The Greatest Showman #628 - Ad Hoc Interview

Music. Everything is just about music. No conversations, no distractions, no breaks—just Renly standing on stage, performing nine songs in a row for nearly forty minutes. This wasn't a fan meeting, nor was it a commercial performance. It was a pure, unfiltered concert, where he roamed freely within the music, untethered.

As the final notes of another song faded into the air, a tidal wave of applause surged through the intimate yet battered Pioneer Village. The bar, tortured and tormented, reveled in its own happiness.

This time, Renly didn't launch into another song. Instead, he exhaled lightly and reached out to take the glass of water Nathan handed him. His throat, parched and burning, absorbed the moisture like a desert drinking in the first drops of rain. Every pore in his body opened, reveling in the fleeting relief.

It was a different kind of experience—not quite like his Pioneer Village performance, yet not exactly a concert either. It stirred memories of Broadway and the West End, of small stages illuminated by blinding spotlights, of audiences so close their presence became an extension of the performance itself. This was music in its rawest form, forging an unbreakable connection between the artist and the listener.

A voice suddenly cut through the space, shattering the moment.

"Excuse me, can I ask a question?"

The murmur of the crowd died down as all eyes turned toward the source of the voice. In the confined space of Pioneer Village, even without a microphone, the words rang out clearly.

Renly, amused, tilted his head and chuckled. "I've been avoiding this part, but it looks like I've been caught." Shrugging, he nodded in agreement and took another sip of water before setting down the glass. His gaze shifted toward the speaker, signaling his attention and respect.

"Why did you record this album?"

The question came from Timsey, who, unable to contain his curiosity any longer, voiced the thoughts that had been swirling in his mind. "We all know this is an album that won't sell. Even if you put money into marketing, the mainstream audience won't recognize it. Sorry—please forgive my bluntness."

It was, indeed, a blunt statement—telling an artist to their face that their album was destined to flop. But Renly merely smiled, the corners of his mouth curving ever so slightly, showing that he took no offense.

Encouraged, Timsey pressed on. "Even with all these people gathered here tonight, this might be it. The mainstream market won't care how good this album is. Even if a handful of music critics acknowledge its quality, it'll remain a niche piece with no widespread distribution."

Timsey wasn't trying to criticize—he was struggling with his own emotions. He yearned for a world filled with genuine music, not commercialized products; yet reality constantly wore him down, making the space for dreams shrink smaller and smaller. Seeing Don Quixote emerge, his initial joy quickly turned to anxiety. The fear of hope, the fear of believing, gnawed at him.

A hush fell over the room as all eyes turned to Renly.

Brushing back the damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead, Renly finally responded, "I think I can answer that with another question: If we already know we're going to fail, why do we still try?"

Silence.

It was a philosophical question—one that left everyone contemplating. How many people would still choose to fight, even knowing they wouldn't win? Like athletes stepping onto the field, knowing they wouldn't take home the trophy, but still giving it their all.

"Maybe," Renly continued, his voice calm yet firm, "I'm hoping that—even if it's just one person—someone will hear this album and understand. Understand the meaning woven into the melody, the sincerity in the lyrics. Someone who knows the ending is failure, yet still chooses to move forward, unwavering."

As he spoke, his gaze drifted toward a corner of the room, where George, Stanley, Neil, and a few others stood.

He was lucky. He had already found more than one.

"Excuse me, what's your favorite song on the album?"

Another voice rose from the crowd. Timsey's unfiltered curiosity had ignited something, and now others wanted their turn.

Renly arched an eyebrow. "Why don't you tell me your favorite first?"

"'Old Pine,'" the person answered without hesitation.

A whistle came from George, followed by a ripple of murmurs and scattered agreements across the room.

Renly didn't hesitate either. "'Beast.'"

His quick response surprised the audience. Typically, during album promotions, artists would default to their lead single for strategic reasons. But Renly's answer was direct, without any pretense.

"Why?"

A knowing smile tugged at Renly's lips. Instead of explaining, he simply recited the lyrics:

"So we've arrived at a lonely place where we can't turn back. Forged beauty, forged crown."

This song existed because of Chris Hemsworth—it was born from witnessing his internal battle between dreams and reality. He loved it because of Heather K. Ross—the radiant light that shone from her, making him feel both humbled and determined. And he cherished it because of George Slender—his persistence, his madness, his ecstasy. These people had shaped his journey, leading him toward a vast and lonely land, where even if he had to become a beast, he wouldn't hesitate.

Music had that kind of power. As a creator, Renly poured himself into his work, but listeners, with their own experiences, found meanings he never intended. That was the true magic of art.

"Master," another voice called out, breaking the moment. "When you were on The Ellen Show, you supposedly composed Your Bones in just a few minutes. Is that real, or was it just staged for TV?"

Renly laughed. "Should I take that as a compliment?" He turned to Neil and teased, "Did you hire this nurse just for me?" The crowd erupted in laughter.

"Writing a song in a few minutes isn't easy for most people," he admitted, "but it's not as difficult as it sounds either."

He picked up his guitar again. "Back in the '60s, rock music was complex, full of intricate arrangements. But by the '90s, things became simpler. These days, most pop songs can be played with just four chords."

Skepticism spread through the crowd.

"Are you serious?" someone challenged.

Neil, ever the instigator, hollered, "Prove it! Show us!"

The room buzzed with excitement.

"Katy Perry's Firework!" Ed called out.

Renly chuckled. "Alright, let's see… Four chords, right?" He adjusted his fingers on the fretboard.

A moment later, the unmistakable melody of Firework filled the room.

Gasps and laughter echoed through Pioneer Village as people hummed along.

"Beyoncé!" someone shouted.

Renly smirked. "Which song?"

"Single Ladies!"

Without hesitation, he switched chords and played the iconic tune.

The astonishment in the room grew.

"Michael Jackson!" Timsey called out. "Beat It!"

Renly's eyes gleamed mischievously. "Wait a second… wasn't that from the '80s?"

Despite his own rule about post-'90s music, he lowered his gaze to the strings and began playing.

And just like that, Beat It—one of the greatest rock songs ever—emerged from just four chords, reborn with a fresh, unexpected charm.

As the melody filled the air, the crowd burst into cheers, laughter, and sheer disbelief.

At that moment, music was all that mattered.

And wasn't that the whole point?