When the music climbs, she’s a storm in slow motion, moving with the rhythm, hips swaying and shoulders dipping. Never over-the-top, just enough to draw eyes in. Her hands tell stories between verses, fingers painting the air when she harmonizes or breathes melodies on her own.
During the instrumental breaks, she drifts closer to each of us, hyping up Rock with a spin, sharing a grin with Zach, throwing Tag a playful eyebrow raise like it’s all just a jam session in his stifling garage.
My boots are planted, but everything else moves. The lights sweep across the stage like search beams, and the first row leans in, trying to memorize us. My chest expands with the next breath, and I let it out on the high note. Raw, stretched thin, but dead-on.
My throat’s already rough from strain, but I don’t hold back. I never do. Every line digs into me before it leaves my mouth, clawing its way out, demanding to be felt.
Annie’s voice trails beneath mine, a steady current under the musical downpour. She knows just when to rise and when to fall back, letting me hit the hook hard and heavy, and when she joins me on the choruses, it lands. We’re synced tight, fully aligned.
We end the set with “Night Song.”
While it works well as a melancholy acoustic, we spiced it up for the show, adding a distortion-heavy riff beneath the chorus and layering in a slow-building drumline that thunders on the final verse. Zach threw in a grungy bass slide that gives it grit, and I rewrote the solo to lean into a psychedelic ’60s feel just for Annie. Fuzzed-out and swirling, it’s something you might hear echoing through a smoky Laurel Canyon lounge. It aches and haunts but also hits with bared teeth and smudged eyeliner.
As the first note crests, I swap out my performance guitar for the eye candy.
The moment I strum, the guitar sends a signal through a custom MIDI system. Each note manipulates both the soundscape and visuals, the reverb trails bending like heat waves. The frets are embedded with plasma-reactive strips, flaring beneath my fingers, tiny bolts of lightning flickering in blues, purples, and whites.
The crowd reacts.
Roars.
Cell phones glow from the audience as people record, dancing in place, awestruck and hypnotized.
By the time I hit the chorus, it’s not just music. It’s a full-body experience. Annie’s voice soars beside me—“If I fall, will you still catch me? If I run, will you let go?”—and when I glance over, she’s already looking at me. Our eyes catch, hold, and for a moment it feels like the whole stage angles toward us.
Tag drops to his knees in the breakdown, grinning like a maniac. Zach is steady as ever, anchoring us all with the pulse of his bass.
The song is a storm, alive and breathing.
And we’re in the eye of it.
When it’s over, there’s no string of words, no lyrics, no thought big enough to convey the feeling coursing through me. It’s primal, intoxicating, and mind-bending. Fucking euphoric. An energy overtakes me, something I’ve never experienced before. I glance around at the crowd, my band, my people. We all feel it. This pulsing, living thing.
“We’re Honey Moons,” I holler into the mic, sweat pouring down my neck and back, lights dazzling me until all I see is bliss. “Good night, New York.”
The cheers are volcanic.
Shrieky catcalls and emphatic applause vibrate through me as we retreat from the stage, hands and instruments in the air, everything spinning in a vortex of sound.
As we plow through the green room, I’m at an all-time high.
I don’t think.
Just react.
I reach for Annie, scooping her into my arms and lifting her off her feet. She squeals, her face a mask of overjoyed tears as two arms wrap around my neck and her legs shoot off the ground, linking behind my lower back.
I spin her once, twice, in chaotic, dizzying circles, until she’s pressed against the wall and our foreheads smash together.
I’m smiling so big, I can’t remember what it feels like not to smile.
“Fuck, Annie…” I cup her face with both hands, her legs squeezing me like a vise. “You were incredible. Unbelievable. Fuckingeverything.”
She nods frantically, tears streaming down her face in inky smears. “Chase. We did it. Holy shit.”
We share a laugh.
A hug.
