Jack Endino stayed standing for a few seconds after clapping. Kurt shifted nervously, like waiting for a teacher's verdict. Krist scratched the back of his head. Rory stayed calm, sticks resting on his knee.
Jack finally breathed out.
"Alright. I'm in."
Kurt blinked. "…Wait, seriously?"
Jack gave a small shrug, as if agreeing to produce a teenage trio in a garage wasn't just a life-changing decision. "Yeah. I want to record you guys. Very, very much."
Krist's jaw actually dropped a little. "Dude, no way—"
"Way," Jack said. "But we start next week. September twenty-first. All day. Triad Studios. You free?"
Rory nodded instantly. "Yeah."
Kurt nodded slower. "Yeah—yeah, we're free."
Krist laughed nervously. "Free as hell, man."
The manager stepped in, clipboard already out. "Twelve-hour blocks, Jack?"
Jack shot a look at Rory. "If they can handle it."
Rory grinned. "We can."
Kurt muttered, "Well, we're basically living in the garage anyway."
Krist elbowed him. "Now we can live in a real room."
Jack chuckled. "Alright. I'll handle the engineering. You three just show up ready to work."
Rory's foot tapped unconsciously against the pedal still on the ground. "We will."
Kurt stuck out his hand, awkward but sincere. "Thanks… for giving us a shot."
Jack shook his hand. "You're not getting a shot. You're giving me one. Trust me."
Krist whispered to Rory, too loud to be discreet, "He's like the coolest twenty-one-year-old in Seattle."
Rory whispered back, "He's the only twenty-one-year-old who can make us sound good."
Jack overheard and laughed. "Kid, you already sound good. My job is just capturing it."
Rory smirked. Inside, he was thinking: We're about to rewrite history.
//
Driving home, Jack kept one hand on the wheel and one tapping the rhythm of "Bleach Baby" on his thigh. He couldn't shake it.
Jesus. Kids that young shouldn't sound like that, he thought.
Kurt Cobain—eighteen, shy but burning inside—had something rawer than most of the punks Jack recorded. A voice that cracked in the right way. A tone that wasn't trying to copy anything.
This kid's gonna be trouble, Jack told himself. Good trouble.
Krist was the anchor—solid, easygoing, reliable as gravity. Not flashy, not trying to be, but he made everything stick together.
He's the kind of bassist you want in every band. No ego. Just sound.
And then there was that drummer.
Rory.
Twelve years old. A literal child. But he hit the kit like he'd been drumming bars and clubs for a decade. His timing freakishly steady, his fills weirdly mature, like he knew where the song wanted to go before it went there.
What the hell is a kid that age doing playing like that? Jack thought. Who taught him?
Whoever did deserved a trophy. Or maybe Rory just had one of those brains—wired for rhythm, wired for noise.
Jack smiled as he drove.
If this is what Seattle kids sound like in '85… something big is coming.
//
Triad Studios wasn't glamorous, just a working room with gear stacked everywhere and the faint permanent smell of tape and warm amps. Perfect for what they needed.
They arrived at 8 a.m. sharp on the 21st. Kurt carried his guitar like luggage he didn't trust anyone else with. Krist lugged the bass case with his usual sleepy grin. Rory walked in with sticks in his back pocket like they were part of his body.
Jack clapped once. "Alright, boys. Let's get to it."
DAY 1 — SEPTEMBER 21
They started with drums.
Rory sat behind the Vistalite kit while Jack adjusted mics.
"Kid, you move like someone older," Jack said, crouching by the floor tom.
Rory shrugged. "I just practice a lot."
Kurt snorted. "A lot is an understatement. He's like… possessed."
Krist nodded. "A demon drummer."
Rory rolled his eyes. "Shut up and tune your gear."
Across the room, a Triad staffer poked his head in.
"Who's the drummer? He sounds like he pays rent here."
Jack smirked. "He's twelve."
The staffer's mouth fell open. "You're kidding."
"Nope."
Rory hit a quick warmup—clean rolls, fast triplets, then a sharp crack on the snare that made the tech whistle.
Jack gave thumbs up. "Alright. Let's start Downer."
They tracked all day, tight and focused. Jack kept telling them to take breaks, but the three ignored half of them.
At 8 p.m., the manager stretched his back. "Okay, end for today. Go home before you turn into zombies."
Kurt flopped onto the couch. "I already am one."
Krist threw a towel over his head. "Same, dude."
Rory just smiled. He could go another six hours.
DAY 2 — SEPTEMBER 22
Guitars.
Kurt spent half an hour arguing with his own distortion pedal.
Krist deadpanned, "It's not alive, man."
"It hates me," Kurt insisted.
Jack leaned over the amp. "It hates everyone. That's why it's good."
Rory lay on the floor reading the track notes, listening to the takes. Every so often he'd sit up and say, "Do that part again, but lean into the downbeat," or "Your vibrato went weird."
Kurt groaned. "You're twelve! Stop being right!"
A staffer passing by muttered, "These kids are wild," but with admiration.
By 8 p.m., they had the guitars for three songs down.
DAY 3 — SEPTEMBER 23
Bass day.
Krist locked in fast. Too fast.
Jack leaned into the talkback mic. "Krist, slow down a hair. You're speeding."
Krist sighed. "I always do that."
Kurt smirked. "It's the adrenaline."
Rory added, "Or because you drink a gallon of soda every break."
Krist shrugged like it was fair.
They worked through five songs, the bass lines tightening everything.
DAY 4 — SEPTEMBER 24
Vocals.
Kurt warmed up with the exercises the coach had drilled into him.
Jack blinked. "Since when do you do scales?"
Kurt grumbled, "Since a guy decided I'm not allowed to blow out my throat."
Rory chimed in, "You're welcome."
Kurt shot him a half-smile. "Yeah, yeah."
He recorded Downer first. His voice cracked in all the right ways. Jack leaned back in his chair, impressed.
Staff in the hallway paused listening.
One whispered, "He's got something."
Another nodded. "He really does."
Kurt kept pushing until his voice got raw. Jack stopped him. "Save it. Six days. Pace yourself."
Kurt sat on the floor, sweating. "This is brutal."
Rory handed him a water. "Welcome to real recording."
DAY 5 — SEPTEMBER 25
Overdubs. Layering. Fixing rough spots.
By now they walked into Triad like it was theirs.
Jack played back a drum section. "Rory, hear that? You're ghosting too much on the left hand."
Rory listened. "…Yeah. Give me one more take."
Krist whispered to Kurt, "He's like a robot."
Kurt whispered back, "A robot who listens to punk."
The day went fast, the songs forming clearer shapes.
DAY 6 — SEPTEMBER 26
Final tightening.
Everyone was exhausted, wired, proud.
They listened to the rough mixes as the last hour of the block ticked down. The room was filled with the raw thunder of their EP—six tracks, loud, messy, heavy, but theirs.
Krist leaned back. "Holy crap… that's us."
Kurt rubbed his eyes, overwhelmed. "It doesn't sound like garage demos anymore."
Rory didn't say anything. He didn't need to. He knew exactly what this was:
The first real step.
The point where history officially split off into something new.
Jack shut off the monitor speakers.
"Alright, Nirvana," he said, almost ceremonially. "We got ourselves a record."
Kurt blinked at the name.
Krist grinned.
Rory just nodded, satisfied.
Tomorrow, the real mixing would begin.
Tonight, they had something finished.
Something real.