The night before christmas

Twas the night before Christmas, in Mark’s cluttered old place,

Where amps lined the basement and cables tangled in lace.

The furnace stood humming, the rug creaked with dread,

For rock gods were gathering where laundry once tread.

Jim tuned up the drums with a confident grin,

Dropped one stick instantly—thus chaos began.

Dan hugged his bass tight, low notes ready to roam,

Three were played proudly; none landed near home.

Lupe struck chords with a Spanish-leaned flair,

Añadiendo pasión to the basement air.

He bent notes like flamenco had wandered astray

And politely ignored what the tempo might say.

Then Bill took the stage—if a stage it could be—

Lead singer, guitarist, rock god of degree.

He tuned his guitar for the fourth fateful time

Like moonshine was waiting at the end of each line.

“All right, boys,” said Bill, with dramatic command,

“We open with Copperhead Road—y’all better understand.”

He struck one great chord with such merciless load

That the furnace kicked on and prepared for explode.

The neighbors leaned in (there were four, plus one dog),

As Bill sang of whiskey like he’d founded the bog.

He stomped and he growled, sweat dripped down his face,

While Mark watched nervously—this was still his place.

“TURN IT DOWN!” cried a mom from the house up above,

“This basement’s for storage, not outlawed love!”

Bill raised one finger, eyes closed, soul exposed:

“Next song’s spiritual.”

And House of the Rising Sun flowed.

The band slowed right down like they’d stepped into glue,

Bill sang of New Orleans he barely once knew.

A tear hit the rug, the dog howled on key,

And the washer went clunk-clunk in rhythmic decree.

The final chord echoed, then silence held tight.

“Thank you,” whispered Bill, “merch is sold tonight.”

“Just T-shirts,” he added, with numbers sharpied on—

As the furnace shut off, the moment was gone.

One slow clap was heard, then a motherly roar:

“BILL! YOUR AMP’S IN THE FREEZER—AGAIN—WHAT FOR?”