The Greatest Showman #630 – The Foundation Is Revealed

Just thinking with the brain, it's difficult to imagine how this is done.

Four simple guitar chords can play a variety of popular songs. What's even more impressive is how different arrangements, rhythmic variations, and chord progressions create distinct interpretations and styles. I can vaguely sense their similarities and differences, but I can't quite explain why. It's a subtle feeling, difficult to describe in words.

Yet, Renly did just that.

A sudden thought flashed through Timsey's mind: Why do people get bored with modern pop music so quickly? Why do singles rise and fall on the charts at such a rapid pace? One major reason is the fast-paced, disposable culture of the digital age—people are constantly seeking something new.

Another reason lies in the oversimplification of popular music itself. Song arrangements have become increasingly basic, leaving little to linger in the mind. With fewer memorable melodies, songs are replaced and forgotten faster than ever.

Renly's demonstration highlighted this perfectly—most pop songs can be played with just four chords. A simple change in rhythm can transform the same chord progression into something that sounds entirely new.

A striking example of this phenomenon can be seen in the surge of plagiarism lawsuits between 2015 and 2017. During this period, high-profile artists like Ed Sheeran, Bruno Mars, and Sam Smith found themselves entangled in legal disputes. Many of these cases ended in settlements, with the original accusers being added to the songwriting credits and given a share of the royalties.

In essence, these settlements were tacit admissions that modern pop music's creative process is, at times, built upon unintentional borrowing. Not because artists deliberately copy, but because the industry itself has led music in this direction—toward simpler, more repetitive chord progressions. The lines between homage, inspiration, and plagiarism have blurred. This trend began as early as the late 1980s, and the decline of musical diversity has only accelerated.

However, mastering music with just four chords is not as simple as it sounds. It requires a deep understanding of arrangement, composition, and harmony. Watching Renly navigate this challenge with such ease, Timsey couldn't help but be impressed.

Then, suddenly, a thought struck him—"Don Quixote" defies this trend.

Although Renly had casually mentioned that Your Bones was built on four chords, a deeper listen to the album revealed something entirely different. His compositions were intricate, his arrangements carefully crafted to honor the essence of each melody.

Even tracks with relatively simple chord structures, like Old Pines and Los Angeles, went beyond the four-chord formula. Renly didn't take shortcuts—his work carried the spirit of the 1950s, an era when folk music flourished and rock 'n' roll was just beginning to take shape.

More importantly, every lyric was meticulously written to complement both the melody and musical composition. This level of craftsmanship—rare in today's music industry—embodied the ideals of the golden age of songwriting.

Timsey's interest in the so-called "actor-turned-singer" deepened.

"Most pop songs can be played with four chords," Renly mused with a chuckle, "but Stevie Wonder's music? That takes at least sixteen."

His remark sent a ripple of astonishment through the crowd.

Most people weren't thinking as deeply as Timsey, but they still sensed something unusual—if it was really this simple, why not try it themselves? A nagging thought lingered, though they couldn't quite put it into words.

Someone in the audience then posed a question:

"I've noticed that during live performances, you always play guitar, but on the album, the arrangements are much richer. There's even a mix of classical instruments. Is guitar your favorite instrument, or do you prefer something else?"

This was a thoughtful, well-informed question—rooted in genuine musical curiosity rather than mere fan adoration. It was clear that today's audience consisted of true music lovers.

"Actually," Renly admitted with a smile, "I primarily study piano."

A wave of surprised exclamations filled the room.

From his raw Cleopatra performance at Pioneer Village, to his street rendition of Ophelia, to his impromptu composition on The Ellen Show—Renly had always been associated with the guitar. His style evoked a wandering bard, effortlessly transforming melodies into guitar-driven performances.

But now, he revealed that his primary instrument wasn't guitar at all? It was piano?

"Show us!" someone shouted, quickly followed by a chorus of eager voices.

Before Renly could protest, Neil appeared with a keyboard in hand. Clearly, this had been planned in advance. Looking at Renly's helpless smile, the audience erupted in laughter and cheers.

"Wait, isn't this supposed to be an album listening session?" Renly joked, making everyone laugh. But their eager expressions remained unchanged.

As Neil set up the keyboard, another voice from the crowd called out, "You wrote Believe It on the piano, right? And is it the same song used as the ending theme for Crazy Love?"

"Yes, and yes," Renly confirmed. "I actually wrote it in London. The performance had some difficulties, and that feeling led me to compose Believe It. Unexpectedly, it ended up fitting perfectly with the film's ending, and the director insisted on using it."

Neil's eyes sparkled with excitement, and Renly finally relented. He sat down at the keyboard.

"Whoever brought that up—thank you for the perfect setup." He chuckled at his own remark.

Most of the audience didn't catch the deeper meaning behind his words. Even Neil and Stanley looked confused. It wasn't until William and a few other die-hard fans whispered the answer that the realization spread—Crazy Love was about to premiere at the Toronto Film Festival, and Renly had just slyly promoted it.

Was this kind of subtle marketing even effective? Who knew? But it was definitely amusing.

Those who got the joke smiled knowingly. Those who didn't shrugged it off. Either way, the conversation seamlessly moved forward.

"So, are you ready?" Renly asked, fingers hovering above the keys. "Let's continue this journey through music."

His casual remark underscored a simple truth—this wasn't just a performance, nor was it about promotions or interviews. It was about sharing music.

But before he could begin, another protest erupted from the crowd.

"Play something else first!" Timsey's voice rang out unexpectedly. "Your best song!"

The demand quickly gained traction, with William, Hope, and others joining in, their voices hoarse from excitement.

A smile tugged at the corner of Renly's lips. He didn't refuse. He didn't respond either. Instead, he let his actions speak for him.

His fingers pressed the keys.

Strictly speaking, a keyboard isn't the same as a piano. The touch, the weight—everything feels different. Yet, in that moment, memories flooded back.

His aristocratic upbringing had been stifling, suffocating. He had longed to escape. But it was undeniable that his exposure to literature, painting, sculpture, drama, and music had shaped him. Those influences formed the foundation of both his acting and his music.

The piano embodied elegance, history, and artistry. It carried the weight of centuries of European tradition. And in Renly's hands, that legacy intertwined with his own journey, shaping a sound that was both timeless and uniquely his.

His fingers danced across the keys—softly at first, then with increasing intensity. A rushing cascade of notes filled the air, brimming with passion yet tempered by quiet sophistication.

It was Chopin's Fantasie-Impromptu.

The audience held their breath.

And then, the music took them away.