Heritage, California wasn't the kind of place anyone in the music world paid attention to. Not in 1980. Not ever. It wasn't a cultural hub or an underground scene—it was just another moderate-sized town lost somewhere between LA's glamor and San Francisco's grit.
But tonight? Tonight, Heritage was about to witness something no one would ever see coming.
And it would all start at a half-forgotten venue downtown called D Street West.
Now, "exclusive" might've been the word locals threw around, but the truth? D Street West was a boxy one-story building wedged into the corner of 3rd and D Streets, buried in the cheapest part of the high-rise district. It looked like someone tried to build a respectable club and gave up halfway through. Still, it could legally hold 400 people—though nobody gave a damn about legal. When the headliners hit the stage, the fire code got treated like a rumor.
Tonight's headliners? The Boozehounds.
Heritage's hometown heroes. Or at least, they used to be. Their setlists were full of songs about smoking up, sleeping around, and drinking like it was religion. Sometimes all three, in the same breath. And while they weren't exactly legends outside this cow-town circuit, they had enough charisma to pack local clubs and enough chops to keep a crowd moving. Their guitarist knew enough chords to fake skill, their singer could hit a few impressive notes when his voice didn't crack, and their drummer and bassist? Not flashy, but steady. And that's all a bar crowd really wanted.
For eight years they'd played the same clubs, sent the same demos to LA, and got the same rejections in return.
"Great for Heritage. Not good enough for anywhere else."
And so they stayed, kings of a small scene. Still playing D Street West three nights a week, still chasing a dream that wasn't chasing them back.
At 5:00 PM on the dot—ninety minutes before the club opened and three and a half hours before the Boozehounds would hit the stage—two battered vehicles pulled into the rear parking lot. One was a '66 VW Microbus. The other, a '71 Ford van with a sliding door that only worked if you kicked it first.
Five young guys spilled out. Jeans, black tees, guitars in cases that had seen better days. Four of them wore their hair long and wild. One didn't.
These were The Saints—a band no one in Heritage had ever heard of. No one anywhere, really. But tonight, they were opening. Forty-five minutes on stage, starting at seven sharp.
It would be their first time performing in front of an actual audience.
Jake Kingsley, lead singer and rhythm guitarist, stood staring at the backstage door like it was some holy gate. He was tall, lanky, with shoulder-length dark hair and a couple patches of leftover teenage acne. Cigarette between his lips, hand on his guitar case, he couldn't believe they were actually here.
Not practicing in someone's garage. Not jamming at a kegger. A real venue. A real crowd. An actual, honest-to-god gig.
"Did you see the board out front?" he said, turning to the guy next to him. "Our name's right under the Boozehounds. No joke."
Matt Tisdale, lead guitar, gave a dry laugh. He was a bit shorter than Jake but broader, built like he could actually throw a punch. His jet-black hair hadn't seen scissors in years—it fell halfway down his back, constantly getting in his face.
"Yeah, I saw it," he muttered, flicking his cigarette into a gutter. "Still think they suck."
"Who?" Jake asked, though he already knew.
"The Boozehounds," Matt spat. "If they were any good, they wouldn't still be stuck in this dump after eight goddamn years."
Bill Archer, their keyboardist, pushed his glasses up his nose and nodded. "He's not wrong."
Bill was the youngest in the band at nineteen and the only one without rockstar hair. His was cut clean and short—borderline military. He wore thick black-rimmed glasses that made his eyes look cartoonishly large, and half the time he sounded like a college professor.
Smart didn't even begin to cover it. He'd been playing piano since before kindergarten and could quote Einstein stoned out of his mind. Jake had known him forever—family friends—and had practically begged the others to give him a shot.
They did. One jam session later, they were convinced.
Piano in a hard rock band wasn't exactly common, but Bill made it work. More than that, he made it magic.
"It's probably the industry keeping them down," said Coop, the drummer. Everyone called him that. Just Coop. He was the kind of guy who saw a conspiracy in every cloud. Big blonde curls hung around his head like a halo—if halos were made out of unbrushed sheepdog hair.
Coop had been smoking pot since before puberty and sincerely believed the moon landing was fake, JFK was a setup, and the government used fluoride to brainwash people. He also kept perfect time on a drum kit, which was all the band really cared about.
"Industry blackballing," he said. "It's a real thing."
Darren Appleman, bassist and resident ladies' man, raised an eyebrow. He was twenty, maybe the best-looking in the group, and definitely the most styled. His hair hit his shoulders but was always freshly combed. Shirt tucked. Belt matched his boots. The guy probably owned cologne. Not exactly the poster child for punk, but reliable on bass and solid with backing vocals.
"Why would they blackball the Boozehounds?" Darren asked, amused.
"You know how it is," Coop said, eyes wide. "They probably refused some bullshit clause in a contract. Pissed off the wrong exec. Now they're on a list. The List. Industry's got one. You don't play their game, you don't get the prize."
"A list?" Matt said flatly. If he rolled his eyes, no one could tell—his hair was in the way.
"Damn right," Coop replied. "They only let in people they can control. They sniff out trouble, boom—you're done. You'll be playing dive bars forever."
Then came the Coop Classic: "It's just how the world works, dude."
Matt snorted. "Or maybe they just suck."
The others glanced around, as if worried someone might overhear. But deep down? They knew he wasn't wrong.
The Boozehounds were fine—if you were three beers deep and needed background noise. But Matt? He could shred their guitarist without breaking a sweat. And Jake could outsing their frontman even with laryngitis.
"C'mon," Jake said, checking his watch. "Let's get the gear inside. Gotta do soundcheck before it gets crazy."
"Ugh, soundcheck," Darren groaned. "Takes forever."
Then his expression perked up. "Hey, you think they'll hook us up with free drinks after our set?"