After leaving Scarlett's parents' house, David rolled down the window of his convertible and let the warm California breeze slap away the tension. Scarlett sat beside him, her hair dancing in the wind, eyes hidden behind a pair of oversized sunglasses. She looked impossibly calm for someone who'd just survived dinner with her family.
David grinned. "So, now that you've survived the parental inquisition… ready for the next big ordeal?"
She turned, pretending to look worried. "What, another dinner?"
"Worse," he said. "Coachella. Thousands of strangers judging me instead."
Scarlett laughed, the sound light and teasing. "Oh, so basically a larger version of my dad."
He chuckled, flicking his sunglasses up. "Exactly. Except this time I can't win them over with my charm. I actually have to sound good."
The desert stretched out ahead of them, sun spilling across the horizon in orange streaks. The road to Coachella felt endless but alive — the kind of stretch that made a man feel like he was driving toward something that mattered.
David wasn't just chasing a gig; he was chasing a rebirth. His old band had been a disaster — a collection of wannabe rockers whose greatest hits were failed drug tests. This time, he wanted real musicians, people who could actually play instead of just pretend.
By the time they reached Coachella, the sun was dipping low, the air humming with anticipation and festival chaos. He found a modest hotel nearby and booked a room for the two of them.
Scarlett looked around the cozy room, tossing her bag onto the bed. "Well," she said, smiling, "this is way better than that time you booked a motel next to a biker bar."
"Hey," David shot back, "those bikers were very supportive of my acoustic set."
"They threw beer bottles at you."
"Yeah," he shrugged, "but rhythmically."
Scarlett laughed, shaking her head as he walked over and wrapped his arms around her waist. Their eyes met — playful, close — and that quiet magnetism took over again. They fooled around, laughing more than anything, until the room was filled with warmth and soft light from the window. Eventually, they just… sank into each other's arms and fell asleep, tired but content.
When morning came, David woke to sunlight spilling across the sheets and Scarlett half-buried under a pillow, groaning at the brightness. He grinned, brushing her hair back.
"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty," he teased. "The world needs my next big hit."
Scarlett peeked out with one eye. "Can the world wait till after coffee?"
"Barely," he said, grabbing his jeans and stretching. "You have plans today?"
She nodded. "Audition resumes. Gotta make sure I can actually pay for my share of the coffee."
"Fair enough," he said. "I'll drop you off, then go meet the festival organizers. Try not to outshine me before noon."
"Too late," she smirked, throwing a pillow at him.
They left the hotel together, the day already heating up. David drove her downtown, stopping near a small audition agency. She leaned over, kissed him lightly, and said, "Good luck with the organizers."
"Good luck with Hollywood," he said back.
They shared a grin — the kind that said we're in this together — before parting ways.
At the festival office, David found himself sitting in front of Markus Schulz — a tired-looking guy with a beard that screamed "I've listened to too many demo tapes."
"So," Markus said, tapping his pen, "you're David, right? Solo act?"
"For now," David replied. "My last band broke up due to… creative differences."
"Creative differences?" Markus raised an eyebrow.
"They were creatively addicted to substances. I was creatively done with it."
Markus let out a short laugh. "Fair enough. So, you're looking for temp musicians?"
"Yeah. I just need a solid lineup for the show — drummer, bass, maybe a second lead guitar. I'll pay them myself."
"Usually," Markus said, leaning back, "bands come pre-assembled. But I've got a few young musicians looking for gigs. You can take a look."
He slid a printed list across the table. David scanned the names. Most were nobodies. But three names jumped out at him like flashing neon signs from another timeline.
Thomas Pridgen — Drummer. 17. Raw but explosive talent.
Esperanza Spalding — Bass. 19. Classical background, insane range.
Avril Lavigne — Guitar/Vocals. 16. Energetic, punk edge.
David's eyebrows shot up. In this world, none of them were famous yet — which made them the perfect pick.
