Soundcheck Diaries

A 9/11 moment I’ll never forget from behind the sound console

September 11, 2026.

For most of the evening, it felt like another really good night at work.

I was running sound for The Last Shot, a local Top 40s favorite, at Campus JAX. I had spent the night doing what live sound engineers do—dialing in the mix, keeping the vocals sitting clearly above the band, managing monitors, watching levels, listening for anything that needed attention, and solving the little problems that inevitably happen during a live show before the audience ever knows there was a problem.

But this wasn’t just another Friday night.

It was September 11—the 25th anniversary of the terrorist attacks that changed our country forever. Nearly 3,000 people lost their lives on September 11, 2001, at the World Trade Center, the Pentagon and aboard the four hijacked airplanes.

So even in the middle of music, dinner, dancing and everything else happening around us, that date carried a different weight.

We remembered.

A Voice Made for a Big Moment

Fronting The Last Shot that evening was Lexi Zimmerman, and what a voice.

Lexi regularly performs the National Anthem at Angel Stadium, so she is certainly no stranger to singing one of the most demanding—and emotionally significant—songs a vocalist can be asked to perform.

And throughout our show, it was easy to hear why.

The Last Shot played songs everybody seemed to know. People danced. Birthdays were celebrated. Tables were full. Friends laughed together. The room had that wonderful energy that happens when a band and an audience really connect.

Lexi’s voice soared over all of it.

She has tremendous flexibility, control and a beautiful tone, with the ability to go from delicate phrases to huge, powerful notes without ever seeming to lose command of the song.

And did I mention that she is very pregnant?

Somehow, she was standing onstage delivering big sustained notes, power, control and seemingly endless vocal energy while also carrying a baby.

That alone deserved an encore.

Except There Was a Problem

As the night came to an end, our MC, Tim, walked onto the stage and did exactly what an MC is supposed to do after a great show.

He called for an encore.

There was only one problem.

Our drummer had injured his shoulder during the set and couldn’t continue playing.

Suddenly, there was this strange little moment onstage.

The audience was expecting another song. The band was standing there trying to figure out what they could possibly do without a drummer. Tim even asked whether there happened to be a drummer in the audience willing to jump in.

No takers.

From my position behind the console, I watched it unfold.

And then a thought hit me.

She should sing the National Anthem.

It certainly wasn’t a normal encore.

But this wasn’t a normal night.

It was September 11.

And standing right there on our stage was someone who didn’t simply know the National Anthem. She could sing it in a way that could make people feel it.

So I did something sound engineers generally don’t do.

I spoke through the sound system.

“SING OUR NATIONAL ANTHEM!”

Then the Entire Room Changed

What happened next is the part I will never forget.

Lexi took the microphone.

The audience began getting to their feet.

One moment we had been trying to figure out how to salvage an encore. The next, people throughout the room were standing together, facing the stage.

And then Lexi began to sing.

As the anthem continued, the video screens behind the band changed to an image of the American flag. Members of the band stood quietly across the stage. In the audience, people remained standing.

Hands went over hearts. Even the drummer who’s shoulder was injured was able to put his hand over his heart.

And a venue that only moments earlier had been filled with Top 40 music, dancing, food, drinks and conversation suddenly became remarkably still and focused.

No elaborate production.

No rehearsal.

No plan.

Just a singer, a microphone and a room full of people remembering that we share something bigger than whatever brought each of us through the door that night.

For a Few Minutes, We Were Simply Americans

We live in a time when it can sometimes feel as though Americans are constantly being reminded of the things that divide us.

We don’t all vote the same way.

We don’t all agree on the issues.

We come from different backgrounds, different generations, different faiths and different life experiences.

And none of that needed to be settled that night.

Because honoring our country doesn’t require us to agree about everything.

For those few minutes, there weren’t political sides of the room.

There wasn’t a left and a right.

There were just Americans.

Standing together.

Hands over our hearts.

Remembering those who lost their lives 25 years earlier and recognizing the extraordinary privilege of living in a country where we have the freedom to disagree, the freedom to speak, the freedom to worship, the freedom to gather—and yes, even the freedom to stand in a music venue on a Friday night and sing together.

As Lexi reached the final lines, people throughout the room joined her.

And somewhere behind the sound console, I started crying.

A Different Kind of Sound Check

I’ve mixed a lot of shows.

I’ve heard incredible singers. I’ve worked with phenomenal musicians. I’ve watched audiences erupt after guitar solos, dance through entire sets and sing lyrics so loudly that sometimes I barely need the PA.

But this was different.

Standing behind my console at this moment night, I wasn’t thinking about EQ.

I wasn’t thinking about compression.

I wasn’t wondering whether the vocal needed another decibel.

I was simply listening.

And feeling incredibly grateful.

Grateful for the people who came before us.

Grateful for those who have served and sacrificed.

Grateful for the first responders who ran toward unimaginable danger on September 11, 2001.

Grateful for the freedoms I sometimes take for granted.

And grateful for this completely unplanned moment when a room full of people who may have disagreed about a thousand things stood shoulder to shoulder and sang the same words together.

The drummer’s injured shoulder meant we couldn’t give the audience the encore we had planned.

Instead, we got something far more memorable.

Sometimes the moments that stay with us aren’t on the set list.

Sometimes nobody rehearses them.

Sometimes they begin with a problem that needs solving.

And sometimes, from behind a sound console, you get to witness a room full of people remember what they have in common.

On September 11, 2026, we ended the night not simply as a band, a crew and an audience.

We ended it together as Americans.

And for that, I am deeply grateful.