Hugo's left-hand fingers tapped a few simple notes on the black and white keys of the keyboard, just like a beginner tentatively probing the sound that the keys could produce. These clumsy and simple notes made the onlookers pause in surprise. Most of them revealed expressions of disbelief. Originally, they had hoped Hugo would present something astonishing, but with such an opening, it was truly difficult to have any more expectations.
Suddenly, Hugo's right hand pressed down on a sound effect, producing the noise of an airplane gliding. Along with its long trailing tone, the strength of his left hand gradually increased, and a string of dreamy, exhilarating, and powerful notes flowed under his long fingers, the joints taut and forceful. The music was light and smooth. A smile tugged at Hugo's lips, and he let out a soft "Oh," then quickly moved his right hand onto the snare drum, beating out a lively rhythm. The drum's grainy rattle merged with the electronic notes of the keyboard. The two intertwined, like countless dazzling stars being set one by one into the slowly darkening night sky.
"Mm, I met a dying old man on a train," Hugo began to sing. His voice seemed hidden within the music, veiled by a thin layer of gauze—its original form indistinct, yet its richness and warmth still palpable. Today, Hugo deliberately increased his use of the throat—in simple terms, a kind of "rough howl." Although this was not technically the correct way of singing, it added a husky texture to his voice, producing the effect of a growl. Thus, even with just one simple lyric, Hugo's voice—paired with his crisp, clipped delivery—let the song's momentum seep quietly into the air. "No more destination, no more pain. Well, he said, one thing before I graduate."Never let your fear decide your fate"
Hugo's singing technique still could not be called superb, and much of it was still exploration, but there is this advantage in performing one's own original song: because the singer's understanding of the lyrics and melody runs deeper, he is able to express the emotion more completely. Just like now.
Everyone fell silent, quietly listening to Hugo's performance. The keyboard notes weaving through the night sky dotted the darkness with countless stars, as though Vincent Van Gogh's painting Starry Night had spread out before their eyes in all its hazy splendor.
Listen closely to the meaning in Hugo's lyrics: who was the dying old man? Rock music itself, or the spirit of clinging to a fixed rock model? "No more destination, no more pain" directly pointed to the pathetic nature of people's doubts about Hugo's ideas. Without innovation, not only rock but all music will gradually decline—this is inevitable.
And that final line, "Never let your fear decide your fate," was thunderously awakening. Why did Pedro, Joaquin, and the others think that rock without guitars was impossible? Was it because they lacked talent? Obviously not. It was because they were afraid of change, because they lacked imagination, because they did not dare take the step to break through the framework. Fear deciding fate—this is the real tragedy, especially for rock, a genre that has always shocked the world with boldness.
The melody under Hugo's left-hand fingertips was not complex: a simple eight-beat rhythm, a catchy tune, something you could hum after hearing just once. Matched with the staggered yet precise drumbeats of his right hand, weaving into the melody, it drew people in irresistibly—before they even realized it, they had already merged into the carnival of the scene.
The corners of Hugo's mouth curved in a faint arc, his amber eyes sparkling with a brilliance brighter than the moon or sun. His thin lips released one word after another, shaping otherwise meaningless syllables into heavy blows that hammered directly on everyone's heart. "I said, 'Yes,' kill your heroes, and then fly, fly, baby don't cry."
Suddenly, Hugo's voice deepened. He changed his singing method, fully releasing his voice. This did not weaken the momentum of the song but instead amplified it. That one phrase, "Kill your heroes," slipped quietly through the night, like a breeze, light and casual. But then the following "Fly! Fly!" surged upward, bursting with force, igniting the song's power in full.
Pedro looked at Hugo before him, his mouth slightly agape, stunned. He was shaken by Hugo himself, even more so by the groundbreaking nature of the music.
The confidence shining from Hugo's face was so radiant, people could not look away. It was as if every note was under his command. In truth, Hugo's use of keyboard and snare drum was very basic, not difficult—by far inferior to his guitar skills. Yet such simple melodies and techniques, once arranged and combined, gave birth to brand-new vitality, and finally, through Hugo's performance, bloomed with brilliance.
Each lyric, each melody, struck hard against Pedro's heart. If in the morning when they met at the car shop, he had looked down on Hugo; if, upon seeing Hugo shredding guitar, he felt admiration; then at this moment, Pedro was convinced. Once again, Pedro deeply realized: the underground rock circle is full of hidden dragons and crouching tigers. Never underestimate anyone, for their talent can so often leave you speechless.
