𝙄𝙍𝙄𝙎

The Marine Store

FEBRUARY, 1995

The buzz of feedback curled through the studio like smoke, soft and low, a familiar hum that wrapped around Dave's nerves. It was the morning of the show they had all been anticipating for the past three months. He was terrified.

William, already done warming up, twirled a drumstick between his fingers like a magician prepping a trick. He leaned back on his stool, nodding toward Dave, who was hunched over his guitar, fiddling with the tuning pegs more out of habit than necessity.

"You look like you're about to throw up," William said, smirking.

Dave exhaled sharply. "I might."

"C'mon, man. You wrote killer stuff. They're gonna love it."

Dave looked up, gave a faint smile. "You think?"

"I know." William leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You've been sitting on this music for fucking years. You think Seattle's not ready for it? Please."

A distorted riff echoed from the other side of the room, Nate was running through the intro to "Good Grief," jamming alongside Iris, who stood opposite him, locked in, head down, dark hair hiding her face as she strummed with casual intensity. Her fingers moved like she wasn't even thinking, just feeling. Dave watched them for a second too long, caught in admiration.

"You two syncing up or just flirting through chords?" William teased, not looking up from tightening his snare.

Dave rolled his eyes, but a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

*

By the time they pulled up to the Marine Store, the sun had dipped behind the low skyline, leaving the streets bathed in that bluish twilight unique to Seattle. The venue was small—tight, Dave thought—but alive. Already packed. A low stage, barebones lighting, amps stacked like a makeshift wall behind them. The kind of place where something raw could still be born.

As they stepped onstage, adrenaline hit like a wave. Dave adjusted the mic stand, wiped his palms on his jeans, and looked over his shoulder. Nate gave him a thumbs-up. William was rolling his shoulders. Iris caught his eye, gave a small, reassuring smile. That helped.

He leaned in to the mic.

"We're the Foo Fighters."

The name rang out for the first time, and something clicked. A strange sense of rightness settled in his chest. This wasn't just a side project anymore. It was real. A new chapter—not just for him, but for Nate and William, who had walked away from the ashes of Sunny Day Real Estate, and for Iris, who had finally found a space where her voice mattered, even if it came through strings and distortion.

The crowd clapped, a few whoops from the front row. Then silence. Anticipation.

Dave counted them in.

"Winnebago" hit like a punch. The first riff cracked through the room, and heads nodded. Shoulders started to sway. Dave's vocals were raw but steady, his guitar a guiding force. When the song ended, there was a beat of silence, then an eruption of applause. Not just polite—it was real.

Confidence flared.

For a moment, Dave drifted across the stage toward her, moving instinctively. Iris caught the motion and stepped in too, until they stood side by side, their guitars nearly brushing as they jammed in sync. She turned to him briefly, lips curled in a grin, eyes flashing under the stage lights. They didn't need to speak—this was the conversation. Chord for chord, rhythm for rhythm, they matched each other, trading licks and leaning into the same riff like they were wired into the same current.