for the rest.”

Roxy shot me the classic “just go” look. “We’ll figure out which song will be our world-shaker.” Cayde laughed.

“If I come back signing autographs, I’m outta here.”

The second trip was harder. The amps dug into our shoulders, our shirts plastered to us, but somehow the effort felt invigorating. By the time we returned, our pile had grown into a mini-mountain of cases, cables, speakers, drum stands.

—

We stood over it, gasping, sweaty, and we all felt the same thing: there was no turning back. At least not physically—moving all this gear made that impossible.

Then came the begging to the sketchy bar of the park to give us power, and it seems fate wants us to have this rehearsal, because a cool bartender guy rolled out an extension cord drum for us in which we fit comfortably.

Standing at the edge of the concrete, tiptoeing between cables and stands, it hit me: none of us was focusing on set-up. We each found some tiny, delayable task—another knot to untangle, a speaker to nudge, a spare switch to flip. My hands trembled, not from the weight, but from the sense that we were on the brink of something irreversible.

Nova stopped, spinning her pick between her fingers.

“We do know we’re just stalling, right?”

Her words rang so true that we just stared at one another before bursting into laughter. There was no cynicism, no tension-break—only a freeing admission.

Then I noticed Cayde. Without fanfare he climbed onto an amp as though seeking a better vantage. He paused there, guitar in hand, and a hush fell so complete we hadn’t noticed it before.

When he struck the strings, the riff cut through the park like someone cranked up the world’s volume knob. It wasn’t a full song or a crafted intro—just a raw, instinctive riff that snapped everything into place.

People on nearby benches looked up, mid-conversation. A few swung around toward us, as if summoned by an invisible signal. In that moment I knew we’d crossed a line. We were no longer just four people rehearsing in a hot apartment. We had become something that existed beyond our bubble.

Roxy was first to let go. I saw that fierce, raw joy you get only after years of banging a snare in a closed garage, dreaming that one day your playing will matter. She hammered the drums as though each beat erased some old afternoon. Not perfect—too fast at times, too loud at others—but utterly alive.

Cayde locked in beside her. He wasn’t seasoned, but he absorbed attention like some people inhale oxygen. He’d cut the riff with a grin or shoulder-shrug, “Okay, do that bit again,” then fire it right back up. He wasn’t playing for an audience, he was playing for them.

Nova remained more cautious at first. Her bass lines were quieter, probing, as though feeling out what it was like to have her sound reach beyond us. Every restart she played with more confidence—tweaking a string here, tilting her head to watch the others there.

Meanwhile I hummed more than I sang—half-phrases, mumbled choruses, rehearsal babble. I found excuses to stop.

“Wait, the tempo here…” “No, let’s start from there…” “Okay, one more chat…”

Then, almost without noticing, something shifted. Our talking grew shorter; our playing grew longer. The pauses became breathers, not crises. We slipped into that familiar rehearsal groove, that communal gravitational field we create together. After fifteen minutes we sank into the grass, cracked open beers, and talked through the songs as if nothing could be more natural. I pulled a crumpled lyric sheet from my pocket and made notes. Nova chimed in on a riff, Roxy tapped the beat on Cayde’s shoe, and then we stood up and dove back in.

An hour in, we sensed we weren’t alone. A handful of people had drifted closer to the park’s far end—some sat by the fence, others watched while chatting. There was no applause, no concert circle—just a quietly growing presence, like they’d stumbled onto a free vibe and decided to stay.

By the final stretch we were playing near-complete songs, running the same ones over. “My Board Is My World” hit especially hard. The skaters edged closer—one drumming his knee, another already moving to the chorus.

Cayde instinctively stepped forward, as if drawn to the center. Roxy held it together from behind with precise, merciless timing. Nova’s face still carried that surprised edge, but her playing made it clear she’d chosen this path.

I watched them. Nothing about our sweaty, rumpled selves on a skateboard park’s edge seemed special—yet for the first time I felt utterly in my place.

In the next break we didn’t spread out in the grass. We instinctively huddled closer, half-circle style, like an invisible cue told us something important was next. The atmosphere had thickened. Not louder, not flashier—just denser.

“Okay,”

Cayde said softly, leaning his guitar on his knee.

“Let’s give them something real.”

Roxy nodded. Nova bent over her strings as if checking they were still there. I felt it: this wasn’t the casual, stop-anytime rehearsal anymore.

—

We ran through names in half-words:

“My Board Is My World…” “All Night, All In…” “I Live My Way…” “Crash Landing Romance.”

A mini set list—our first one. Not on paper, not for a stage, just for those ten-fifteen strangers who’d stayed.

When we started again it was different. Not cleaner or more perfect—just more purposeful. We played each song in full, like a real set. Sometimes we’d halt mid-measure, look at each other, then drop back to the start as if it were second nature. The rehearsal vibe still hovered, but beneath it something else had formed: a shared decision to take this seriously.

During “My Board Is My World” a couple of skaters edged up. One tapped his shoe for rhythm, another sang the chorus with us as though he knew the words by instinct. No big show, no standing ovation—just a small hand in the air.

And that was more than enough.

By the last song we stood exhausted and sweaty, voices raw, strings slightly out of tune, yet our gazes somehow clearer. We’d played two or three hours out there, and by the end we weren’t just playing for each other. The few who’d stayed had lived the afternoon with us. When someone softly sang the last chorus alongside us, I knew this wasn’t just a rehearsal anymore.

It was our first small victory—so tiny and mundane it was almost laughable, yet so big and meaningful there was no going back.

I drew a deep breath and only noticed my trembling chest when no sound came out. We’d been outside for hours, the sun had shifted to the side, our beers were warm, my throat dry, and my arms throbbed with that pleasant fatigue you get when something important is done.

The final chord still lingered in the air as I let it fade. We didn’t rush. We just looked at each other. No words needed. A small nod passed between us like a secret sign.

I turned to the mic—or rather to those ten-fifteen people who’d become part of the afternoon.

“Thanks… for being here,”

I said, my voice rough.

“This… means so much to us. Until now we only played for ourselves. So… yeah. It’s awesome that someone actually listened.”

I laughed for a split second, at myself more than anything.

“But that’s it for now. If I have to play one more song, I’ll die. And we still have to haul all this stuff back. But I hope… we see you at a real show someday.”

I powered off the amp.

Just as we started to pack, a kid in a worn Vans T-shirt, skateboard under his arm, walked over with a six-pack.

“Hey, that was brutal—in a good way. Here, this is for you.”

He grinned.

Someone in the back called,

“How did you even get started?”

And before we knew it we were talking—half-sentences, laughter, winding cables. Someone else took Roxy’s drum stand. A girl and a guy lifted Nova’s amp together as if it were the most natural thing.

That’s how we headed home—nine or ten of us now, a strange, spontaneous caravan carrying instruments and still buzzing about the afternoon.

When we hauled the last amp up the stairs, Nova wordlessly fetched the three or four beers left in the fridge’s bottom. She placed them on the curb, and we sat down beside them.

We stayed until nearly midnight, laughing, telling stories. Someone quietly strummed an acoustic guitar, and it felt inexplicably wonderful that our music—and our crew’s gravity—had drawn new faces into our orbit.