Stolen tap, honest amps

Power's a rumor downstairs more nights than not. Undercity Grid isn't metaphor for me — it's the night the lights dipped mid-riff and the amp kept chewing stolen tap like a champion that refused to die polite. Crowd screamed like that brownout was the solo. Maybe it was. Maybe honesty sounds like voltage theft when the official grid wants you quiet and grateful.

Strike Week still gets me side-eye from people who want anthems without consequences and choruses without guts. Fine. Sing it or hate it. Both are engagement and both beat silence. Brass Vein Nights is the pit heat without naming every fight — you were there bleeding on the rail or you weren't, and the song doesn't care about your alibi.

Spire Audition made me nervous in a way Brass Vein never does, and I played louder for it until the nerves had nowhere to sit. Nervous is just volume with better posture. Album's out. Don't ask me to smile for the soft edit. I don't soft-edit. Neither should you if the booth taught you anything true.