By: Ashley Parrish
Photos by: Bre Sheridan
A high-pitched shout rips through the mic. I lean back against the cold concrete, watching wide-eyed as the vocalist shoves the mic up his ski mask and proceeds to strangle himself with the cord. I’m sold. The heavy bass reverberates through the floor, crawling up my legs and settling deep in my chest.
And to think I wasn’t even going to write about this one.
Bre winnows through the crowd, her purple hair a flash of color in the dim light. She drops to one knee, camera steady, capturing the chaos without missing a beat, even as the small pit erupts around her.
The Thrash Zone is its own strange universe—a cardboard sign dangling on a battered door plastered in stickers is all that marks it. Inside, there’s no stage, just a corner crammed with drums and amps and a crowd of Cheyenne's most loyal metalheads. Despite its stripped-down, DIY demeanor, it’s an experience like no other—a bit like the back room of an abandoned office building twenty years after the zombie apocalypse.
The band currently dominating the makeshift stage, RUNT, delivers a sound thick with distorted heaviness, metallic guitar tones, and whirring samples that give the music a machine-like edge. These elements blend with the heavy bass and hardcore-style shouted vocals—still clear enough to catch every aggressive, tortured lyric, even as the singer strangles himself with the mic cord.
I watch as the small crowd connects with them. RUNT isn’t the best band I’ve ever seen, and I’m not even sure what genre they fall under. They’ve got a bit of a post-hardcore, shoegaze vibe, but with the aggression and presence of a hardcore band, mixed with electronic elements from industrial or nu-metal. Whatever the case, their music sticks with you—catchy melodies that latch on after just one listen. But what’s really gripping me as I lean back against the wall is the energy they project. They’re not overwhelmingly heavy and don’t rely on an onslaught of blast beats. Yet, every strange, explosive movement from the band sets off a reaction, rippling through the room, flowing from the band to the crowd and back again. It’s a raw connection, something often overlooked, and in my opinion, what separates the good from the fucking fantastic.
After their set, we pile out the back into the crowded alleyway, and I spot them by their van. All four band members are in full-length black coveralls, ski masks still on, faces hidden. “They really commit to this secret identity thing, huh?” I say to Bre as she squeezes past me, eyes locked on something near the dumpster.
She doesn’t answer right away, focused on a crushed soda can wedged in a crack. She crouches, tilts her head, and snaps a few photos.
“They go by numbers, not names,” Bennie suddenly chimes in, appearing out of nowhere. “6 through 9. One used to be a child actor—an E-Trade baby or somethin’.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing mischievously. “Or maybe he’s just a ghost from your TV. Who knows?”
Bre smirks, glancing at me as she adjusts her angle to catch the reflection in a nearby puddle. “Think it’s true?”
Bennie shrugs, his grin widening. “Could be. Or maybe it’s just another mask.” He slips away as quickly as he appears.
I let out a slow breath. “Let’s go tomorrow night too,” I say, the idea forming as I speak.
“Seriously?” Bre looks at me, intrigued. “You going to write about it?”
“Yeah—they’re weird and interesting,” I pause. “I like weird and interesting.”
She grins. “I’ll have to work it out still, but I’m in.”
Of course, she’s in—that’s why we work so well together, the Mulder to my Scully.
The next day, we walk through the doors of The Emporium, a place straight out of Dazed and Confused. It’s more of a college bar than a music venue, with psychedelic murals that really play up the whole hippie vibe and a spread of pool tables, just like the movie. Bre’s attention is immediately drawn to the wall of cassette tapes serving as wallpaper. She floats by, already unzipping her bag and pulling out her camera. It’s early Sunday evening, and the crowd is a small sea of Birkenstocks and tie-dye T-shirts, clutching their IPAs and nodding their heads to whatever jam band is noodling on stage. Not exactly my vibe.
Across the room, RUNT is easy to spot, a dark cluster contrasting sharply with the brightly colored murals and the overall sentiment of peace and love—not their vibe either.
I spot the singer—who introduced himself as 8 last night (it looks like Bennie was right about the number thing)—moving toward the merch table, so I reach into my bag and pull out my notebook. (Yes, notebook, not phone.) I’ve jotted down a few questions, hoping for the chance to ask them. Pushing past my usual awkwardness, I approach.
He looms in front of me, mask pulled tight, arms crossed over his chest, his tall frame silhouetted against the flashing lights of the electric dartboard behind him.
I flip open my notebook to an earmarked page, scanning the scribbled questions. I wasn’t sure how much they’d actually tell me, but I had to try. Clearing my throat, I ask, “So, your Bandcamp page says you’re a collective of musicians and artists. Does that mean you all have other projects—ones where your real identities can’t be revealed?”
His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s weighing how much to share. “Possibly,” he replies, the word delivered with care as if he’s been trained to give nothing away.
I scribble down his non-answer. “Alright, fair enough. But what about the child actor thing? Is that true, or just a rumor?”
He tilts his head, crossing his arms tighter. “Probably,” he says, deadpan, not giving an inch.
“It’s probably a rumor, or it’s probably true?” I ask.
He nods.
I smirk. “You’re good at this—keeping the mystery alive.” I glance down at my notebook, flipping the page. “Your Spotify bio says, ‘Welcome to the cult of the forgotten, the pushed aside, and the unwanted.’ Are we talking full-blown cult here? I noticed you used some Jim Jones samples on your album.”
For the first time, he hesitates, as if weighing how much to reveal. “We are starting a cult,” he says finally. I’m so thrilled to get a concrete answer that I don’t fully register what he just told me. His gaze shifts around the room. 8 is an enigma—aggressive and expressive on stage but seemingly calculated and reserved off it. I’m about to press him on the whole “cult” thing when his attention shifts to the stage, where the band is setting up. Before I can ask, he excuses himself and makes his way over to the rest of his band. Moments later, his voice booms through the PA:
“I TOLD YOU, IT’S NOT GOING TO BE FUN FOR EVERYONE!” his tone is menacing as he shouts into the mic, pacing the floor like a caged animal.
I glance around, grinning like an idiot. This is why I love live music. I spot a flash of bright purple hair swinging in the corner—Bre, in her element, snapping pictures like she’s documenting a blooming corpse flower.
They waste no time, diving straight into their set with the same relentless energy as the night before—tight, confident, cohesive. Except tonight, I am much more familiar with their music, which heightens the whole experience. 9 plays his baby bass (literally, a very small bass) with the manic energy of a caffeinated squirrel, his jerky, unusual movements somehow contrasting with his rumbling bass tone. Meanwhile, 7 on guitar alternates between freezing in place and bursting into explosive movement, his heavily distorted guitar tone adding to the dense, layered sound. Crackling, static noise from electronic samples weaves through the mix, blending with 6’s solid drum beats that hold the chaos together.
So whether they’re starting a cult or just messing with us, one thing’s for sure: whoever they are behind the ski masks, they’re solid musicians and performers. Maybe even successful ones? Who knows. I may never figure them out, but they were definitely unexpected and memorable. I don’t know much else about them, if or when they will tour again, but if they do, I’m in—even if it means I inadvertently joined a cult.
To listen to their album “Cult of the Forgotten” on their Bandcamp click HERE.
For their Instagram, HERE.
