136-137

Chapter 136: A Curious Mind 

Buster could feel Julio’s enthusiasm, but he didn’t dwell on it. Bruno Mars had always been a big supporter of indie bands, so it wasn’t surprising that he’d push One Day Kings into the spotlight as his opening act.   

Ronan Cooper.   

Buster’s gaze drifted back to the stage. The band was still deep in their rehearsal discussion, oblivious to the two reporters moving through the wide-open venue. The lead singer had his back to the audience, his face hidden, stripping away that earlier spark of awe.   

Maybe it was just his imagination.   

“No, no need,” Buster said, shaking his head. “I trust Bruno’s taste. Any band he picks has to have something going for them. I’m already looking forward to their performance.” It was a polite line, and with that, he reined in his scattered thoughts.   

Wyatt, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about the opening act. Basic info was enough for him.   

Julio felt a twinge of disappointment. He liked Ronan and knew Bruno loved giving underground indie bands a shot at the big time, so he’d nudged a little. But since Buster wasn’t biting, Julio didn’t push. After a bit more small talk, he flashed a smile, escorted the two reporters out of the Verizon Center, and dove back into the chaos of rehearsal prep.   

In the parking lot, Buster nodded goodbye to Wyatt, slid into his car, and tossed his work bag onto the back seat. His hands rested on the steering wheel, ready to start the engine, but he froze, staring into space. His mind went blank—literally.   

It was like someone hit pause. No thoughts, no movement, just a foggy moment. Then it passed. Buster blinked, bit his lower lip, and frowned. Something was nagging at him. He reached back, grabbed his bag, and rummaged through it until he found his camera. Flipping to the last photo he’d taken, he stared at the screen.   

There it was again—that feeling. Time and light seemed to converge on that figure, like even in a sea of people, you’d spot him effortlessly. He didn’t need to shout or flail; his presence alone pulled your eyes in. That radiant, one-of-a-kind charm stuck with you.   

Buster thought hard, trying to recall the last time he’d seen someone in person and felt this kind of intensity.   

Michael Jackson.   

He shook his head fast, a ridiculous grin spreading across his face as he dismissed the idea. Comparing some nobody to the greatest pop star in history? Even thinking it was absurd.   

He must’ve lost it—brain fried, thoughts all jumbled.   

Buster gave up on the wild notion and started to put the camera away. But he hesitated, glancing at the screen again. Then, on impulse, he grabbed his laptop, plugged in the camera’s memory card, and pulled up the photo. With a few tweaks, he switched it to black and white. His eyes lit up. The monochrome gave it a whole new vibe, a texture he adored. He loved this shot—really loved it.   

Sure, the Michael Jackson thing was nuts, but one thing was clear: this photo was special to him.   

It had nothing to do with the band’s future success. Buster just liked the feel of it, the glow—like it had frozen a perfect moment that time couldn’t touch. He could picture it blown up, framed, hanging in his house.   

That’s the magic of photos.   

Someone once said the charm of film cameras was in their scarcity. Every frame mattered, so you had to be deliberate with each click. Then came the long wait, the anticipation, before you finally saw the result. Digital cameras couldn’t replicate that. Without the process, people stopped cherishing photos the same way.   

Film captured everything—even the botched shots brought you back to the moment you pressed the shutter. With digital, one delete key erased the awkward, messy, shy, or frantic seconds. The power of photos to hold time slipped away. Perfection was fake; those “failed” shots were memories too.   

But today, this digital photo brought back that film-like magic for Buster. Especially in black and white, with that grainy texture—he couldn’t get enough of it.   

He hadn’t expected that, twenty years later, this very photo would fetch a million bucks at auction, becoming the defining footnote of his career.   

Right now, though, Buster had no clue about its worth. He just liked that he’d caught something—a spark. Then his mind started buzzing, curiosity bubbling up unbidden:   

What kind of band was One Day Kings, really?   

Sure, opening acts rarely got much hype, but Buster hadn’t been lying—he trusted Bruno’s knack for picking talent.   

Up until now, he hadn’t paid them much mind. He’d always figured a singer’s work and stage presence would speak for themselves, and he’d wait for their live show to judge. But this photo? It piqued his interest.   

What’s their style? How do they feel on stage? The songs, the singing? What’s the lead’s voice like?   

A pop idol vibe? A golden-era jazz crew? Maybe bluegrass or folk?   

His thoughts ran wild, unstoppable.   

After a moment, he opened Facebook and Google, typing “One Day Kings” into the search bar—   

The results were thin.   

Not surprising, though. Countless underground bands flew under the radar, unknown to most. Only insiders in the indie scene knew them. But that didn’t mean their music was weak—far from it. The underground was a treasure trove, and music buffs worldwide hunted for its gems.   

