October 10, 1985.
The manager was off somewhere fighting with the printing guys about cassette shells and label alignment, but Rory, Kurt, and Krist stayed holed up in the garage—same space, same amps, same cables that always tried to kill someone by tripping them. They didn't care. They were in a groove.
They'd been hammering the Fecal Matter tracks since morning, tightening "Downer," smoothing "Spank Thru," and trying to get "Bambi Slaughter" to stop falling apart halfway through. Kurt kept stopping to retune his guitar every twelve seconds. Krist kept complaining about his strings being "made out of fishing line." Rory just hit the drums like he was trying to resurrect Bonham through brute force.
Around the afternoon, Rory paused mid-count, hopped off his stool, grabbed Krist's bass, and went, "Try this tone."
Krist blinked. "What tone?"
"This," Rory said, plucking a clean, thumpy, circular line with a tiny bounce at the end. Simple. Hypnotic.
Krist's eyebrows went up a little. "That's… kinda sick."
Rory handed the bass over. "Loop it."
Krist started repeating it—slow at first, then finding that little pocket where it felt like the floor was vibrating. He grinned, because even he could feel how weirdly good it locked in.
Kurt turned around from his amp, squinting like he'd heard a dog whistle.
"What the hell is that?" he said.
"Just play along," Rory said, already stepping back behind the drums.
Kurt shrugged, plugged in, and started imitating the bass line—same shape, but on guitar, messy and jagged. Rory smirked to himself before he even counted them in. Perfect.
He laid into the drums with a lazy, rolling swagger—half tribal, half punk, all power. Kurt followed the line, added some hair to it, and Krist kept looping the same hypnotic pattern.
They had no idea.
After a few more cycles, Rory yelled, "More distortion! Kurt—crank the sustain. Buzz it out. Treble up. Leave the gain stupid high."
Kurt didn't question it. He just twisted knobs until his amp sounded like a swarm of angry pipes.
"You want this ugly?" he asked.
"Uglier," Rory said. "Add delay. Barely. Just enough to make it wobble."
Kurt stomped the pedal. The tone instantly turned into a warped, electric zig-zag.
They went at it again. Bass looping. Guitar buzzing. Drums hammering.
And then Rory cut them off.
He hopped over a stack of cardboard boxes, grabbed a beat-up cassette player, shoved in a tape, and hit play.
Shocking Blue's "Love Buzz" crackled out—soft, vintage, old-world psychedelic.
Kurt stared at the speaker.
"Dude… what the hell? That's the same line."
Krist blinked. "But… older. And kinda… polite?"
Rory shrugged. "That's the original. So—what do you think of our version?"
Kurt didn't even hesitate. "Ours sounds better."
Krist nodded. "Yeah. Ours sounds like something's about to explode."
"Good," Rory said. "We're keeping it. I'll help shape the vocal part later."
They spent the rest of the day looping it, shaping it, punching through it. By night, it already sounded like the proto-Nirvana version the world wouldn't hear until years later.
And they kept practicing it alongside the Fecal Matter tracks for the next week—tightening everything until the songs started sounding like weapons.
//
October 25, 1985.
Rory walked into the garage and found Kurt hunched over his notebook, scribbling like he was fighting with the pen. His foot tapped fast. His shoulders tense.
"What're you working on?" Rory asked.
Kurt didn't look up. "Just… something I saw. Some documentary about a family keeping their kids locked in a dark room. Years. No light."
Rory froze internally.
He knew exactly what that seed would grow into.
"Paper Cuts."
But he kept his face plain. "Got any lines yet?"
Kurt hesitated, then he slid the notebook over. The writing was shaky, but the bones were there—claustrophobic, angry, scared.
"This is good," Rory said. "Let's build it out."
For the next five days, Rory quietly nudged the structure. Not rewriting—just guiding. Helping Kurt shape the jagged rhythm of the words. Helping him figure out where the guitar should scrape, where it should punch, where his voice should sound like it's straining.
By October 30, they had the whole thing: the sludgy, dragging riff, the suffocating bass tone, the drums that felt like walls closing in.
Krist heard it for the first time and said, "This sounds like someone trying to claw out of a basement."
Kurt grinned. "Exactly."
They practiced it daily—stacked between "Love Buzz" and the Fecal Matter tracks—slowly forming a set that was starting to feel like an actual band.
//
November 10, 1985.
Kurt came in clutching another notebook, brushing hair from his eyes.
"Rory," he said. "I need help with something."
"What's up?"
"I was watching The Andy Griffith Show," Kurt said, sitting down. "Mayberry. Y'know—perfect little town, fake as hell. Thought it'd be funny to twist it into something dark. Like… what if those wholesome characters were actually messed up?"
Rory nodded slowly.
Of course.
"Floyd the Barber."
Kurt went on, pacing. "People whitewash everything. They pretend stuff's perfect. I dunno. I wanna break that open."
Rory already knew that philosophical itch inside Kurt—had seen its result in the original future. But seeing teenage Kurt discovering it fresh was jarring and weirdly moving.
"Alright," Rory said. "Let's get to work."
They spent five solid days building the lyrics—dark humor, twisted imagery, a playful but menacing angle. Rory kept nudging Kurt toward sharper lines, clearer beats, and a punchier chorus.
Musically, they shaped it around a frantic, clattering rhythm—Rory whipping the drums like a runaway cart, Krist pinning everything down with a thumping bass groove, and Kurt layering manic guitar stabs.
By the time it was done, all three new songs—"Love Buzz," "Paper Cuts," and "Floyd the Barber"—were locked into the daily practice rotation.
The set was now lethal.
//
November 19, 1985.
They were running "Paper Cuts" again—Kurt screaming the chorus, Krist stomping his bass pedals like he wanted to crack the concrete, Rory pounding so hard the cymbals wobbled dangerously.
The garage door swung open.
The manager stepped in, still carrying a clipboard from dealing with cassette printing all day.
"Alright, guys! Guess what?" he said, voice raised over the ringing cymbal.
Kurt wiped sweat with his sleeve. "What?"
"You got your first gig."
Krist almost dropped his bass. "Wait—what?"
"The Vogue," the manager said. "November 24. With other local bands. All ages. You're officially on the lineup."
Kurt stared at him. Then at Rory. Then at Krist.
"…Holy shit."
Krist laughed like he couldn't hold it in. "Dude—our first gig!"
They both buzzed with excitement, practically vibrating. They started tuning and fidgeting like kids who'd just been handed fireworks.
Rory just sat behind the kit, resting the sticks on his thigh, quietly smiling.
He already knew this timeline had split away from the one he remembered.
This gig wasn't supposed to happen.
But here it was.
And he wasn't going to stop it.
If anything, he was going to push them harder.
"Alright," Rory said, clicking his sticks. "From the top. Let's make it count."
They slammed into the next run-through with twice the force, sweat flying, amps buzzing, and that unspoken fire of a band who suddenly realized they were about to become something.