Watching the group of young people in front of him, Hugo recalled the days when Glory Or Death struggled in its early years. They had to tour different cities, performing wherever they could. Without their own transportation, they had taken slow local trains, even traveling alongside a car full of poultry. A truck container was already a considerable luxury. They had once hiked fifteen kilometers along mountain roads, and hitchhiking along highways was also common.
The five band members often had to disassemble the drum set in addition to carrying their own instruments. The other four helped each other just to get on the road. Along the way, they teased and joked with each other, carrying heavy instruments like wandering ascetics across the country, laughter spilling across the roads.
Life back then was extremely tough. Though they never went hungry, their meager income kept them barely above the line of basic needs. This was the reality of underground rock, the gap between dreams and reality. Yet they fully enjoyed these days. Even with arguments, fights, and frustration, they never gave up hope.
To put it bluntly, they lived on passion alone, waiting for an unknown future—perhaps abandoning dreams to return to reality, or perhaps achieving overnight fame. No one knew the outcome. In this process, Hugo realized not all dreams come true, not all efforts yield results, not all geniuses succeed. Yet, they endured these ten years from fifteen to twenty-five with nothing but passion, making it their most brilliant decade.
Someone once questioned Hugo, "Is it worth it?" In fact, each band member's parents had asked the same. Most people couldn't understand it: chasing dreams is understandable, but persisting for ten years without results yet refusing to give up seemed stubborn.
Hugo remembered the band's lead singer, Su Zinan, answering, "It's not worth it. I even regret it now. But I know I'd never understand this without experiencing it. So if I went back ten years, I would make the same choice, and ten years later, I'd regret it all over again." Following conventional paths might have allowed them to build careers and live comfortable lives, but such lives don't necessarily equal happiness.
Youth comes only once; once missed, it's gone. Even if one regrets at twenty-five, returning to fifteen would lead Hugo to make the same choice—because youth is impulsive, regretful, reckless, unrestrained, and irrepressible. All are indispensable.
Now, standing on the streets of Los Angeles, watching the joy on these young faces, Hugo's smile naturally spread. He cherished these moments. Unlike actors, who live lives of others before cameras, singers live their own lives completely, every melody, every lyric, every note an expression of true emotion. It's the most authentic self, without compromise.
Hugo missed these times: standing with his bandmates, excited and nervous, waiting for a passing truck to offer a ride, or anticipating the night's performance, worried if it would go smoothly, hoping their music would reach more ears. That mix of feelings was deeply nostalgic.
"Hey, guys, is there a party tonight?" Hugo raised his voice, letting it carry with the sea breeze and sunshine, drawing the young group's attention.
The young people turned, whispering to each other before quietly laughing. One raised his chin and said, "Bro, we're not doing ballet." Laughter erupted from the group.
Hugo glanced at his outfit. Today he wore a white shirt, black jeans, and black high-top Vans. It was relatively street-style; changing to a loose T-shirt would fit in. But he'd chosen a slightly formal white shirt and a long coat, looking more like someone attending a high-end concert hall for opera or ballet—just younger. This attire had nothing to do with underground music.
Hugo laughed to himself, recalling how Glory Or Death bandmates had mocked others similarly. Not out of malice, but underground music was always marginalized, rejected, or discriminated against. They had to stick together or risk being drowned out by the city's chaos.
So Hugo didn't retaliate. Instead, he called out, "You mean this?" He tiptoed awkwardly into a ballet pose and spun.
Of course, Hugo had no skill; he had nothing to do with ballet. The movements were clumsy, comical. Naturally, the young group burst into laughter, their youthful joy blending with the rushing engine sounds like clear, transparent waves hitting the asphalt, blooming one by one.
After two spins, Hugo spread his arms and shrugged. "If that's it, I think I should reconsider my plans for tonight."
The group of young people softened at Hugo's humorous retort. The first one who had spoken stepped forward two paces. "So, just a hobby? Wall Street background, playing garage music?" The young man was tall and lean, agile like a leopard, his sun-kissed skin gleaming lightly in the sunlight. On his shoulder was a large black bag, likely holding either a guitar or a bass. Through his black curly hair, he looked at Hugo with a faintly provocative gaze.
"Wall Street? That would be amazing if it were true." Hugo lifted his right foot, showing the young man his skate shoe. A Wall Street professional wouldn't wear sneakers like these, and at Hugo's young age, making a career on Wall Street wouldn't be easy. So he responded with this direct irony. "Don't you know the Beatles played rock too?"
The young man had been mocking Hugo's shirt, implying he looked like a businessman, but in fact, many British rock bands wore shirts and ties—The Beatles being a prime example. Hugo countered, adding, "Just because I don't dress like Kurt Cobain doesn't mean I don't know anything, right?"
The young man's two attacks had been effortlessly deflected and even met with a counterattack, suggesting Hugo might be someone from the scene. The young man hesitated, looking Hugo over again, carefully observing this neatly dressed man. Hugo noticed the scrutiny and spread his arms, calmly saying, "I hope tonight's party will be worth it."
The teasing remark carried to the group behind, causing another round of laughter. Someone shouted, "Pepe, tell him! He's not a cop."
Hugo grinned, lifting his coat. "See, I didn't bring a badge or gun."
The young man called Pepe finally couldn't hold back and smiled broadly, sunlight from the coastline reflecting in his expression from mouth to eyes. He took a flyer from his pocket, hesitated briefly, and handed it to Hugo, casually saying, "Old man, hope there's no surprise inspection tonight," before turning away swiftly.
The joke was referencing the "police" comment earlier, but Hugo knew many underground rock parties were private, often with minors, plus alcohol and drugs, so police frequently conducted surprise checks—of course, only when tipped off. Their caution was understandable.
Watching the young people regroup and chat happily, Hugo waved the flyer and called out, "Thanks," before examining it. The flyer was simple, printed in black and white. In the center, it read: "AL Bar, December 23, 1992, 8 PM," surrounded by densely listed names of singers and bands.
A quick glance revealed several familiar names: The Cranberries, Green Day, Rancid—bands that would become very well-known in the future. There were also some local Los Angeles bands, like At The Drive-In, that looked familiar. Clearly, this was a significant celebration.
In fact, in Los Angeles, music flows through the city's veins, but Hugo had never had access before. This scene was relatively closed off; without connections, one could only linger outside, let alone integrate.
Unexpectedly, today Hugo had gained a rare opportunity. The excitement wasn't just in seeing familiar bands—it was the chance to rejoin the local rock scene itself, enough to make Hugo feel thrilled and alive.
....
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