From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

Bass, four strings, low frequency, steady.

In a band, the bassist can't stand under the spotlight like the lead singer, doesn't have the guitarist's rapid strumming, lacks the keyboardist's dazzling operations, and even the drummer hiding in the shadows can easily stir emotions with a barrage of beats.

Precisely because of this, their presence in the band isn't strong, and it seems difficult to show off skills or ignite the stage. Even standing under the spotlight, they can't resonate with the audience, which severely undervalues the bassist's position.

In many bands, no one wants to be the bassist, leading to keyboardists or guitarists transitioning to fill the position, but this is clearly a misunderstanding.

In a band, the bass is the core that controls the rhythm.

Pink Floyd's drummer, Nick Mason, once said that the essence of a band is actually just a drummer and a bassist, plus some novel performances.

In modern music, drum beats are very important, especially in bands, playing an indispensable role. They can control the speed and rhythm of the entire song; at the same time, the sound of drums is very powerful and is the most suitable instrument for expressing rhythm, providing both high and low frequencies, with excellent penetration.

So, why do professionals often say that in most music, there must be drums and bass, and the two are inseparable partners?

Because the drum's shortcomings are obvious:

It has no fixed pitch and cannot play sustained notes.

And the bass plays exactly that role, providing pitch and supplementing sustained notes. The two instruments cooperate to create beautiful rhythmic lines.

For a band, the guitar is the skeleton; the drums are the muscles; the keyboard is the skin; and the bass is the blood—

Perhaps the flow of blood is invisible to the naked eye, but that doesn't mean it's not important.

Right now, it's like that.

Following "Wake Me Up"'s unconventional opening with a cello, stunning the audience, this band is now unheard of, opening with a fretless bass.

All eyes are on Connor.

Connor, with lowered eyelids, concentrates all his mind on the bass. His fingertips gently pluck the strings, and the deep, heavy string sound, carrying a kind of ancient charm and melodiousness, gently ripples out, the warm notes scattering like moonlight all over the ground.

Involuntarily, they hold their breath.

Distant, light, and clear, the guitar strings sound.

It's Anson.

Anson, with a guitar pick in his mouth, intently watches the strings. The clear sound of his fingertips colliding with the strings flows out like a crisp stream, fluttering and dancing around the bass strings that firmly grasp the heartstrings. Different timbres sometimes collide and sometimes intertwine, firmly gripping the heart.

Buzz, buzz, buzz.

Wait, that's… a cello.

Miles' bow slowly pulls on the G string, and the graceful and delicate string sound, carrying a bit of vicissitudes and tenderness, instantly pours down, filling every corner of the auditory senses with notes of different levels and frequencies. Unconsciously, the whole heart is filled, brimming with a sad and broken coolness.

Then, the tinkling wind chime melody lightly jumps between the string sounds.

Lily doesn't have any special movements, quietly joining the performance, like a breeze, blowing towards you.

Closing your eyes, you can't help but soar high in the sky, wandering among the notes—

Sitting in a pickup truck, traveling on the straight, straight Route 66, opening the car window, letting the breeze carry the green trees, soil, streams, eagles, blue sky, and cornfields from all over the world fill the entire car. The pain and troubles of life slowly retreat under the wheels, and you can't help but reach out your right hand to capture the traces of the wind, carefully feeling the vicissitudes of time sliding across your fingertips, the riddled heart gradually unfolding.

People always think that everything in life is good, busy every day, without time to be sad, without time to suffer, and without time to think; but in a certain afternoon, holding a cup of hot tea, quietly spacing out, taking a short breath, and being hit hard by the notes without warning—

In fact, you are not well.

Those pains, those torments, those scars, have not disappeared, but are only temporarily hidden in the corners of memory, gradually seeping into and eroding the soul.

Only you can understand what you have experienced.

Then, you fall into the cracks of time like this.

The melody flows gently. So simple, so light, yet so rich.

The singing hasn't even started yet, and the whole audience has already fallen.

A spotlight falls on Anson, quiet and dazzling, gradually outlining the contours of his face, his long, thick eyelashes casting a shadow, his eyes quietly hidden within.

Ding.

Anson gently plucks the strings, and all the other instruments quietly watch Anson—

Just like their agreement before the performance.

Only the guitar, just a guitar, the clear and bright string sounds remove all impurities and all complexities, returning to simplicity, restoring music to its simplest and most essential form, and the eyes of the whole world fall on Anson.

He hums softly.

“Let me go.”

The breeze strikes, carrying the moisture of the stream, the dryness of the sun, and the fragrance of the grass, embarking on a journey, running wildly towards all the unknowns.

“I don’t want to be your hero, I don’t want to be a big shot, I just want to live earnestly like an ordinary person.” (Note 1)

The light and casual humming, without any special skills, is just a guitar and a voice. It seems that you can still capture the slightly raised corners of his mouth from the singing, which is the indifference and calmness after experiencing vicissitudes and washing away the lead. A broken sadness is quietly hidden in the bright voice.

His fingertips flutter on the guitar strings.

Anson hopes that the New York teenager can see this episode. He hopes that the teenager can hear this song, and then bravely turn around, take a step, pursue an unknown, and not let the past pains and darkness bind his hands and feet, and not slowly suffocate in the day-to-day life.

He doesn't need a hero, and he doesn't need to become a hero, he can still save himself.

He can still have an ordinary and plain life.

Run, Jack.

Raising his eyes, Anson looks at the camera, showing a smile, his eyes are slightly warm, but he still bravely looks directly at the camera and hums softly.

“At your masquerade, I don’t want to be part of the show-off. Everyone should have the opportunity to grow alone.”

Run, Anson.

He said.

Note 1: Hero (Family of the Year)