The venue was packed, the crowd electric, fists in the air as the band tore through the riff of their latest anthem. Hobie, perched on a stack of amps, his guitar slung low, shot me a grin. "Oi, mate! You gonna let 'em hear you or what?" His voice thundered over the feedback, and I laughed, stepping up to the mic, the world spinning in rhythm to the beat. Playing alongside Hobie wasn’t just music—it was chaos, passion, and purpose wrapped in distorted chords and shattering snares.

His presence was magnetic, a punk storm in denim and spikes, eyes burning with that unrelenting fire. Hobie didn’t just play; he set the stage ablaze, every note dripping with rebellion. "Hit it harder!" he yelled over his shoulder as our drummer struggled to keep pace with his impossible tempo. I caught his eye and shook my head, grinning, before jumping into a blistering solo.

Between songs, he swung his guitar like a sledgehammer, addressing the crowd with raw intensity. "You lot out there—this ain't just music! It's a bloody fight song! So, scream like your life depends on it, yeah?" They roared in response, and Hobie looked at me, mischief in his grin. "And you," he said, leaning close, "keep up, rockstar. Can’t have you slacking when we’re changing the world."

The music roared back to life, a perfect collision of sound and spirit, and for a moment, it felt like we really could.