The Greatest Showman #624 – Fans Meet

Timothy-Leslie turned his head uneasily. As an otaku, being surrounded by a crowd was already uncomfortable, but suddenly becoming the center of attention made it even worse. However, his discomfort quickly faded as his mind refocused. The mention of Don Quixote piqued his interest—after all, that was the reason he had stepped out of his house today. This was his domain.

It was like an anime fan stepping into Comic-Con.

"As I just said, it's an incredible album," Timsey blurted out, completely immersed in his thoughts. "Every single track—literally every track—deserves at least an eight out of ten. Now, if we're talking about a perfect ten? Not quite. In my opinion, there are five, maybe five and a half songs that hit that level. But think about it! In today's industry, finding a single six-point track is rare. Most albums struggle to have even one eight-point lead single. And yet, this album? Every track is an eight or higher?"

He shook his head, as if in disbelief, his expression that of a seasoned critic. For a moment, he could almost imagine himself at a panel discussion at San Diego Comic-Con.

"And it's got sixteen songs? That's financial suicide! So no, this album isn't a ten—it's a twelve! I don't care who the singer is or which company produced it; this level of artistry deserves admiration. Forget the artist for a moment—what truly matters is the meaning behind the album itself. Haven't you really listened to it?"

His eyes swept across the crowd. Many nodded in agreement, some chuckling.

"Of course, we've heard it! Why else would we be here?" someone laughed.

Timsey waved his hand dismissively. "No, I mean really listened. If you have, you'd notice the brilliance of the track arrangement! Side A and Side B weren't put together at random. Even the album cover, back cover, and inner sleeve were meticulously designed. It reminds me of the golden age of music—the '60s and '70s. If I could, I'd buy a vinyl edition and keep it forever. This is, without a doubt, one of the best albums of the 21st century—at least one of them."

"You talk like you lived through the golden age," someone teased. "How old are you?"

"Vinyl? That's impossible," another interjected. "This was released by Eleven Studios—they don't even have money for promotions, let alone vinyl production!"

"Best of the 21st century? Are you a professional critic?"

"Side A and Side B? Now that you mention it, the flow does feel intentional. At first, I didn't get it, but after listening a few times, there's definitely a pattern."

"You said five and a half songs deserve a ten. Which ones?"

"All of them are tens in my book!"

"He's just pretending to know music. Probably an otaku who wandered in by accident."

"Scoring music? Who cares about numbers? We're all just fans!"

Then, suddenly—

Screams erupted from the front. The atmosphere shifted in an instant.

"Wait, what's happening?"

"Who's here?"

"Renly? Renly's here?"

"No way! The young master actually showed up?"

"Master! Oh my god! I can't breathe!"

"Wait, who's 'Master'?"

"Jesus Christ! It's really him!"

The crowd exploded, an oil pan set ablaze. Excitement surged through the air, eclipsing even the setting sun. Conversations blurred into a chaotic hum, and people craned their necks, pushing forward. Passersby stopped, drawn in by the commotion.

William, wide-eyed, finally grasped what was happening.

For music fans, the name "Renly Hall" meant little—he was a complete newcomer. But to these fans, he was a revelation. Timsey, standing among them, was the perfect example.

Around them, the first wave of attendees—Hope, Graham, Tessa, and a few others—answered a flood of questions. They had been waiting here for six hours, staking out their spots since morning. For an artist like Renly, who had no established fan base, this turnout was extraordinary.

To put things into perspective, the first person to arrive after them was a full ninety minutes later. Many assumed a debut singer's album preview wouldn't require early attendance. Timsey had been the eighth person in line—part of the third wave of arrivals. He wasn't fazed.

"In niche music scenes, the audience might be small, but they're dedicated," he had said earlier. "It's like comics—numbers don't matter. Passion does."

Even now, despite the unexpected turnout, the numbers were modest. In the grand scheme of North America's music market, it was a mere ripple. The album had sold just 6,000 copies in two weeks—a drop in the ocean compared to mainstream pop stars. Yet, here they were.

William turned back to Timsey.

"You're a music fan, right? How did you even find Don Quixote?"

Timsey shrugged. "I'm the moderator of a small music forum." No point in hiding it—his forum had fewer than 50,000 registered users, with only about 3,000 active ones. "Every week, I dig up good indie albums and recommend them. I also write the occasional review for online forums and digital magazines—nothing major."

William's eyes lit up. "So, you don't know who the singer is?"

"Should I?" Timsey frowned.

He had stumbled across the album on Billboard and bought it on impulse. Strangely, none of his usual indie record stores had it—not even the large chains. He had only found it by chance at Walmart. That was two days ago, and he had been listening to it on repeat ever since. When he heard about today's listening party, he had traveled from Boston to New York just to attend.

Now, as he watched the crowd's reaction, something clicked.

"You're saying the artist is worth noting?" He searched his memory. "Ophelia… that song sounds familiar."

He barely paid attention to the Billboard singles chart—he only skimmed past the Top 50 to see what indie tracks were lurking. But now, the name was tugging at his brain.

Wait.

Timsey looked at William, whose smile confirmed it.

"No way."

Had he known Don Quixote was Renly Hall's album, he wouldn't have bothered. Actors belonged in film. Musicians belonged in music. The ones who crossed over? They were usually commercially driven. Barbra Streisand, Will Smith, Jamie Foxx—their albums sold, but the quality was forgettable.

But now?

This album shattered that rule.

"No way," Timsey repeated. But William nodded again, firmly.

Timsey slapped his forehead. "Jesus Christ."

He had unknowingly attended an album preview for an idol actor.

But hold on.

Don Quixote wasn't just hype. It was real. It was one of the best albums he'd ever heard.

"You're telling me Renly wrote all the songs? And co-produced the album?"

"That's right," William confirmed.

Timsey's skepticism melted into intrigue. What kind of artist—actor or not—would create something so unconventional? So brilliant?

"Can I talk to him?" Timsey's enthusiasm returned. He clapped his hands together, buzzing with excitement. "Not as a journalist. As a music fan."

Just then, a voice called out from the entrance.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you may enter. Please maintain order."

The crowd stirred.

"This is a private listening session, so please find a comfortable spot. And remember—respect the space."

Excitement reached a fever pitch.

A storm was about to break.