"There's no need to worry, because everyone will die. We just walk, walk every day, baby don't go. No need to worry, I love you more than anything." Hugo's deep voice wove freely through the dreamy melody, constantly shifting into a spectrum of colors, while the weight of the lyrics landed firmly in everyone's heart.
Neil could not help but close his eyes. He felt as though he had sprouted wings, soaring within the melody flowing from Hugo's fingertips, reveling in the wonder and joy of musical magic. Indeed, Hugo did not use a guitar. On site, there were only two instruments: the keyboard and the snare drum. Yet Hugo had successfully created a song, undeniably a rock song. More importantly, the momentum, meaning, and depth of this song were in no way inferior to other outstanding rock pieces, pulling people in effortlessly.
The rock music that already existed was everyone's inner "hero." More specifically, it might be Nirvana, it might be The Beatles—each person had their own hero. But in Hugo's song, the so-called hero was the fixed model of rock. And Hugo, through his own actions, was telling everyone: don't let fear halt your steps, don't let frameworks bind your movements. Everyone will die, and rather than watch your hero grow old, it's better to kill the hero yourself and then carve out a world of your own. Take flight, run wild, with no fear of the future—for this is the true essence of rock spirit.
That single phrase, "Kill your heroes," delivered so offhandedly by Hugo, radiated dazzling brilliance in the night, enough to make all turn their heads.
"Mm, someday the sun will sink below the horizon, and an unbelievable sight will spread across the sky. Mm, I don't want to be the one who destroys tonight, right here, right in front of you. I said, 'Yes,' kill your heroes and then fly, fly, baby don't cry. No need to worry, because everyone will die. We just walk, walk every day, baby don't go. No need to worry, I love you more than anything."
Hugo's voice still soared in the night sky, yet the pitch-black curtain above was completely lit up by Hugo's spirit. The countless stars were all lit by the notes of this song, illuminating the night as if it were day. Rock without innovation or breakthroughs, confined by rigid frameworks, could only end in death. So when Hugo said, "I don't want to be the one who destroys tonight," the one needing to break free was "you," every single person present.
The greatest part of humanity lies in the courage to imagine—if you never believed you could fly, airplanes would never have been invented. The same holds true for rock.
With Hugo's singing, Neil was the first to begin clapping along with the rhythm, his hands striking out beats that blended into the snare drum's cadence, raising the momentum of the entire song. More and more people joined in, and at last the surrounding crowd shed their prejudices, relaxed themselves, and joined this musical carnival—clapping hands, stomping feet, letting their bodies align with the music, using real actions to echo Hugo's call.
When Hugo sang the chorus, the people all followed along, "Fly! Fly! Baby don't cry!" Hugo's smile lifted, blooming like an epiphyllum in the night, revealing its most brilliant posture. Once again, the crowd sang together in unison, "Walk! Walk! Baby don't go!"
This was the kingdom of music. Perhaps they hated each other, despised each other, or were strangers to one another—but in music, everything could be set aside, just to revel in this not-so-complicated yet profoundly resonant melody.
Joaquin looked at Hugo before him, and a smile he could no longer restrain spread across his face. Though he did not wish to admit defeat, he had to acknowledge it: Hugo had made him bow down with action. This was a song without guitar accompaniment, yet so outstanding it stirred cheers of joy; this was a song that delved into the essence of rock, and the single cry of "Kill your heroes" was enough to make everyone raise their arms and shout.
Just as Hugo said, everything is possible—for this is what the rock spirit is: the courage to kill your heroes, and rock has never lacked such courage.
So Joaquin no longer suppressed himself. He clenched his fists, striking the beat in restrained yet powerful blows, loosening every muscle in his body, throwing himself fully into the world of music, and joining the carnival.
Thus, at the crossroads of the poor street appeared a sight impossible to ignore: more than forty people gathered together, bouncing, cheering, shouting along with the music flowing out from the center of the crowd. This pure posture of enjoying music was not rare—for this was the very essence of a rock party. Yet it stirred curiosity, for the rock night would not begin for another half hour. Who exactly was performing on site, drawing such a tremendous response?
People's steps could not help but move toward the sound. The crowd grew larger and larger, denser and denser, and only the powerful voice at the very center could be heard roaring, "Kill your heroes!"
....
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