Jake Viceroy grew up on a pig farm in Laredo, Texas, where hog-calling helped him to perfect the traditional high-pitch metal shriek. He feasted on a steady diet of metal all through school, studying in detail the genius of performers like Ronnie James Dio, Paul Stanley, Klaus Meine, Rob Halford, and of course Jani Lane, and eventually deciding to devote his life to the pursuit of metal awesome, for its purity as an art-form, and "for the chicks."

He has never had it officially measured, but has a vocal-range of "about 18 octaves." Whether it's the raspy/creepy Stephen Pearcy; the over-dramatic Dokken; the super-shrieky Sebastian Bach, or the soaring, OMFG-pretty Steve Perry; Jake has studied it, and mastered it all.

Jake picked up the guitar in college to increase his skill in metal bad-assery, and mostly sticks to playing his late-80s Les Paul, "because it's a f*cking Les Paul."

Cole Stone is a stone-cold badass. He hails from Newport News, Virginia, and built his first bass from two-by-fours and chicken-wire when he was seven years old. Cole's strange, preternatural gift for harmony-singing emerged shortly after that, when he accidentally broke all the windows in the house while part-singing in the ultrasonic range with the family dog.

He heard his first metal track on local FM radio, and after seeing the leering, sneering faces on MTV's "Headbanger's Ball," he realized it was his destiny to be a metal star as well.

Cole is the strong, silent type — he wears his stoicism on his sleeve like some men wear their feelings. Feelings are not important — f*cking metal is what's important. He may be confused about his nationality, but he's always ready to bring the bass and vocal attack that flattens the crowd.

Kitt De la Rosa is a rocket ship to rock-'n'-roll love waiting to lift off. Who needs a click-track when you have a rocket-ship ride to the stars?? Kitt first began drumming as he was growing up in a small town south of San Diego, California.

His musical tastes expanded as he grew older, and Kitt explored everything from progressive jazz to German polka, but the bombastic styles of drummers like John Bonham and Carmine Appice constantly pulled him back to metal, learning heavier and heavier licks every day.

To this day, no one is completely sure whether the spontaneous liftoff of his family home into outer space was caused by his drumming, but he was playing at the time, and only just barely managed to leap free, clinging to his prized Zildjian 22" Extra-Extra-Heavy ride.

T.T.G.'s transformation into a monster of rock began in his teens, growing up in Sweden. When all the other kids were busy making meatballs and putting together their Ikea furniture, T.T.G. was busy crafting incredibly tasty licks, and obliterating the family furnishings with the sheer volume and intensity of his riffs.

Keep an eye on T.T.G. during the show, because at some point he's going to go full beast mode. Once the transformation is complete he's a rock and roll berserker with the soul of Grendel and the hands of Yngwie J. Malmsteen, and a kickass guitar tone made of dragon's blood and molten lava. Do not stand too close.

Fun fact, in high school T.T.G. replaced all the ABBA in the local record store with AC/DC, earning him the undying gratitude of all his school mates.

Max V is a cyborg. Nobody in the band knows how much of him is still original equipment, but the hands are definitely servo-driven, and there's a pitch processor in there somewhere that keeps him from ever hitting a wrong note, even when he tries. He likes minor keys, twin-guitar harmonies, and the occasional chromatic run that sounds like a malfunction but is totally on purpose.

As a teenager, Max snuck backstage and challenged Ace Frehley to a guitar duel, armed with a busted amp and a delay pedal that only worked when you kicked it. He won. Ace handed him a modded Les Paul and told him to "go melt something." Not long after, Max walked out into a lightning storm and nobody saw him for three years. When he came back he had a neural jack in his neck and an FX loop where his appendix used to be.

These days he skips the amp and plugs straight into the crowd. Earplugs won't help.