Roar, roar, roar!
Ah, ah, ah!
The crowd was boiling.
Pauline looked at Camila, her eyes showing a hint of surprise. "Aha, this handsome guy clearly knows how to control the atmosphere."
Camila was also beaming with joy. "It's a surprise for me too."
The performance began as abruptly as it started—
After all, this was a street performance. There was no start time and no end time. Held in an open space, people could join or leave freely at any moment.
Everything was out in the open.
Not only did they have to deal with noise, disturbances, and unforeseen events, but the audience was constantly joining and leaving, providing immediate and often harsh feedback.
But at the same time, this allowed the performance to return to its most original, simple, and fundamental state, subjecting itself to the test and evaluation of strangers.
The scene before them, however, was unusual—
The crowd was layered three or four rows deep, a sea of people, shoulder to shoulder, packed into a corner. The east-west street was completely blocked.
People had been gathering quietly, and the crowd had already exceeded a thousand and was still growing like waves.
It could no longer be called a street performance. It was more like a small guerrilla concert.
So, strictly speaking, Anson's joke wasn't really a joke. With the road blocked, traffic would soon be paralyzed. It was only a matter of time before the traffic police arrived to maintain order. No one knew how much longer the band could perform before the police intervened.
There was no time for idle chatter. It was time to get to the point—
The music.
That was the only thing that mattered.
Anson turned to look at the other three, their gazes intersecting in the air. They were eager, their eyes shining brightly, their hearts pounding without needing words to express it.
Not just because of the spectacle before them, but because they had seemingly rediscovered the joy of music yesterday. Now, they couldn't wait to return to the world of music.
"Lily?"
"OK."
"Connor?"
"Roar, roar, roar, I can't wait."
"Miles?"
"Ready."
One by one, Anson confirmed with each of them. The three band members exchanged glances, then all eyes fell on Anson, their excitement palpable.
Then.
Anson held his guitar, his fingertips dancing lightly across the strings—
Lively, joyful, and clear.
Not loud, even a bit faint. It started without warning, completely drowned out by the cacophony of the crowd.
You couldn't hear it at all!
But Anson didn't care. His eyes were full of tenderness as he watched the strings, as if the whole world had quieted down, leaving just the four members of the August 31st band.
Everything else was dust.
Strum, strum, strum. The bright sound of the strings fluttered in the golden sunlight of the Parisian afternoon, almost miraculously tracing the sunbeams and transparent notes that soared and interwove, weaving a magnificent tapestry that slowly unfolded.
The noise, the clamor, gradually turned to dust, settling sparsely in the golden glow.
And so, eyes began to gather.
One eight-count, two eight-counts.
Anson turned to look at Miles—
Miles didn't use the bow. He simply used his fingers, plucking the strings with the skill of a master, like playing a large harp. The deep, rich sound of the cello filled the melody, instantly lifting Anson's guitar sound, making it even clearer and lighter.
Next was Connor.
And lastly, Lily.
Light, nimble, even a bit cautious. She didn't play the full melody, just a simple four-beat rhythm, repeated over and over. Yet, as each instrument joined in, the layers and framework became richer and fuller, and the unfolding picture grew more magnificent.
Heartbeat, slowly speeding up.
Amazing, astonishing, awe-inspiring—
It was just pure melody, blending the inherent charm of the instruments. Emotions were poured into the performance, relying on notes to awaken resonance.
Like a symphony orchestra.
In today's music market, it's been a long time since any band dared to try this: to truly let the music return to music, to let the band rediscover the essence of being a band. Not relying on looks, not relying on gimmicks, but truly showcasing the band's charm, using instruments and voices to bring out new allure.
Pauline was amazed, barely able to believe her ears. She looked at Camila, dumbfounded: "Is this a band?"
Camila wore a proud smile, puffing her chest a little. Her expression clearly said, "Praise me. Go on, praise me. Praise me to your heart's content."
"Hmm, mm-mm-mm... mm-mm-mm..."
Anson's voice flowed from the microphone, not loud, just a soft hum.
But that clear voice, with a hint of weariness and sorrow, made the music even more layered.
Then, finally, someone moved. It was no longer just simple chords or light playing, but truly embracing the main melody—
Miles.
It was actually Miles.
Pauline's eyes nearly popped out. She choked on her own saliva. Who would have thought the cello would be the core of the entire performance?
But thinking about it, the cello appearing on the street and in a band was already remarkable. So why be surprised if it set the tone for the band?
Pauline finally understood Camila's earlier mysterious smile.
Pauline didn't have time to chat with Camila. She took a deep breath and fixed her eyes on Miles, as if expecting the cello to bloom like a flower.
Her mind gradually sank into the music.
Mellow, rich, grand. So gentle, yet so majestic. Miles was one with his instrument. The bow glided slowly across the strings.
Meanwhile, the guitar, bass, and keyboard all stopped playing, leaving just Miles.
One cello.
Even in a symphony orchestra, such moments are rare, as the cello is a bass instrument, making it challenging to carry the entire structure of a piece.
But this band did just that. In a way that was astonishing, almost magical.
Even more incredible, from the composition to the performance, the stirring melody awakened passion within the listeners, their hearts beating faster. A surge of emotion, indescribable with words, rose within them. It was as if they could feel time and space slowing down in this tiny corner.
Like a black hole, pulling souls into its center.
Anson's voice drifted from the depths of the universe.
"The vast world was once under my control. The giant waves surged at my command. Now, I appear alone at dawn, wandering the road that once belonged to me." (Note 1)
Loneliness, bitterness, weariness, sorrow.
Conflicting emotions collided and burned between the words. The golden notes clanged and jumped between the syllables, so light yet so heavy, so indifferent yet so free. The grandeur and majesty in every gesture poured out effortlessly, instantly stirring up—
A storm deep within each mind.
The simplest phrases, like poetry, like a song, yet vividly portrayed the weight of history and the passing of time.
In Paris, in France, the power of music dragged listeners through time and space. The vast history sped by in front of their eyes.
No one was exempt. No one.
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