So, what now? Drop it?   

Chapter 137: Day and Night Hustle 

Google and Facebook searches didn’t turn up anything useful, but Buster wasn’t surprised. For a journalist, there are plenty of other channels to dig up info—it just takes time and effort, not something you can slap into a search engine and call it a day. 

Buster thought it over and decided to check YouTube. If that came up empty, he’d hit up his contacts in the underground music scene to see what they knew. If Bruno could stumble across King for a Day, Buster figured he could too— 

It’d just be a bit of a hassle. 

“…I think Julio said… they’re from… Los Angeles?” Buster wasn’t totally sure, but the underground music world often splits by region. East Coast insiders might not know what’s up on the West Coast, and indie bands that break out big are rare. 

Muttering to himself, he hit enter, and YouTube spat out a flood of videos, startling him. “What the heck?” 

So many results—yet Google found nothing? 

Truth is, if Buster had scrolled a few more pages on Google, he’d have spotted the YouTube links. The first few pages were clogged with results for Kings of Leon— 

That indie band debuted in 1999, shot to fame early, and by 2006 was touring with rock legends like Bob Dylan and Pearl Jam. Their industry cred is leagues beyond a small fry like King for a Day. 

Still, Buster managed to track them down on YouTube. 

“Huh?” 

After watching a couple of videos on the band’s account, Buster felt a flicker of recognition. At first, he chalked it up to seeing them at the venue earlier, but on second thought, that wasn’t it. He’d seen them before. 

What was it? 

That nagging sense of familiarity he couldn’t quite place was driving him nuts. It only fueled his determination. He opened his YouTube history, scrolling slowly, then paused, backtracked, and found a video he’d watched that morning. 

As a new media journalist, skimming social platforms daily is part of the gig. That morning, while gathering material and checking trending news, he’d stumbled across a video sparking some buzz: 

“A performance that stops the world.” 

Who’d have guessed it was King for a Day! 

When he saw it earlier, Buster had noted the lead singer’s voice—distinctive, with a unique texture. But he didn’t dwell on it. The world’s full of geniuses, and talent doesn’t guarantee success. History’s littered with painters who died broke and unknown, only to be celebrated posthumously. 

In today’s market, talent’s just a bonus. Commercial appeal is what matters most. 

So, Buster had closed the video without a second thought. Yet, within a single day, here he was crossing paths with the band again. 

A faint smile crept onto his face. “Coincidence? Or a setup? If it’s the latter, their manager’s got some serious game.” His mind drifted to Scooter Braun, Justin Bieber’s manager—that guy’s a pro at this kind of hype. 

Now curious, ideas swirled in Buster’s head. His right hand guided the mouse back to the band’s page, clicking another video. Sitting in the parking lot, he dove in, hooked. 

Wyatt pulled out of the lot, glancing at Buster’s car with a mental question mark. He didn’t stop, though, driving off while drafting his piece on Bruno Mars’ tour finale—and that Mariah Carey story too. 

Over here, Buster and Wyatt were each plotting their next moves. Over there, King for a Day’s rehearsal was finally finding its groove. 

Concert stage rehearsals are no joke—downright brutal, even. For a band like King for a Day with zero experience, everything’s brand new. They’re starting from scratch, asking basic, sometimes dumb questions, and every step feels like slogging through mud. 

Compared to the 40-hour crunch to rehearse “Born This Way” before, that was nothing. This is a whole different beast, throwing fresh challenges at the band. 

Luckily, the past few months of two-to-three daily street gigs have transformed them inside and out. Ronan’s growth is explosive, but the rest of the band’s progress is just as obvious. Stage rehearsal struggles are still pro-level work—they can handle it, staying cool, finding solutions, and tweaking fast to hit the mark. 

After a rocky first day getting the basics down, the next 72 hours were a blur of relentless, round-the-clock rehearsal. From 6 a.m. to 10 p.m., they drilled every angle nonstop. 

Late at night, back at the hotel, there’s no time to crash. They still have to debrief and review. Inexperience means they’ve got to double or triple their effort to cover the gaps and dodge any fatal slip-ups onstage. 

Heated debates and endless practice stretch into the early hours. To keep their energy and focus, they force themselves to stop, collapse into bed, and shut their eyes for a few measly hours before jumping back into it. 

Sleep deprivation and nonstop high-intensity work put Ronan’s voice to the test— 

Constant vocal use can easily throw off his condition, a make-or-break factor for performance quality. He’s got to rehearse smart—protect his throat, stay hydrated, and watch his diet to keep his voice steady. 

It’s not easy, but it’s not impossible either. Years of touring and recent street gigs have taught them plenty. Ronan’s learning to take care of his voice on the fly. 

(End of Chapter)