The Greatest Showman #1199 - Charlie Boy

"Bon Iver? But why did you want to sing this song?"

Levine was momentarily stunned.

Yes, why?

Perhaps it's because of Mickey—he thinks he doesn't care, believes he's forgotten long ago, and thinks he's grown used to it. But he still overestimates himself. Maybe it's because of reality—he embraces talent but remains trapped by it, convinced he's gifted, though he's just riding a ballad wave, caught in mediocrity.

Maybe it's because Jane, the woman he deeply loved, made different choices on her path to her dreams. She chose Jim, and he chose faith. They parted ways. Or maybe it's because tonight feels right for memories. After wandering for so long and being alone for too long, a sense of nostalgia inevitably takes over. This is a folk song.

"Forget it, what happened to this lost love?"

Interestingly, when people talk about the song "Skinny Love," they often think of Birdy's version. The young British singer's rendition is fresh, pleasant, sad, and gentle, with a unique charm that moved countless listeners—especially after it was featured in The Vampire Diaries, where it became a favorite among teens, propelling Birdy into stardom.

But the original version wasn't by Birdy; it was a cover. The original was by Bon Iver, released on his 2007 non-studio album, moving listeners with its raw emotion. Compared to Birdy's youthful sorrow, the original's elegance and weariness impart a different flavor. It lingers like smoke at your fingertips, subtle and haunting.

As Levine sat on stage, this melody appeared in his mind. He'd said before that the best songs never go out of style—they are timeless. In those simple, light chords, time seemed to reverse, dredging up fragments and dark corners of the past. Singing along, he realized how easily it all slips away.

"Why?" is a good question and a foolish one.

The corners of Levine's mouth twitched in amusement. A playful glint appeared in his eyes. "Don't you think it fits the mood tonight? In this kerosene lamp bar, how many forgotten loves are recorded, only to witness the birth of new ones?"

It was here that he and Jane had met.

A brief confusion stirred in his heart, only to settle again. In a carefree, teasing tone, he added, "I mean, what is this place if not a shrine to lost loves?" His voice blended into the low hum of the bar—the laughter, the whistles, the low murmurs of the crowd. "Oh my god," he hummed again, but with a twist of exaggerated flair, as if mocking the situation. Laughter erupted in response.

"'Charlie Boy,' come on, 'Charlie Boy.'"

Someone in the crowd yelled. It was Woody Allen. Everyone's attention shifted, but Woody, still half-hidden in the shadows, waved his hand, grinning mischievously. "So, 'Charlie Boy'?"

The song, taken from the Don Quixote album, had been Renly's first performance at Pioneer Village.

For most, the song was unfamiliar—after all, it wasn't a chart-topper, didn't receive heavy promotion, nor did it win awards. It had been buried in the album, forgotten. But in Pioneer Village, it was well known.

The song was about the Vietnam War. At the time, countless young people flocked to the battlefield just because the president said to. It wasn't until thirty years later that people realized the Vietnam War had been a hoax.

"Boy Charlie, don't go to the battlefield," the song pleaded. Between the lines, there were echoes of history and emotional scars, but the clear, delicate guitar strings brought everything to life, stirring deep emotion among listeners. It resonated with those who had lived through that era of chaos.

Later, when Renly starred in War in the Pacific, "Charlie Boy" became a true reflection of Eugene's changing mindset.

Now, Woody's choice of the song felt like an echo of "Hang Me, Oh Hang Me," blending the folk wave with a deep, unspoken history.

Ethan and Joel exchanged glances. Neither of them had heard "Charlie Boy" before. They hadn't realized how Renly's creation aligned with the folk music movement of the 1960s. They were beginning to grasp the song's deeper impact, eager to explore it further.

Levine raised his eyes, following the source of the shout. The bar was half lit, and his vision was blurry. He couldn't identify the person who had requested the song, but in jest, he remarked, "When did the kerosene lamp bar become a karaoke spot?"

His sarcastic tone carried a rebellious edge, and he scanned the room, narrowing his eyes with a playful shrug. "But I guess I have no choice. I still owe Papi three beers. Right, Papi?"

"Six bottles, you bastard," came a sharp reply from the bar. Laughter erupted across the room.

Levine laughed it off. "Since Papi's not bothered by it being karaoke, I won't argue. But Kennedy is definitely not going to like this. So let's keep it between us—I'm not ready to pick up a rifle just yet."

He grinned and strummed his guitar, the transparent notes filling the air, the sounds of the era mixing with the winds of history. As the melody swirled, the echoes of JFK's speech about the Vietnam War seemed to play faintly in the background.

It was 1961. But soon, Kennedy would be assassinated, and the U.S. would find itself mired in the Vietnam War, unable to escape its clutches.

The performance continued, and the crowd at the kerosene lamp bar was intoxicated by the music. When the set ended, a hushed silence settled over the space. The audience was lost in the nostalgia of the moment, caught in the beauty and sorrow of that era. They now understood why the 1960s had been the golden age of folk music and why there were no more artists of that caliber today.

Bittersweet, melancholic, and beautiful, the evening lingered long after the last note was played.

Levine stepped off the stage and glanced around. He spotted Stanley and George sitting together.

"Thank you," Stanley said, his eyes slightly red with emotion. "You must know the audience is here for you. The classics that time almost forgot are shining once again. It's a good thing, a really good thing."

Stanley nodded, repeating the sentiment in a quiet voice, not realizing that it wasn't Renly standing before him, but Levine.

"Good work," George raised his beer in tribute.

After tonight's filming, Renly didn't have to perform again. Everyone in the crowd was there as an extra, and their job was done. But as a gesture of gratitude, Renly had taken the stage, sharing an hour-long performance that turned into a magical evening for the fans.

Levine grinned, "For a singer, being on stage is the only way to feel alive." He shrugged, leaving the sentiment hanging in the air without further explanation.

"Sorry, can we speak to you for a moment?" Ethan's voice interrupted their conversation. Joel, impatient, pulled Levine aside, eager to discuss the songs. Stanley and George smiled helplessly as Ethan apologized and hurried after the pair.

"'Bad Love,' is that by Bon Iver? And 'Charlie Boy,' that's yours?" Joel asked, his eyes wide with excitement.

Levine nodded. Joel continued, "Could we use them? In the movie? As a performance or soundtrack?"

Levine shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea. Those songs are newer, not really suited for the 1960s vibe, even though they share some similarities with folk music. They'd work better as background music or in a concert later on. But for a film? Not the best fit."

Levine was honest. As Joel prepared to argue, Levine added, "If you're really set on it, go ahead. But as for Bon Iver, you'd have to ask him directly."

"Aren't you friends with him?" Joel pressed.

Levine shook his head. "No, not at all. But if you could introduce us, I'd be more than happy to talk with him."

With that, Levine patted their shoulders and moved on, heading toward Paul and Annie. He greeted them with a wide smile. "So, what did you think of the performance?"

Paul, beaming, gave him a hug. "Jesus Christ, you're a lunatic," he exclaimed, his grin infectious.

But Annie's response was different. She didn't move, her arms folded in front of her chest. Levine paused, slightly confused. "Annie? What's wrong? Didn't you like the performance?"

Annie pouted, shaking her head, retreating further. Her expression shifted as she muttered, "You're not Renly. You're not him."

Her eyes glistened, thick with unshed tears.

The line between Pioneer Village and the kerosene lamp bar, between the 1960s and the present day, had blurred. And now, it was clear: the past had resurfaced.