November 24, 1985, Sunday Morning.
Rory woke up before everyone else — nerves? Not really. He'd played huge crowds before… just not in this lifetime. But this was one of those days where everything that felt small suddenly became huge. Kurt and Krist showed up early, guitars still cold from the morning air, yawning like they definitely hadn't slept enough.
They gathered in Rory's garage, amps buzzing, cables everywhere like always. The manager was already pacing, clipboard in hand, making sure everything was in order for the night. He looked more stressed than any of them.
"Last run-through," Rory said, hopping on the drum stool. "Full set, no stopping."
Kurt flipped through his notebook one last time for comfort, then tossed it aside like he didn't need it anyway. Krist cracked his knuckles and strapped on the bass.
Rory clicked his sticks.
1… 2… 3… 4…
They kicked into "Downer" — fast, rough, snappy. Kurt's voice torn and young. Krist rumbling like he wanted to punch the floor through the earth. Rory tight and heavy, guiding the chaos into something that felt real.
Straight into "Bambi Slaughter" — gritty and noisy as hell. Rory slammed the drums like a wrecking machine, his timing ridiculously sharp for a twelve-year-old. Kurt smiled mid-song because damn, the Rory could play like crazy good.
Next: "Spank Thru."
Kurt finally relaxed into it. The song strutted. Krist and Rory were locked in like glue — the kind of tightness most new bands couldn't dream of yet.
Then "Anorexorcist."
Messy on purpose. Weird angles, loud corners. They leaned into the madness.
Next: "Bleach Baby."
Crunchy chord progression, proto–Teen Spirit energy lightly humming under the riffs. Rory guided the groove, letting the future bleed through just a little.
"Rehearsal #1" (Mrs. Butterworth) — raw punk chaos. Guts over polish. They burned through the song with stupid youthful confidence.
Then a quick breath.
Rory started the bass line for "Love Buzz" on his floor tom and snare before Krist jumped in with the real thing — looping hypnotic magic. Kurt's buzzing sustain soaked the room. All three grinned like maniacs. They could feel this one.
"Paper Cuts" followed — heavy, suffocating, claustrophobic. Kurt screamed the chorus with more intensity each time they played it. His voice cracked a little. It made the song better.
Finally, "Floyd the Barber."
Cartoonishly dark and mean. Kurt sneered through the vocals like he meant every disturbing word.
When they crashed the final note, Krist was panting. Kurt shook out his wrist. The manager clapped once — a single, sharp clap — the rare sign he was actually impressed.
"That's the set," Rory said, rolling his sticks between his palms like a calm pro.
Kurt nodded, trying to act chill but clearly vibrating with anticipation.
Krist smiled, excited and freaked out at the same time.
"They're gonna lose their minds," he said.
Rory just grinned. "Yeah… they will."
//
Afternoon.
The rest of the day blurred. They tore down equipment in a rush — the amps, the guitars, the drum kit broken down into awkward chunks. The manager shoved everything into Rory's parents' 1985 Volkswagen Vanagon while complaining about how heavy Krist's bass rig was.
Krist laughed, "Strength is tone."
"Strength is back pain," the manager grumbled.
Once everything was stuffed in, the manager slammed the door, wiped his forehead, and said:
"Alright. I'll drive this stuff to The Vogue, drop it off, then come back for you three. Don't go anywhere."
They nodded, and the manager peeled off in the Vanagon like a man on a secret mission. Rory plopped down on the curb, tapping drumstick patterns into his knee. Kurt sat cross-legged, doodling nervous shapes in the dirt with a fallen twig. Krist stared into space, probably imagining the night ahead.
Short, quiet moment. But it meant everything.
//
Evening.
The Vanagon rolled back into the driveway a couple hours later, and all three piled in. No one talked much during the drive — the nerves finally decided to show up.
When they reached The Vogue, people were already arriving — kids in patched jackets, thrift-store clothes, weird hair colors, all buzzing with pre-show adrenaline.
The Vanagon parked near the entrance, and a few teenagers passing by slowed down to stare at the ride.
"That a Vanagon?" one kid said.
"Hell yeah, man! That's badass!" another laughed.
"Band car, probably," a third whispered. "Lucky bastards."
Kurt cracked a half-smile. Krist puffed his chest just a little. The subtle ego boost helped.
//
They entered through the backstage door — the one with the chipped paint and loud-ass hinges. The owner of The Vogue greeted them quickly, clipboard in hand, cigarette tucked behind his ear.
"You must be Nirvana," he said, shaking each of their hands like he was making a mental list of their faces. "Good to have you boys. I'm expecting a killer performance later."
Krist nodded, stiff but polite. Kurt mumbled a "Thanks." Rory just flashed a confident smirk.
The owner left just as quickly — business first.
Heading deeper backstage, they crossed paths with the Melvins first.
Buzz Osborne — huge hair, intense eyes — gave them a slow nod, curious.
Matt Lukin shot a quick grin.
Dale Crover tapped his sticks against his leg like a silent greeting.
Kurt nodded back — half intimidated, half fascinated.
Krist tried not to stare too long.
Rory nodded casually, but inside he was freaking out like a superfan in a past life.
Next, Skin Yard — Jack Endino leading the group.
"Oh hey, Jack!" Kurt said, more comfortable now.
Jack chuckled and introduced the rest: Daniel House, Ben McMillan, Matt Cameron.
"Good luck tonight," Cameron said with an easy grin.
Rory shook his hand firmly — future legend in front of him.
Finally, Green River, the third act.
Mark Arm smirked knowingly — like he could already tell this new band had something raw in them.
Stone Gossard and Jeff Ament gave friendly nods.
Alex Shumway just said, "Tear it up later."
A few short conversations — gear talk, who's using which amp, tiny jokes about nerves — then it was time to move on.
By 7:10 PM, they reached their assigned backstage corner — just a small room with mismatched chairs and posters peeling off the walls. It wasn't glamorous. But it was where bands became legends.
//
7:20 PM.
Kurt sat bouncing his knee relentlessly. His blond hair fell in front of his eyes, and he didn't bother moving it.
Krist kept fiddling with his tuning pegs even though his bass wasn't plugged into anything.
Both tried to hide it. Both were totally nervous.
Rory, meanwhile, twirled his sticks and leaned back like he owned the place.
He'd played arenas in another life.
This was just step one.
He looked over at them and grinned.
"Come on," he said. "Melvins are about to start. Let's go watch."
Kurt and Krist exchanged a glance — excitement battling anxiety — and nodded.
They followed Rory out, heading toward a corner of the club where they could see the stage without being seen themselves.
The lights started to dim. The crowd started moving forward. The night officially began.
7:30 PM — Melvins hit the stage
and Rory felt something ignite in his chest.
It was finally happening.
The future — his future — was now rolling forward for real.