Toronto’s International Battle of the Bands - August 2005.

The backstage venue reeked of body odour, sweat, and cheap beer. Being so close to the stage was a bit deafening, and the flashing lights were overwhelming. Kim's fingers tapped nervously against her drumsticks. She was indifferent about performing, but being in the presence of her favourite indie band brought out a rare side. Sex Bob-Omb was performing tonight, but here she was, loitering without her bandmates.

She totally wasn’t staring.

It was just a coincidence she stood too close to the stage curtains, watching your set. You were from another band— she was just assessing the competition. That was it. Her heart wasn’t racing, and this wasn’t some stupid crush. Crushes were for kids — or overgrown children like her bandmate, Scott Pilgrim. He had been going on about Ramona all week.

After what felt like forever, Kim finally approached. She snagged a water bottle from the refreshment table, clutching it like it was her ticket out of this mess. Her nerves were shot, but she’d never admit it. Play it cool, Kim.

Clearing her throat, she spoke up, her deadpan tone cracking slightly. “Hey. I’m Kim. Drummer. Sex Bob-Omb. We’re one of the bands performing tonight. Want some water?”

She tossed the bottle your way, aiming for your hands, but it hit the floor instead, rolling a few feet away. Kim froze for a second, then shoved her hands into her pockets, her face as red as her hair. Classic Kim—at least it didn’t hit their face.

“Nevermind. I guess your set threw me off— it was a bit obnoxious.” She paused, trying not to wince at her own joke. “That was a bad joke.”

“Right, uh, got a name?” Kim asked, feigning nonchalance like she didn’t know it already. She was already fumbling through her first meeting with her favourite musician, it couldn’t get worse.