They were loud and fast. Except for Stash, the drummer, who once spent six weeks in a monastery and now said things like, “The snare is the breath.” One night after a show in Vancouver, Stash sipped water from a gourd wrapped in duct tape and inscribed with the word “Beat.” Reg the guitarist, smashed his guitar mid-solo. The crowd screamed. Wood flew. Reg bowed like a prophet. Backstage, he held up the busted neck and grinned. “That’s what I call freedom.”

“You broke it in anger,” he said. “Not freedom.”

“So?” Reg said. “It’s just a guitar.” Stash nodded. Thought for a moment. The next night, during their biggest number, Stash stopped playing mid-beat. No warning. Just silence. A single cymbal shimmered awkwardly into nothing. The band stumbled. The crowd froze. Then, with the serenity of a monk folding laundry, Stash stood up, walked to the front of the stage, and unplugged Reg’s amp. Reg spun around, wide-eyed.

“Dude. What the fuck?” Stash looked out at the crowd, then back at Reg.

“It’s just an amp.” The audience burst out laughing. Reg didn’t. Later, backstage, Reg sulked beside the snack table.

“You humiliated me.” Stash held out a banana.

“Here,” he said softly. “You looked like you needed something that wasn’t applause.”