Just like with every other set change, the stage dimmed, technicians for the band quietly dismantled and retrieved instruments, and the next band’s crew came out to mirror the process in reverse.

With the entire stage cloaked in darkness, an impressive drum kit was assembled rapidly in the back while techs brought out amps, connected wires, and tuned guitars.

The crew adjusted the instruments, strummed basic chords, and paused to play with the amp settings. Meanwhile, the drum guy repeatedly ran drumrolls, clashing the symbols and tweaking everything to perfection.

They were silent, focused professionals.

As usual, it took about thirty minutes for the entire process to unfold. These guys worked fast, both the ones for the previous band doing the breakdown, and the ones for the next one doing the reassembly.

But I knew who was last.

Trent Masters and the Whiplash.

The entire crowd awaited with hushed breath as the crew worked in silence, barely acknowledging one another. They simply did their jobs and retreated when the time was right.

Finally, the stage was empty for a few minutes…

And then out they came.

I could barely make out Trent in the semi-darkness, sauntering towards the microphone as the rest of his band assumed their positions. When everyone was in place, the lights flickered back on, and the crowd went wild.

“Well, would you look at that?” Trent called out, addressing his band. “Looks like a hell of a crowd. Think we can bless them with some serious rock?”

The mob roared with excitement.

“I dunno, bruh,” the dreadlocked guitarist chuckled into his own microphone stand. “They don’t look all that pleased to see us…”

“Maybe we should just pack back up, eh?” The drummer laughed.

“You hear that, folks?” Trent told the audience smugly. “What a bunch of dicks, right? I believe in you, though…but I need some hands. Help me show these assholes that you give a shit!”

The crowd exploded with cheering.

“Fuck yeah! Now that’s what drags our tired asses out on stage!” Trent laughed. “Alright boys, looks like these fuckers aren’t exhausted yet. Ready to give ‘em a show?”

The band immediately launched into song.

The guitarist and bassist began rapidly strumming out a furious tune as the drummer beat his kit with a rhythmic fury. Trent, meanwhile, stood tall at the microphone, throwing his hand out towards the band.

“Helloooo, Alabama! I am Trent Masters, and THIS is the Whiplash!”

Even this late, well past midnight, the crowd remained as energetic as ever. I could see them seriously getting into the music as the melody kicked into gear and the band performed their hearts out.

As Trent began singing his lyrics, he dominated the stage with presence that none of the previous singers had.

While some of them stood at the mike and let their belting vocals do the work, and others bounced around or paraded across the stage, Trent owned that space. His sheer charisma and personality overwhelmed the crowd, and every movement – every little swagger of his step or twirl of the microphone – came from a place of improvised purpose.

It was clear how he was so popular.

He was handsome.

His voice was incredible.

And with every cocky ounce that he had in him, he was perfectly in his element in front of a major crowd.

When he sang for me the previous night, he sang tenderly but purposefully. Those same traits were here now, although he was more forceful, belting out the rich baritones and swapping octaves at the right times to take a scowling line of fury to a quiet, sincere one.

And the choruses of his songs were powerful. The other musicians worked well together, complementing each other against the soundscape of his lyrics.

“You try to run or try to hide / From all this emptiness inside / It’s all so clear when out of sight / But your darkness defines your light…”

The rest of my little group of side-stage spectators were clearly getting into the music. Every once in a while, Trent would turn to flash a quick, powerful smile our way…

But I knew it was always for me.

And I could feel my cold exterior melting away under the heat of that grin.

His cockiness translated well onstage. His effortless strutting and natural arrogance only fueled his performance, even when he opened up briefly to belt out a strikingly powerful lyric.

The entire set was over far too quickly. They had performed the same length of time as the others – somewhere around the forty-five minute to hour mark – but they blazed through the songs with a tenacity that wrapped up out of nowhere.

Oddly, they didn’t perform their main single.

With a swift bow, the band descended backstage amid the constant screams of Encore! Encore! Encore!

