When Cliff first pitched the idea of a road tour with street performances, he never imagined it would turn into such a valuable experience.
Sure, One Day King had been a band for seven years, but for various reasons, they'd never had the chance to focus on intensive training. This stretch was probably the most concentrated, frequent, and dedicated practice period since the band formed—because messing up on the street left nowhere to hide.
There was no stage atmosphere to lean on, no dazzling lights to cover flaws. Any mistake by a member would be instantly visible, even magnified like a public execution. Honestly, no one wanted to be the one caught in that spotlight.
Naturally, everyone had to step up—working harder, staying sharper. The real pressure of street performing pushed them to give 200% in practice. It was the only way to make every show worth it, even when the performances rolled on without a break.
Like right now.
People streamed by on the street, but not a single one stopped. To them, the band might as well have been invisible. The vibe was chilly—downright pitiful, even—with no one paying attention. Still, the band members managed to zero in on their practice.
Well, not *completely* ignored. Three Black guys nearby were keeping a close eye on them.
They weren't fans, though. They were "independent artists" hawking their own albums—minus the quotes, just scammers, really. They'd shove their shoddy recordings at passersby, demanding ten bucks a pop. If someone hesitated or took the CD thrust into their arms, it turned into a strong-arm sale. That's why they worked in groups: to make sure anyone who fell for it had no choice but to swallow the loss.
Ronan knew this because he'd spotted them the first day they hit Las Vegas. Despite Cliff's repeated warnings, Ronan didn't steer clear. Instead, he walked right up and willingly bought an album out of his own pocket.
Cliff laughed in disbelief, but Ronan said he wanted to genuinely listen to their music.
Back at their place, Ronan dug up an old Walkman and listened to the whole disc, start to finish.
Sure, it was a forced sale scam, but to his relief, there *was* music on the CD—original tracks, too. The quality was rough, though, full of static and noise, and the songs themselves were hit-or-miss.
Strictly speaking, these guys *were* independent artists—just not very skilled or talented ones. It was hard to tell if they were chasing a dream or just scraping by.
Later, when Ronan ran into the same crew again, he didn't dodge them. He went up and chatted about rap composition. And somehow… they ended up friends.
The guys even tried to return his ten bucks, but Ronan insisted it was payment for the album. That earned their respect. Later, when One Day King needed a short-term street performance permit in Vegas, those same guys helped them get it.
Las Vegas wasn't just a gambling hub—it was a performance city. Every casino had its own signature shows, and to keep tourists spending on the nightlife, City Hall was strict about street permits. They weren't easy to snag.
Who'd have thought, after all those twists and turns, the band would land one thanks to that roundabout connection?
The three Black guys standing nearby now weren't the ones Ronan had bought the album from, but they all knew each other. They'd heard of Ronan, too, and started winking and whistling at him. "Your teammates look like they're about to throw down."
Snapping out of the city's symphony, Ronan waved back with a grin, then turned to his three bandmates, locked in a heated debate.
With no audience yet, they'd paused to dissect their last performance: Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'."
Street shows were all about vibe and timing. Picking the right song and style for the moment was a knack—one the band was still learning. Some of their originals didn't quite fit, so they often leaned on covers. Familiar tunes usually got more claps and helped tighten their teamwork.
But this time, the quality and impact fell short of their hopes. They had to rethink it and fix what went wrong.
"Hmm, Ollie rushed the beat, but Cliff didn't. Maxim, your timing was off by half a step," Ronan said.
Clearly, he hadn't fully zoned out. He'd been watching closely and nailed the issue right away.
No one argued or agreed—they just adjusted based on his call, then ran it again a few times to test the fix.
Through this road tour, they'd learned something key: arguing was usually pointless. Practice was the answer. And most of the time, Ronan was right. His accuracy kept climbing with every rehearsal, making debates even less necessary.
Of course, they still had their differences. But instead of hashing it out with words, they'd gotten used to settling it through practice.
Sure enough, Ronan was spot-on again.
He didn't gloat, though. "Ollie, you keep jumping the rhythm before the chorus. Adjust your breathing—feel the beat. Don't let the melody drag you along. Sense the rhythm yourself, then play it out."
"Let's run it twice more. Feel it out," Ronan added. Ollie glanced over, a plea in his eyes, and Ronan jumped in. "Watch me tap the beat. Feel it with your breath."
He didn't call out Maxim or Cliff, but their eyes naturally followed, syncing with Ronan's rhythm.
Over and over, they drilled it—seven times—until everyone hit the beat right. Even then, they didn't stop. They ran it five more times, locking the rhythm into their muscles and minds to avoid slipping up next time.