In Glasgow, the audience screamed at us, and beat the living crap out of each other in the aisles as we played. Debris rained down upon us, and we did our best to dodge the bigger items while still hitting our notes. As a song ended and the stage was plunged into darkness, I felt a heavy thud at my feet. When the lights came up again, I saw that it was a huge bowie knife that had flown through the air, landing only inches from my feet. I had actually felt it as it embedded itself in the stage. I felt my blood turn to ice, and I ran offstage in terror. Backstage, I screamed at Kent, who was uselessly trying to calm me down.

“That’s it, Kent! I’m not going back out there!”

“But, Cherie … listen!”

“They want to kill us!”

“Cherie—they’re gonna tear this place apart if you guys don’t finish the set!”

Then I saw Joan storming off the stage with a worried look on her face. She ran over to me, her guitar still around her neck.

“What the fuck just happened?” She had obviously seen the knife sticking up out of the stage, and it had scared the holy shit out of her, too.

“I don’t want to go back out there, Joan!” I said, on the verge of hysterics. “I don’t want to die playing this stupid show!”