Low ceilings, honest noise. All Get Out played like the room owed them something, and the job was just to keep the lens steady long enough to prove they collected.

It was the kind of stage where the singer is basically standing in your lap. One white tee soaked through, a Fender hung low, the mic stand leaning in like it was trying to catch every word too. The light up there was barely light, a wash of magenta and pink that came and went between songs, so half of shooting this was just waiting for his face to swing back toward the one bulb that mattered.

You feel the whole emotional run in a set this size. The grin between verses, the jaw clenched on the chorus, the eyes screwed shut on a note he meant. I wasn’t posing any of it, I was chasing it, and the only trick I had was staying close enough to be in the splash and steady enough to not blink when it landed.