He smiled. "Yeah, I want to meet these three. Today, if possible."
Markus blinked. "All of them? You sure?"
"Trust me," David said. "They're exactly who I need."
"Alright then," Markus said, standing. "Studio 4's open. I'll have my assistant call them. Good luck, man."
"Thanks," David said, pocketing the list. "I'll need it."
Studio 4 was small, filled with instruments that smelled faintly of polish and dreams. David walked in, plugged his guitar into the amp, and took a deep breath.
He strummed a few test notes before starting the opening riff of "Boulevard of Broken Dreams." The melody filled the space — melancholic yet powerful, like a heartbeat echoing down a long, empty road.
His voice was steady, low, carrying that familiar ache that came from every night spent wondering if he'd made the right choices.
I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known…
He closed his eyes, feeling the song flow through him, guitar lines raw and real. By the time he reached the chorus, his voice carried an intensity that filled the whole room.
When the last note faded, he exhaled — and heard clapping.
He looked up, surprised. Three young faces stood by the doorway, wide-eyed and grinning.
A kid with curly hair and the kind of grin that could light up a small city — Thomas Pridgen — said first, "Man, you got mad skills, dawg."
David chuckled, setting his guitar down. "Thanks, man. Guess you're the drummer?"
Thomas nodded eagerly. "Hell yeah. You just tell me when to start."
Beside him stood Esperanza Spalding, her posture graceful but confident, holding her bass case like it was an extension of her soul. "That song was beautiful," she said softly. "You wrote it?"
David smiled. "Not exactly. Just something that should've existed in this world."
Her brows furrowed slightly but she smiled anyway.
Then came Avril — blonde hair, rebellious glint in her eyes, wearing a loose band tee and ripped jeans. She looked barely sixteen but already carried herself like a headliner.
"That was awesome," she said. "You're not one of those mopey singer-songwriters, are you?"
David laughed. "Depends on the day. You play lead or rhythm?"
"Both," she said, crossing her arms. "But I'm better than most guys you'll find here."
He grinned, liking the attitude. "Perfect. I like confidence."
Avril smirked. "Good. You'll need it if we sound terrible."
Thomas laughed from behind. "Nah, we'll kill it, man. Let's jam already!"
David gestured toward the instruments. "Alright, take your spots. Let's see what kind of noise we can make together."
As they started warming up, the studio filled with clashing notes, laughter, and the thrilling chaos of a band forming for the first time.
David couldn't help but smile — these weren't junkies or dreamers with empty promises. These were musicians. Real ones.
For the first time in a long time, he felt it again, that spark. The one that told him maybe, just maybe, he was finally walking the right road.
****
They gathered around, instruments in hand, curious and buzzing with energy.
"So here's the deal," David said, leaning forward on his chair. "I've got a slot at Coachella — last one before the closing act. It's not glamorous, but it's good exposure.
My old band's out, so I'm building a temporary lineup. You three caught my eye because you've got talent, but never got a chance to shine. I don't need showboats. I need musicians who can bring fire on stage. If you guys can do well, I can officially make you part of my new band. "
Avril smirked. "So, like, no pressure then?"
David chuckled. "Exactly. Just a few thousand people watching your every move."
Thomas grinned. "Man, that's the kinda pressure I live for."
Esperanza adjusted her bass strap, her expression calm but focused. "What's the setlist?"
David stood in front of the small whiteboard where someone had scribbled random lyrics from past sessions.
He wiped it clean, grabbed a marker, and wrote in big, bold letters:
SETLIST — COACHELLA.
Below it, he began listing titles:
Boulevard of Broken Dreams
Thanks for the Memories
Mr. Brightside
Leave Out All the Rest
He turned to the group. "Alright, team. Four songs, three days to make them sound like we've been playing together for years. Easy, right?"
Thomas gave a mock salute. "Piece of cake, boss."
Avril grinned. "If the cake's on fire."