The lights dimmed, and nobody returned.

Undaunted, the mob continued to chant…

Until they all returned, picking up their instruments. This close, I could see that they were going through the motions – there was no improvisation here.

But they also looked a little tired.

They really did want to stop for the night.

“Wow, these Alabama fuckers are plenty greedy, aren’t they?” Trent joked over the mike to his band. “What do you guys think? Think we should cut ‘em off here, or give ‘em what they want?”

What they want! The crowd bellowed. What they want! What they want!

“You don’t get a fucking vote!” Trent shouted out over the sound system to them. “But props to that organization, that shit happened fast! What, did you guys form a union while we were hydrating back there?”

The crowd continued to chant, and the band pretended to deliberate together over the microphones.

“I dunno, dude, I just put a pizza on…”

“They seem like a good bunch of folks…”

“I’m gonna miss my Jeopardy! re-runs, man…”

Trent finally turned back to the crowd.

“Alright! ONE more song! IF you’re good! That means, you take the goddamn song and you like it! Is that clear? We good?”

The crowd was ecstatic.

“Fantastic. Alright, you might have heard this one a couple of times. Maybe not out here, I hear you fuckers have shit radio reception. Anyway, it’s a little piece we like to call Wicked Wilds…”

Predictably, the entire mob went ballistic, and the entire band shared a satisfied grin amongst themselves as they began to perform.

Their sheer stage performance – particularly that of their arrogant, mighty front-man – took a fantastic song and only made it better.

“My lonely walk along the highway / A silent king with feet a-peelin’ / Empire of dust that shattered my way / My soul regret, I’ve lost the feelin’…”

Trent continued along the refrain, choosing to skip the chorus the first time to let the guitarists show off. Meanwhile, he head-banged in place along to the tune of their riffs. Eventually, he jumped over to dreadlock guy to mimic his furious strumming for several moments, clearly enjoying himself.

I couldn’t believe that someone this commanding, this indisputably famous, had even given me the time of day – let alone fought four bikers to a standstill to protect me.

It filled my head with strange feelings.

Feelings I couldn’t ignore, let alone control.

After a major guitar solo, he finally took his place back in front of the microphone – and belted out the chorus that everyone had been waiting for.

“Reeee-yee-yee-ead my bones… broken, laid, and / Heeee-yee-yee-eed my moans… whispered, taken / Seee-yee-yee-eee my frown… buried, bathed in / Feee-yee-yee-eel my crown… dust and vapor…”

After another refrain, one clearly just for live shows, and another powerful iteration of the chorus, Trent stepped down and let his band have their moment to close out the set.

The electric guitar wailed.

The backup guitar sang.

The deep bass guitar droned.

The drums exploded.

And all the while, Trent simply stood there, hands on the microphone and head bowed, listening to the unrestrained power of his musicians.

That’s when it struck me.

I realized, in that blinding moment, that Trent Masters was more than just some arrogant, cocky asshole. Underneath all his pride and self-importance, under his swagger and his gesturing, there was a depth to him – a deep, dark depth visible even now.

He was a proper leader to his people.

He let them all have their turn in the light.

After the improvised detonation of instrumentation descended into a wicked, thirty-second drumroll against the ending drones of the guitars, everyone clashed together into one final, definite note. Right afterwards, Trent ascended to the microphone one last time.

“WE ARE TRENT MASTERS AND THE WHIPLASH! GET DRUNK, BREAK SHIT, AND HAVE A GOOD FUCKING NIGHT! UNTIL NEXT TIME, YOU BEAUTIFUL SONS OF BITCHES!”

The lights drowned the stage in darkness, and everyone slipped from their spots. This time, there would be no fake-out return to the stage, no matter how much the crowd screamed.

But instead of heading back with the band, Trent strolled straight towards us. Our little group was stunned as he latched onto my arm with a powerful, sweaty hand and half-dragged me backstage.