Almost Famous

Intent doesn't have a full-length album. The band's manager is a DJ who specializes in karaoke. The publicity department is Kinko's. But give the young quintet a break. With an abrasive sound akin to Staind with less woe-is-me and more woe-is-you, Intent battled its way into a slot opening for Marilyn Manson at the Freakers Ball on October 30, a day that began on a quiet street in Lee's Summit.

11:20 a.m.

"We're ready to rock and roll," says Joel Frazee, 21. He's sitting barefoot on a couch in his parents' house. The lawn is covered with brown leaves and children's toys. Carved pumpkins sit near the doorstep.

Joel didn't sleep much last night. Neither did the rest of the Intent family.

"I turned on the radio at 6 a.m., and they were already talking about the concert," says Frazee's mother, Rose. "I almost started crying."

Rose's camcorder peeks at Frazee (drums and vocals) and eighteen-year-old bassist Mitch Peters as they sit in the living room. A pan of ground beef sputters in the kitchen.

"Geez, Mom, how many people you plan on feeding?" Frazee asks.

"Well, you said about fifteen people were going to be here."

"Yeah, that's about right ... but did you pick up the keg?"

"Joel Frazee! Keep talking like that, and I'll ground you to your room."

11:44 a.m.

"It's showtime, boys," Peters announces.

Intent is wedged into a tiny space beside the furnace in the basement. Tyler Lyon, 18, screams into a microphone while Peters, guitarist Matt Watt, 22, Frazee, and his 18-year-old brother, Isaac (percussion), flail their instruments and jostle for position.

Upstairs, the racket rattles the floorboards. Rose fusses in the kitchen, oblivious to the thundering vibrations shaking the walls. "It's nonstop around here," she says casually. "The music is going all the time, so we're used to it. This is nothing."

Downstairs, the room looks like a violent collision of Twister and karaoke conducted in a walk-in closet. The rehearsal comes to an end, and the band members, already wearing their all-access passes, file out of the cramped, sweltering quarters. Peters breathes in the eau de locker room. "Ah, smells like testosterone."

12:11 p.m.

"Joel and Isaac are the babies," Rose says. "All three of my boys are mama's boys, but Joel is the worst."

There are six Frazee children (and six grandchildren), and the worst of the mama's boys is standing shirtless in the kitchen, munching tortilla chips and answering his cell phone. Friends are calling to find out what time the band goes on and to ask for directions to the Kansas City International Raceway.

"Has anyone seen my belt?" Isaac asks. "I swear I just saw it."

The living room swells with brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, friends, girlfriends, managers, roadies-for-a-day and untethered grandkids modeling black Intent shirts.

Watt is having a Marlboro and a Coke outside.

"Everything we have done has just kind of happened," the guitarist says. "We only started to take it more seriously when we started winning competitions. Right place at the right time I guess."

12:33 p.m.

"It's 12:40 guys. We gotta go," Frazee says, prodding his bandmates to scarf lunch and load equipment into a borrowed trailer. Lyon sips a honey-and-tea concoction and mulls career options as equipment is shuttled from the basement to the trailer.

"There is no other option," he concludes. "Music, that's it."

"OK, did everybody do a double check?" Frazee asks. "I did my double check, did you guys do your double check? OK, who wants a fade?"

Frazee is also the barber. He wields humming hair clippers with one hand and his cell phone with the other. The living room is crowded. The phone is ringing. But the band is loose. Isaac pokes needles into a Halloween mask. Peters shows off the smiley face he's shaved on his chest. Lyon practices cartoonish rock poses.

1:15 p.m.

"Lord, we pray that you watch over these boys," Rose says, giving thanks and asking for guidance in a group prayer on the front lawn.

The group disperses into waiting vehicles with a chorus of slamming doors. Rose smiles. Her eyes are moist. "I love you guys," she calls after the retreating caravan.

1:29 p.m.

"Hey, it's a Freakers Ball Thursday!" the radio announces as Intent arrives at the raceway. "For all you heading out to the eleventh annual Freakers Ball, gates open at four, and things kick off at five with Kansas City's own Intent!"

2:07 p.m.

"I totally smoked his ass," says a pink-haired stagehand, regaling Intent with stories about drag racing a Z28. Several trunks labeled "Manson's Wardrobe" sit nearby, filled with black vests, nylons, corsets, go-go boots and a galaxy of beauty products for the former Brian Warner turned Antichrist Superstar. Leathered roadies in Iron Maiden T-shirts walk to and fro, carrying equipment, tuning guitars and dragging barriers into place.

Intent reassembles by the Frazee family van to package fliers and demos as other bands stumble from their gleaming tour buses with mussed hair and a "Where the fuck are we?" look.

3:44 p.m.

"It takes practice, man," Peters says as he stands onstage trying to swing his guitar over his shoulder and around his back. He's having trouble. "I've done it a hundred times before," he says as a cord snags, a pocket catches or the guitar smacks into an amp behind him.