Esperanza just smiled quietly, plucking a low note from her bass that rumbled through the room.
David leaned back against the amp, guitar slung loosely over his shoulder. "Alright, let's break it down. These are all originals, stuff I've written over the years. You won't find them anywhere else."
Avril looked excited. " You wrote them all? That's so cool!"
Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Cool, so we're playing secret tracks?"
"You could say that," David replied. "First up, Boulevard of Broken Dreams. Mid-tempo, walking rhythm, around 83 BPM. It's moody but anthemic. The kind of song that starts quiet and ends with people screaming the chorus like it's therapy."
He strummed a few chords, the familiar haunting intro filling the space. "Drums come in halfway through the verse. Simple hi-hat pattern at first, just to keep it breathing.
Esperanza, your bass line follows my root notes until the chorus, then I want you to give it some pulse, make it throb like a heartbeat."
Esperanza nodded, already sketching the pattern on her strings, her fingers smooth and elegant.
"And Avril," David continued, "I want your guitar on the higher end during the first half. Just arpeggios, faint reverb. Then in the bridge — double up with me, full distortion. It'll make the final chorus hit like an explosion."
She smirked. "So basically, start chill, then go nuclear?"
"Exactly," he said. "You get it."
The sound of guitars and drumsticks filled Studio 4 like electricity. By now, everyone had settled into their roles — Thomas testing out the snare, Esperanza adjusting the tone of her bass, and Avril sitting cross-legged on an amp, tuning her guitar with the precision of a surgeon and the confidence of a street performer.
They started playing. The first few attempts were messy, the timing off, the tones clashing, but slowly it began to come together.
David's voice guided them through, steady and clear:
I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever know
Don't know where it goes, But it's only me and I walk alone....
Thomas added a soft snare hit on the second beat, then built it up as the verse moved. Esperanza's bass slid in like thunder under calm skies, and Avril's second guitar chimed gently before building toward something rawer.
By the second run, the song had taken form — powerful, aching, and alive. When they hit the chorus together, the room practically shook.
When it ended, David exhaled, sweat on his forehead but a grin on his face. "That's it. That's the sound. You feel that?"
Thomas was already nodding. "Dude, that's a straight-up anthem."
"Yeah," Avril added, brushing a strand of hair aside. "Feels like something you'd hear blasting out of a car window at 2 AM."
"Good," David said. "Because that's exactly what it's supposed to be."
***
After a short water break, David leaned over the amp again. "Next up, Thanks for the Memories. Fast-paced, heavier percussion. Think 120 BPM, bright melody but with sarcasm built into the lyrics. It's about someone pretending they've moved on, but they really haven't. It's got energy, attitude, but a little bite."
Thomas cracked his knuckles. "You want me loud?"
"Controlled tempo," David replied. "Don't just hit — groove. Give it swing, like you're laughing at your own pain."
Thomas grinned. "Got it. Laughing through trauma. My specialty."
David turned to Avril. "You'll like this one. Your part has these sharp chord stabs during the verses. It's got that punk edge you do naturally. You can even join the chorus to add more depth."
Emily, steady bass groove, almost like you're mocking the melody. Think of it as dancing around the words."
They ran through the first few bars, and the energy shifted — faster, cheekier. Avril let out a small laugh mid-riff. "This one's fun. It's like breaking up with someone while doing jazz hands."
David laughed. "That's the vibe."
They kept going, building the track until the bridge hit, where everything dropped to just vocals and bass before bursting back to life in the final chorus.
By the time they finished, Thomas threw his sticks in the air. "Man, that's addictive."
David nodded. "Exactly what we need for the mid-set punch."
Then came Mr. Brightside.
"Now," David said, "this one's different. Faster — around 148 BPM. It's a story song. Jealousy, heartbreak, paranoia. It starts tight, like you're holding your breath — then explodes into catharsis. I want it to sound restless, like you're running downhill and can't stop."
Avril's eyes lit up. "Oh, I love that kind of energy."
