John began the riff. It was a jagged, staccato spark—a clean, biting sound that felt like sprinting through a lightning storm without getting hit. It was rhythmic, urgent, and deceptively simple. Behind them, Chad hit the snare with the force of a falling oak tree, locking into a groove so deep it felt like the floorboards were breathing.
“Again,” Flea muttered, his thumb poised like a hammer over the heavy strings of his bass. Red Hot Chili Peppers - Can't Stop
They played until their fingers bled and the sun began to dip into the Pacific, turning the horizon into a smear of chili-pepper red. When the final feedback faded into the sound of distant waves, the four of them stood in silence. They knew. John began the riff
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