Long Live The Music

The crowd lined around the block. Shaking and gleaming with joy. The smiling faces of hundreds of dreamers waited for the doors to open. This would be a moment they'd never forget. One day, they'd tell their children about the time they waited in line all morning to see them play live. They'll talk about driving hours to hear that one song they played over and over.

They'll shiver with goose bumps of nostalgia as their best friend recalls what it was like to hear them sing those words. That moment, you know the one. The lights go dim and the conversations go quiet. The drummer walks out with direct aim towards their seat. They have drums sticks in hand. The mood changes. It's different. There's a feeling of wander and pure bliss. Nothing else matters. Not the deadlines or the impending bills. The heartbreak or the broken foot.

Nothing matters, except right here, right now.

The lights go on and the crowd erupts. Not one phone in hand, because this moment has passed by so many times. From cheek to cheek, there's pure joy and sensational dreaming. The curious are brought to life by the passionate. The partners are by the side of their lovers. A mother is bonding with her daughter. Friends and strangers. This place is filled with backstories and endless plans. But, right now, the only thing that matters is the energy.

The moment. The music.

This moment, this one night, didn't start here. This is not the beginning of the story. It's only part of a long journey that took place years ago. The days and nights leading up to a night full of so many hopes and dreams. It began a long time before that. One would argue, it happened overnight. Let me take you back. Back before the lights turned on and the crowds went wild. Before the crowds in line and the gleaming sun in the air. Let me take you back to a town outside of the music.

A town where the radio is the loudest and the future feels so far.

There was a writer. Someone full of hopes and dreams. Someone who felt different and lost at times. Unsure of where they belonged, they found themselves turning on the radio. Sometimes the train would interrupt, but most of the time, it was just them and that radio. In sync with the sound waves, mesmerized by all the people listening in at any given moment. Just like concerts, connected by a string of sounds created by stories and lives of others. Music, they would come to know, would be their home. Their sense of belonging would be defined by something that felt so foreign to them. A fire, you could say.

They could almost see the crowds. Laying in their bed, they'd look at the ceiling and get lost in what could be one day. They'd imagine what life would be like if they could help create a home for so many to belong. This feeling was like a wildfire inside of them. Driving them to spend every waking moment dedicated to learning the next puzzle piece. In the dizzying blur of those racing thoughts, they'd find themselves writing.

Writing like their purpose depended on it.

The little black book that they carried around everywhere became a part of them. Going to bars alone and writing all night became their routine. Sometimes they feared they would be seen as a loner, but the future vision became everything to them where nothing else mattered. They'd sit in bars drinking whiskey and writing lyrics dispersed with future plans. Scribing about the small moments and the big moments with some thoughts in between. From the hard times to the best times, everything was written down, whenever they could.

This little black book, in a way, is the reason all those people stood in line at the same time.

In the journey to pursue the ultimate dream, they found themselves taking a detour. The detour led them to a gas station one night. They didn't realize it, but this would be the night that, years later would shape their trajectory. It would, in many ways, become a defining moment that would lead to one day. On their 23rd journal, they carried it around like a wallet and with hundreds in the back envelope, they walked into a gas station. They were heading out of town for a film shoot, so this stop would be quick. Hours later and miles away, they realized their sidekick was forgotten in a bathroom stall.

Calling and panicking, they eventually got back to the station. The journal had been returned to the front desk. Terrified of losing hundreds of dollars, they searched through the journal heading directly to the back envelope. With panicked eyes and an adrenaline rush, there wasn't much to see except that the money was gone.

Beaten down and remorseful of leaving it behind, they slumped into the car seat. They felt lost. Determined to not give up, they decided to search again. Maybe it would be there this time. Sure enough, it wasn't there. But, wedged in the pocket clinging to the back, there was a tiny piece of paper with a note written on top. Pulling it out, they could see bubbly writing and a number on it. The note explained that they didn't want anyone to take the money, so they took it themselves with intentions of safely returning the money back.

Relieved, they texted the number to find that the person who found it wasn't lying. A miracle of some sort. A small moment in time, but this person saw an opportunity to do something nice. Without hesitation, the finder sent the money hidden in the pocket back. The little black book was found and so was the money.

That one moment turned into a day, which turned into a month, which turned into years. There wasn't a lottery ticket or a treasure map to be found. Just a person with big dreams and an obsession for writing. It took years for them to understand the significance of a sleepy night. So, they wrote about it. By some twist of fate, that same journal company decided to launch a contest where the winner would win money for writing about a little black book. There was a little black journal, it was a Moleskine. There was money found. The money was returned. It wasn't a lot of money nor did it do lead to a windfall. But, it became a memory and that memory became this story. That story turned into catching a break and became another moment in time.

You see, that little black book became the catalyst for many moments along the road. Opened many doors "where there were once only walls." Those doors ended up opening to hundreds of dreamers waiting to get in. Walls now filled with pictures of moments and memories, fated meetings, and strangers in the air. And it started from just a little black book being shuffled around. Filled with ideas, dreams, and occasional dollar bills.

It cultivated into many more memories and experiences complete with screaming faces and lights in the air. Fast forward, it's a moment they've all been waiting for as they're packed like sardines just outside the venue walls. The crowd lined around the block shaking and gleaming with joy. The lights go on, the music starts, and those in the room, completely unaware, that the little black book started it all.