Bandmates' Battleground

The air in the rehearsal space, usually thick with the scent of stale beer and adolescent angst, felt particularly charged. Lyric, perched on a stool in front of his microphone stand like a king on a slightly sticky throne, cleared his throat. The usual pre-rehearsal banter had died down, replaced by a nervous energy that had nothing to do with tuning guitars. He’d dropped the bombshell a few minutes ago, and the fallout was still settling.

“So, what do you guys think?” Lyric asked, his voice a little too casual, a little too loud. He avoided looking directly at Jax, the band’s drummer, whose drumsticks were currently tapping a frantic, irregular rhythm against his thigh. Jax’s face, usually a picture of rock-and-roll stoicism, was a roadmap of disapproval.

Bruno, the bassist, a gentle giant with a perpetual frown that was more habit than anger, shifted his weight. “Think about what, man? You want us to play ‘Stairway to Heaven’ backwards on kazoos?”