A spotlight pinned the stage's center, where black tape marked an X—the heart of the action, the spot where magic sparked. It was mesmerizing.
Instruments lined the stage: drum kit, piano, multi-tiered keyboards, plus jazz staples like sax, French horn, and trombone—a symphony's worth of gear.
In front of the stage? Nothing. Bare ground, open sky, exposed pipes overhead. Without the snow globe light and shifting beams dangling above, you'd swear it was an abandoned lot—not a venue or bar.
But right now, Ronan felt a thrill bubbling deep inside—
Up there, about a person's height off the ground, he could scan the whole empty space. A venue for 600, maybe 700, soon to be packed tight. People would flow in and out—killer sets drawing cheers, weak ones thinning the crowd. All laid bare.
He didn't even need to close his eyes to picture it: a sea of fans jumping, losing themselves. His blood raced just thinking about it.
Alice's lens swung back to Ronan and Ollie. Stage lights cut through the side stairs, spilling into the dim backstage, dust swirling in the beams. The glow settled on them, tracing their quiet focus—and a hint of excitement. Time seemed to freeze.
"In that moment, I swear I could feel their souls sprouting wings, ready to soar."
Inspiration hit Alice like a bolt. Her documentary's theme clicked into place, pulling her deeper into their world.
"…Ronan!"
Ollie's voice snapped him back, tinged with nerves. Ronan turned to find Ollie behind him, dead serious, staring ahead. His usual booming laugh shrank to a mosquito buzz—stage fright kicking in hard.
Ronan snapped to attention. A staffer in a black tee—left chest stamped with "Full Moon Party, Old Blacksmith Bar" in deep blue—stood there, exhaustion etched on his face, impatience creeping in. He repeated, "Band name and instruments needed."
"One Day Kings. Keyboard, electric guitar, bass, drum kit. We'll bring our own acoustic guitar too." Ronan didn't argue—just answered.
For the strung-out staffer, efficiency trumped pleasantries. No fluff, just keep it moving.
Sure enough, he jotted it down fast, read it back, got Ronan's nod, then waved them on. "Follow me up." He strode onto the stage. "We'll leave keyboard space on both sides. Before your set, tell the crew which side—guitar or bass."
Ollie trailed Ronan like a shadow, silent but sharp, soaking in the setup with him. They checked mics, lights, all the basics.
Questions answered, Ronan piped up. "Can we rehearse now? We want to test the sound."
Live gigs are a beast. Venue size, stage setup, acoustics—bands tweak everything to fit.
A 400-person room versus a 100,000-person field? Night and day. Even the same spot, last night to tonight, could shift subtle vibes. Details matter.
That's the live show magic—unlike a polished record.
Love a singer or band? Love music? You've got to catch a concert in your lifetime. It's unforgettable, a vibe you'll never get solo with headphones.
With the green light, Ronan and Ollie hopped up. They ran half of "Don't Give Up Faith," then Ronan switched, grabbing the electric guitar to play Cliff's part. He and Ollie jammed half of "Born This Way," nailing down sound and lights, syncing quick with the crew—
Time was tight, and the setup was standard, not custom per band. Asking fast beat fiddling slow.
Once rehearsal mode kicked in, Ollie loosened up, joining Ronan to test every angle of the stage. Ten minutes later, Maxim and Cliff rolled in—no chatter, straight to work. Every second counted.
Thirty minutes flew by—like they hadn't even caught their breath. The next band was already hovering stage-side.
No downtime—pure hustle.
Ronan's crew wrapped quick, tossed a hello to the next group, and bolted from Old Blacksmith Bar.
Exiting the back door, Ollie clocked the parking lot filling up. He cut off the band's mid-chat, hustling them into the van, peeling out fast to free up their spot for the next rehearsal crew.
A whirlwind mess. Only when they'd left Bourbon Street behind did the panic simmer down. They swapped looks and burst out laughing, rocking the van so hard Cliff, behind the wheel, yelped—
"Chill, guys, chill! I don't wanna flip this thing!"
One second. Two.
A brief calm—then the laughter exploded again.
Finally, they could debrief. Ronan filled Maxim in on the stage, but Ollie's mind jumped elsewhere. "So, what'd you guys find out in the lounge? Anything to share?"
Just a casual ask—but Maxim froze, flicking an uneasy glance at Cliff.
The air tightened.