The last sizzling feedback from "Downer" hadn't even faded when Kurt shot a quick look over his shoulder.
Rory nodded once — already ready.
Krist mouthed, "Go?"
Kurt didn't answer. He just hit the opening chord, messy, noisy, like he slashed the strings with a knife. That was enough signal for everyone.
No pause.
No catching breath.
No talking.
They dove straight into "Bambi Slaughter."
The crowd wasn't even done clapping for the last song — half of them froze mid-cheer as the next explosion hit them right in the face.
//
Rory came in like a madman — not sloppy, just huge.
His sticks snapped down on the snare like he wanted to crack it open. His kick drum thundered with a Bonham-weight but Grohl-speed brutality. The fills he threw in weren't fancy; they were primal, loud enough to hit the front rows like little body punches.
Kurt jumped into the main riff, a wild, scratchy barrage that didn't care about being pretty. He dragged the pick down the strings, letting them scrape just enough to make the sound violent. His left hand darted over the frets, but not carefully — like he was wrestling the guitar instead of playing it.
Krist's basslines thumped under both of them, gritty and low, fat tone rolling out of the amp like a dark cloud. Even though the riff was simple, he played it like a bulldozer — solid, heavy, pushing everything forward without mercy.
The intro didn't feel like music.
It felt like a stampede.
Some of the audience actually stepped back, instinctively reacting to the sudden force blasting off the stage.
A guy near the front yelled, "Holy— they're going again already?!"
His friend didn't even reply — just stared at Rory, stunned at how a kid could hit a drum kit with that kind of rage and confidence.
The band locked in tight.
Kurt hunched toward his mic as the wild, noisy intro finally tumbled into Verse 1.
He didn't wait.
He didn't breathe.
He just launched:
"Shooting, Genital floss…"
Kurt delivered the lines with this nasal, bratty snarl — exactly the way mid-'80s Kurt sounded when he didn't give a damn about pitch. He barked them like half-shouts, half-muttered sneers, leaning into the mic with his hair falling over his face, eyes invisible.
Rory pounded the drums behind him with brutal consistency. No overplaying — just relentless power. Every snare hit cracked sharp enough that a few people in the crowd flinched on instinct.
Krist hammered the root notes with a stubborn, almost sarcastic heaviness, laying down that trashy basement-tape vibe but with way more punch thanks to Rory's discipline and their upgraded gear.
"Raiding
Grandma's garage…"
Kurt's delivery had this snotty rhythm to it — cutting off the ends of words, letting some syllables trail into a raspy mumble. He kept stomping on the DS-1 so the distortion choked and spat with every chord.
"Selling
Personal possessions for pot…"
Krist nodded along, torso swaying with the rhythm as if he was physically trying to make the basslines heavier.
"Hocked my daddy's
Favorite gold plated watch!"
Kurt's voice cracked on "watch!!" — but in that good, punk way. Like his throat was a weapon he didn't care about breaking.
Rory snapped into a new pattern the second Kurt reached the pre-chorus — fast snare flurries, hi-hat half-open so it hissed violently under the guitars. He leaned his whole upper body into each hit, sweat flying off the sticks.
Kurt almost shouted through the rising chaos:
"Stripping the foreskin from my bones
Scrubbing my nerves with wild rust…"
He didn't sing these so much as spit them with rhythm — fast, breathless, teeth almost bared.
Krist followed him perfectly, rumbling the low end like an engine about to stall from pushing too hard.
"Massive intentions, fluid thoughts
— my debts and tied my knots!"
That last line came out jagged and rushed, Kurt practically tumbling over the tempo as Rory's drums shoved the song into the chorus.
Then the chorus hit — loud, messy, glorious.
"Bambi slaughter ain't the same as killing humans!"
Kurt barked it, chin up, voice cracking, gravelly, raw as hell.
Krist jumped forward to his mic and yelled the backing line half a second late, adding to the chaos.
Kurt repeated it, louder, like he was daring the room to challenge him.
Rory crashed the cymbals repeatedly, arms wide and swinging, channeling every classic hard-hitting drummer he remembered from his old life — but with his own ferocity.
The kit shook under him.
The crowd felt it through the floorboards.
"Stand away!"
He almost shouted it as a command.
"Been awhile!"
The line snapped hard — then the verse riff returned like a car hitting a curb.
Kurt didn't slow down.
He inhaled sharply and fired off the next lines with mocking rhythm:
"Looking
The medicine cabinet for drugs…"
His voice had that apathetic bite — the early Kurt attitude that sounded both bored and disgusted with everything.
Krist's bass thumped nonstop, notes wobbling slightly from how hard he hit them.
"Stealing
Tobacco from grocery stores…"
Someone in the audience laughed — not because it was funny, but because it was delivered with such shameless punk audacity.
"Scamming
Tapes from my trustworthy friends…"
Kurt leaned back from the mic for a second, grinning at how stupid and brilliant the lyric was.
"Do you trust me, buddy?
Pretty little houses to rob!"
He almost shouted the last line, twisting his voice into this cartoonishly bratty tone that somehow still sounded cool.
And just like that — the band slapped into the final chorus again, faster, looser, angrier.
"Bambi slaughter ain't the same as killing humans—!"
Kurt screamed the last "humans!" with a cracking rasp that sliced through the room.
Krist kept hammering the bass like he was punching in Morse code: LOUDER. LOUDER. LOUDER.
Rory ended with a ferocious drum fill — fast, rolling toms, then a massive snare hit that echoed around the room like a firecracker.
Kurt let his guitar feed back, holding it near the amp so a sharp squeal cut the air.
Then —
Rory slammed the cymbals one last time.
END.
Cut.
Silence.
Then—
The crowd erupted — but not in a "polished rock show" way.
It was confusion, surprise, adrenaline, disbelief, and awe all mashed into one loud noise.
Someone shouted:
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!"
Another yelled:
"That kid's gonna break the drum kit!"
Two girls near the back were laughing in shock.
"They sound like a truck crashing into a dumpster — I love it!"
A dude near the front pointed straight at Rory:
"Bro— that little guy hits harder than half the drummers in Seattle!"
Krist and Kurt both sucked in air, trying to recover.
Rory just spun a stick in his hand and grinned like he wasn't even tired.
Kurt leaned toward him and whispered, breathless:
"…Dude. You're insane."
Rory shrugged. "That's punk."
Krist laughed, slapping Rory's shoulder. "No — that's illegal."
And the audience?
They weren't looking at Kurt.
They weren't looking at Krist.
Dozens of eyes were glued to Rory — the mysterious kid drummer who just leveled the room.
//
Listen to Fecal Matter's Bambi Slaughter (Illiteracy Will Prevail (1986))