The Three had been delivered into the valley of fate,
it was there that they were armed with only their instruments,
seemingly shrunken in comparison to the valley's reaches.

So it was here they marched on,
their Frontman blazing the path,
the bonds between them strengthened,
through their shared success,
reinforced by shared lows,
when the weight was equally heavy upon all their shoulders.

It was there that momentum was gained,
a confident crew that had just hit its stride,
with faces that hadn't entirely lost their boyishness,
their walks and actions, however, told a completely different story,
for these new up-and-comers.

It was time.
They had to create an epic of the histories,
They had to make an album.

It was after the show,
That the Agent approached,
His eyes glinting and flittering with a wondrous glow.

He showed them that he had but a simple and loose contract,
A Retainership that would benefit both parties,
Of which they would agree to.

It was then that the Agent presented them with a significantly larger contract.

It was then that they realized what they were being handed,
Their way to a better life,
A key to a very difficult puzzle,
A planet taken from their shoulders.

They had been discovered.

The anthem ripped out from the Frontman, the Drummer, and the Bassist,
Making a sound larger than should be possible,
Their anthem ripped out through the old amps,
The music revitalizing the old speakers.

The Drummer hammered out powerfully yet precise.
His feet rattling off like machine gun fire,
His bandana tied around his brow.

The Bassist laying down a metronome-like effect to it all,
Notes swaying and dipping to the tune,
Flaring out occasionally to add more gravitas,
Showing he was still his own musician.

The Frontman declaring to the crowd of transgressions committed,
Of battles won and lost,
But also the views from the other side,
That the enemy may be man still.
A story of agony and anger,
Sorrow and Savagery,
With jubilance for the act of violence.
The Frontman's solo soaring high before axe kicking down upon the audience's heads.

The Agent was stunned,
His dropped drink forgotten,
As he reached for the payphone on the wall
The experience in front of him spurring him faster.

The Band continued,
Their sound crescendoing,
Coming to an almighty peak,
Only to begin it's decent to the earth,
Crashing down magnificently,
Down upon a dive bar in the run down part of town.

The Agent stood on the corner,
Smelling faintly of bourbon and stale cigarettes,
Loss and despair.

He was a rising star when he had started,
A keen eye for talent and shrewd in business.
But those times had long past,
For all he had now was the bittersweet yearn of nostalgia and just enough in royalties for a dumpy apartment.

A light rain started,
It's cold droplets stinging lightly on the Agent's reddened nose,
Irking him,
Beyond not just having a drink.

The Agent spots his shelter,
A bar just down the street.

As he walks in,
He shakes loose the rain that hadn't clung yet,
And shuffles over to the bar with hands shoved deep in pockets,
He goes and orders a drink.

It is then that he looks over to see a band getting ready in the corner,
It is then that the Frontman belted out the count in.

And the agent dropped his drink.

Their first gig,
Where they were headliners as opposed to being the opening act.

It had been a couple of months since they had formed,
And a couple of times they had almost lost their way.
But find their sound they did,
Improving all the while,
They had transformed into a solid opening band,
But no more,
It was their turn to shine.

5 minutes out,
The jitters were settling in,
The Frontman took a swig from his luke warm beer,
Trying to calm his shaky nerves.

The Bassist in the Drummer shared an amused look,
For they had been there before.

It was time,
The stage lights for the place burning bright,
And it is here that they tear into their first song with gusto.
Heartrendingly honest and raw,
For the Frontman it was a releasing of demons,
That held him back in the past,
Their hooks in our protagonist's flesh being ripped free,
The weight being lifted from his shoulders

The Frontman was finally set free.

They traveled together,
The passionate group of three,
They stop at a bar to catch their breath.

The Bassist was quiet quiet and aloof,
His lack of words offset by the weight of each one,
On the rare occasion when he'd throw in his two cents,
His sound was emotional and true,
He spoke without speaking,
With tired eyes,
And a half crooked smile.
He drank a Guinness from a clean pint glass.


Next was the Drummer,
Bobbing his head to a tempo only he could hear,
His sound and energy was like a locomotive engine when he gained momentum,
He would play through a ten minute intermission if let to his own devices.
His eyes were as sharp as a hawk,
Darting to and fro,
His expression of a not-quite-there-frown,
More of a look of constant boredom.
He drank some pale beer that was probably half watered down to start with from a dingy glass.

And at last we have the Man,
Who was now the Frontman,
With a well-worn guitar,
He was dedicated, but haunted by the fear of failure,
But fear can still be used to fuel a sound,
Adding an edge of importance to his words,
His eyes are closed, however, to better concentrate on the sound coming from the old and battered jukebox,
A blank face is his,
Indecipherable to even those who knew him best,
He drank a bottle of something local,
From a bottle,
With just a pinch of salt.

The young man stepped off the bus,
Pack of clothes on his back,
Guitar case in hand.

He decided to forge his own path,
In this place were so many had failed before,
Just another individual in the City of Angels.
His chuck's scraped the pavement as he spun around,
Trying to take it all in.

Quickly he found the city was but gilded, It's thin layer of gold covering the lead core underneath.

It got to the point where the young man had almost given up hope.

But steadfast he marched on, Accumulating like-minded individuals, And soon they stood shoulder-to-shoulder.

Ready to take the World by storm.

When the young man arrived into town,
his throat was very dry,
So he wandered into the closest bar.

It was dark and dingy,
But at the same time vibrant and alive, For a band played in the back.

Just a few younger individuals,
Vibrant and lively,
Rocking as if playing for sold out Stadium,
Instead of a bar of six.

It was then that the young man had his idea,
Notes rushing to him like cascade,
And the realization that music was where he was happiest,
It's what fill the hole in his heart.

He left the bar, knowing what he had to do,
His passion was reignited,
The flames fanned.

A goal now set,
Young man went to the bus station and continued West.

The desert was hot,
The boys feet ached,
His legs protested,
The sweat stung his eyes.

The young man stumbled,
The heat waves of the road throwing up a curious pattern.

It was then that the young man spotted it,
Just beyond the next hill.

He stood up,
Wiping the sweat from his brow and forged on.

The cedar had become an iron oak.

When he arrived though,
If only in fleeting flashes,
But still it was there,
When the instrument was in the young man's hand,
It calmed the storm that raged behind his eyes.

The pain dulls over the years,
As the boy becomes a young man,
And the young man decides to follow his dreams,
He runs away,
With only a guitar in his hand,
A backpack of clothes,
And his car,
He rides out West,
Like the pioneers who came before,
A musical gold rush.