"Good," he said. "You'll open this one with the riff. Clean tone, fast tremolo picking. It should sound like panic disguised as pop. Thomas, heavy hi-hat and snare — make it tense. Emily, your bass keeps it grounded, especially during the verses."
They began. Avril nailed the riff, her fingers a blur, the melody instantly catchy. David came in right on time, voice tight with emotion:
"Jealousy,Turning saints into the sea
Swimming through sick lullabies, Choking on your alibis
But it's just the price I pay, Destiny is calling me
Open up my eager eyes, 'Cause I'm Mr. Brightside"
By the time they hit the final chorus, Thomas was going full throttle, cymbals crashing, and Esperanza's bass shaking the floor. David's guitar soared above it all, and Avril's harmonies slipped in naturally — raw and defiant.
When the song ended, everyone just stared at each other for a beat, breathless.
"Okay," Avril said, laughing, "that's going to kill it live."
David nodded. "Yeah. That one's going to make the crowd lose their minds."
Finally, Leave Out All the Rest.
David sat down for this one, tuning his guitar a little lower. "This one's slower — 70 BPM. It's reflective. The kind of song that comes after everything's over. Think of it as the emotional landing after the storm.
This is my favorite track, something I personally can relate to. I had made some bad choices in life, and I often wondered , will there be anybody that will remember me when I'm gone? Will my story just vanish like me? "
Emily looked at him warmly. " It's a nice sentiment."
Avril nodded. " That's deep."
Thomas also nodded quietly. "So more space, less noise?"
"Exactly," David said. "Soft brushes on the snare, nothing fancy. Emily — warm bass, just gliding beneath it. Avril, I want your second guitar to shimmer. Like moonlight on still water."
She smiled faintly. "Poetic, boss."
"Hey, it's a poetic song."
He began strumming the gentle chords, his voice dropping to a near whisper:
When my time comes, forget the wrong that I've done
Help me leave behind some, reasons to be missed…
It was haunting in its simplicity. No bravado, no noise — just the ache of someone hoping they'd be remembered kindly.
When it ended, silence hung in the studio for a few long seconds before Thomas quietly said, "Damn."
David just smiled faintly. "Yeah. That one's the closer."
They practiced all afternoon, fine-tuning transitions, running through each song until their fingers were sore and their stomachs growled. But the mood stayed light — filled with jokes, laughter, and that rare kind of teamwork that didn't need forcing.
David treated them well, offering encouragement instead of commands, buying them sandwiches when they started running on fumes, and laughing at Thomas's ridiculous drum solos. It wasn't just about music; it was about connection.
When they finally wrapped up, the sun outside was golden and low, pouring through the glass like honey.
Thomas stretched and yawned. "Man, I'm starving. Anyone up for food?"
Esperanza smiled politely. "I should head home. My mom's waiting for me."
"Same," Avril said, packing her guitar. But as Thomas and Esperanza left, she lingered by the doorway, glancing back.
"Hey, uh… David," she said.
He looked up. "Yeah?"
She hesitated a moment, then walked over, a bit of nervous energy in her step. "So, I've been writing some songs too. Nothing big — just stuff I've been working on. I was wondering… maybe we could practice them sometime? Maybe even a duet?"
David studied her for a second, then smiled encouragingly, kind of smile that said you're onto something.
"Tell you what," he said. "Let's make this show a hit first. Then we'll talk about what's next. I want to ask each of you if you'd like to stick around after Coachella. No promises yet, just potential."
Avril's grin returned. "Deal."
"Good," he said. "Now go get some rest. We've got a big week ahead."
She gave a cheeky salute and headed out.
David looked around the now-quiet studio, the lingering echo of their last notes still humming in the air. For the first time in a long while, he didn't feel like a lone musician chasing ghosts.
He felt like a leader building something real.
Somewhere in the dusty heart of California, under the fading sun, a new band was about to be born that would take the world by storm.