For One Day Kings, hiring a pro arranger wasn't an option—they didn't have the cash. DIY was their only way forward.
Ollie and Maxim handled both composing and arranging, self-taught through trial and error, figuring it out bit by bit.
Now, watching Ronan sketch out an arrangement with raw inspiration and talent—rough and simple as it was—you could still feel the bones of it taking shape. For Ollie and Maxim, it was a thrill. They couldn't wait to jump into the discussion.
As soon as Ronan wrapped up his thoughts, Ollie—itching to dive in—cut in first. "No, no, that's not how it should go…"
Maxim, who'd barely opened his mouth, gaped at Ollie, stunned by his energy. Cliff caught the look, biting back a laugh, and gave Maxim a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, all dignity-saving vibes.
But the shock faded fast. Seeing Ronan listening intently, Maxim shook it off and synced up with Ollie's pace.
The night stretched on.
The motel, though, never quieted down.
Even after the young crowd's party wrapped up, the guests didn't just drift off to sleep. Behind tightly shut doors, a restless hum buzzed on. Every now and then, a roar of "Keep it down!" echoed down the hall, but it did zilch—
The noise kept doing its thing.
What could anyone do? People didn't pick this motel for its charm—grimy and chaotic as it was. They were here because their wallets were thin.
If they had a choice, no one would stay. The place was a mixed bag of drifters and desperates. Paper-thin doors hid who-knows-what—
Maybe next time you cracked one open, you'd face a gun barrel. Or a cold body, OD'd and gone. Or a broke wanderer, kicked out of their old life, dignity shredded, despair ticking like a bomb.
The band's racket drew complaints too. Someone even stormed over, pounding the door so hard it groaned like it might split. 😡
At first, the guys apologized politely—they knew rehearsing in a motel was a jerk move. They'd stuck to daytime practice, steering clear of rest hours, but tonight was an exception. They felt bad.
Then they realized their sorrys just egged the guy on. Instead of mutual understanding, sleeves got rolled up, tensions flared—clearly looking for a fight, picking on the "soft" targets. So the band toughened up too.
Big, burly Ollie rolled up his sleeves, planting his bulk in the doorway, face stormy like he might blow any second.
Peek past him, and an even taller figure rose—Ronan, a touch higher than Ollie, his grim expression screaming, "We're ready for a brawl." The troublemakers backed off quick.
After that, peace held. No more door-banging.
The night passed smooth.
Morning sun spilled in, light and clear. The sky glowed a mysterious, vivid blue, bleeding up from the inky ground, spreading slow and brilliant. At the top, it faded to a near-transparent sheen—like you could glimpse the chaos beyond. Then the world brightened, step by step.
Some call it the "blue hour"—that fleeting slice before and after dawn. Feet still in the dark, hands brushing daylight, everything wrapped in a quiet blue haze. Just you and the thump of your own heart.
But it's gone in a flash. Sunlight floods in, and morning arrives.
Alice pushed her door open, stretching wide with a big yawn, sucking in a breath—then coughing. Not the crisp freshness she'd hoped for, but a gritty mix of cigarette smoke and gasoline. Even early, last night's party lingered in the air.
Glancing at the cloudless sky, she grabbed her camcorder and headed for Ronan and Ollie's room. Her mind churned—today's shoot could stretch longer, gather more footage, refine her vision.
Documentaries are a grind. Step one: record. Capture reality through the lens, raw and unfiltered. Then sift through it, shaping it to your theme with edits and cuts. One rule's ironclad—stay objective. Don't mess with what's unfolding, or it's not a documentary anymore.
Right now, Alice needed to record.
But how? What angles, what spots? That took planning. She had to think it through.
Since last night, her excitement hadn't simmered down. Ideas kept sparking, hands itching to get to work. She'd barely slept—under three hours—before popping awake.
In no time, her feet landed her at their door. She knocked, stepped back, leaned on the railing, ready to catch the moment it opened—real, unscripted gold. But mid-step, the door swung wide.
"Whoa!"
Alice jumped, lens landing on Ollie. Not the groggy, just-rolled-out-of-bed look she'd pictured. He was buzzing, sharp—curiosity hit her hard. Only a close look caught the faint weariness in his eyes. Like…
All-nighter?
She'd figured they'd be snoozing—it was just past 6 a.m. This threw her. "You guys didn't sleep at all?" It clicked fast.
Ollie's fierce scowl melted into a grin at the sight of her. No explanation—just a wave as he turned back inside, acting natural, totally ignoring the camera.
Alice stepped in, and the scene hit her—unexpected and wild.