"Hey, killer performance!"
Another guy strolls over, giving Ronan a polite pat on the shoulder with a grin.
The dim bar lighting makes it hard to see clearly, but Ronan flashes a smile back and nods. "Thanks! It's our honor."
This time, though, the guy doesn't just walk off. He gestures to the spot next to Ronan. "Mind if I sit?"
Ronan hesitates.
He's still not used to this kind of casual socializing. Back in his memory, this sort of thing would've been unthinkable. And even here—not in China—what if everyone started asking to sit down? How's he supposed to handle that? Isn't it kinda rude to just plop down like that?
But… didn't he just tell himself last night? Since he's got this "stolen" second chance, he should open up, dive into the adventure, and embrace life's unknowns. It's not even been 24 hours—already chickening out?
Feeling the bar's warm, happy vibe, Ronan lets his guard down a bit and nods with a smile.
The guy's not pushy like he'd feared. After asking, he waits politely until Ronan agrees, then sits down with an easy confidence. He sticks out his right hand and introduces himself:
"Jeremiah Fraites—drummer and backup singer in my band."
In front of Ronan is a lean, sharp face. Golden stubble sprawls across his jaw, and the faint light carves out deep, chiseled features. His cliff-edge nose stands out, framed by a dark brown fedora. No smile, but his vibe's calm and gentle—no edge to him.
"Ronan Cooper."
It's his first time introducing himself so formally—feels a little awkward—but he shakes Jeremiah's hand, keeping it friendly.
"We really loved your set," Jeremiah says simply, shifting to point with his left hand at a small round table nearby. Four people sit around it, and when they catch Ronan's eye, they raise their glasses in a toast.
Ronan lifts his own cup—lemonade, not beer. Still recovering from a cold, he's steering clear of alcohol. He'd wanted hot water, but worried it'd seem too weird in New Orleans and spark questions, so lemonade was the compromise.
He glances back, and Jeremiah nods at the other three bandmates too. "Great show." After quick intros and handshakes, Jeremiah turns to Ronan again. "I won't say I'm into your music, but I dig your performance style—how you put your own spin on it, bringing out different colors. That's worth some serious respect."
Blunt but honest, his words don't sting—they're just real, and it's easy to vibe with that.
"That's the coolest thing about music, right?" Ronan picks up the thread, smiling. "Doesn't matter the genre, the culture, or the age—everyone's got their own taste, and they pour their own meaning into the melody. So there's no good or bad music—just stuff that hits you and stuff that doesn't."
Cool and collected, Ronan responds to Jeremiah while slipping in his own take on music, smooth as butter.
Jeremiah's face lights up a bit, clearly digging the reply. "Music's got no good or bad, but stages? They've got highs and lows. And tonight, you guys crushed it!"
Music's the creation; the stage is the delivery—two different beasts.
Great tunes can flop with a weak stage, while meh songs can shine with a killer performance. Plus, a stage's vibe shifts with the performer's energy, prep, and the room itself—tons of wild cards. That's why stages do have a quality gap, no question.
But this isn't some deep dive for a bar chat. They get each other's drift, and that's enough. Ronan switches gears with a grin. "Let me guess—you didn't come over just to debate music versus stage dynamics with me, right?"
He pats his stomach. "Real talk, I'm starving. Brain's running slow—might not keep up!"
Jeremiah catches the playful glint in Ronan's eyes flickering in the dim light and lets out a hearty laugh. "I told Wesley you're a fun one, and tonight's stage proved it. Nailed that guess!"
He dials back the grin, settling into that warm vibe again. "Nah, I'm not here for philosophy or art talks. Just wanted to ask—know the Old Blacksmith Bar on Bourbon Street?"
"Saturday night, they're throwing a Full Moon Party. Open to all kinds of performers for a big bash. Starts at 3 p.m. and runs 'til 6 a.m. Sunday—fifteen hours straight. You guys wanna join the madness?"
Full Moon Party?
Ronan's brain's all question marks, but Cliff jumps in, saving him. "Wait, I heard you've gotta sign up ahead of time, and they screen everyone—not just anyone can perform."
Looks like Cliff's not the only one clued in—Maxim and Ollie perk up too. Must be a big New Orleans thing.
Ronan wisely zips it, listening close to avoid slipping up.
"Yep, totally," Jeremiah nods. "They can't take every applicant, or fifteen hours wouldn't cut it. Plus, quality'd tank."
"But that's the public line. Insider scoop? Get a bar's recommendation and a performing band's nod, and you're in—no screening. It's a city-wide party, fifteen hours long—they want as many people in on it as possible."
"Each band gets thirty minutes. Plan's for thirty acts total. Word is, slots aren't full yet. We got told if it's still open by noon tomorrow, our set might stretch to forty-five minutes—or even an hour."
"Guess the public rules scared off a bunch of bands, leaving some gaps."
His eyes shift from Cliff back to Ronan. "So, I came over to ask—are you guys interested?"