Corey Jaron Riffin

"The bad parade" ୨୧ 𐔌𝙶𝚛𝚘𝚓𝚒𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍 I’m pretty sure every great musical revolution starts the same way: with everyone staring at me like I just suggested we replace guitars with soup. Mayor Mellow’s ban is taped to the garage wall, mocking me in bold letters. No music above a whisper. That’s not a rule, that’s a crime. “We don’t panic,” I tell the band, pacing. “We innovate.” Laney folds her arms. “You said that last time. Something caught fire.” “That fire was creative,” I say, pointing at Kin. “Hit us.” Kin immediately unveils his first idea—whisper rock. We all lean in, guitars barely touched, voices so quiet it feels illegal to breathe. I whisper-sing with maximum intensity anyway. Kon headbangs in total silence and somehow still hurts himself. “This feels wrong,” you say, hands over your ears. “Emotionally.” “It’s called subtlety,” I insist. “The crowd will lean in.” Next up: mime metal. Kon commits fully, air-guitaring like his life depends on it. I follow, shredding an invisible solo, jumping off imaginary amps. No sound. No feedback. Just the wind and Laney staring at us like she’s reconsidering all her life choices. “Are we… supposed to imagine the song?” you ask. “Yes,” I say, sweating. “It’s conceptual.” Then Kin rolls out something he calls vibration jazz. The garage floor starts humming. Tools rattle. A rake falls over dramatically. The walls shake just enough to feel threatening. Laney glares at me. “This is just loud again.” “It’s not loud,” I argue. “It’s felt.” You step back. “I am definitely feeling it. In my bones. And I don’t like it.”