The music blaring at full volume, the atmosphere of a king standing before the crowd, the old legends of the past, and the young man of the present. They were an ending; there were no beginnings here. It was the closing chapter of Billy's story with The Doors, one that would be etched into an album. It was an opportunity for the fans, yet it carried a deep sadness—the desperation of being given what they had long desired, a fleeting date in England and a grand tour across Europe, one that, in its own way, whether modest or overwhelming, would leave its mark. The European tour would begin in October and end in January, a reckless way of living, and the underlying tension was nothing more than a streak between Billy and the persona that clashed within him.
-I want to deny you, I want to make you swallow your words, and I want the whole damn world to know that Billy Carson is nothing but a fraud who doesn't deserve, in any way, the chance to represent The Doors—and it hurt, deeply.— shouted a heated fan, little more than skin and bone for the times, as thousands gathered in the great stadium in London. Whether it was a burden or an opportunity, it stood before them all the same.
Rock fans were simply mad, carrying a repression that younger crowds didn't bear so easily. Their way of expressing themselves was entirely different, and as far as memory served, they had always been a difficult audience to win over—and even harder to please.
-We might have… disturbances.— a journalist said, standing there, genuinely surprised by the arrogance with which people provoked one another. He himself was nervous, or perhaps overwhelmed by the scale of it all, or maybe it was just the perfect storm that placed Billy at the center of thousands of eyes across the world. Each one of them was eager to judge him—but what could he do, and how was he supposed to respond to such pressure?
The first way to answer such challenges was through song.
-I suppose all we can do is keep watching what people think.— The man whispered, a true Brit—born, raised, shaped by love and tradition. How strange life was for someone who loved rock, but not in the raw, defiant way others displayed it.
-Long live rock!— shouted a group of five men, their chests painted with the words, wild and unrestrained—some bald, wearing leather jackets with nothing underneath, each one with a bandana tied somewhere.
—Long live rock!— another voice echoed nearby.
—Well, everyone seems excited. This could be important for all of us.— the interviewer said.
He turned to a shorter man, who seemed calmer, more grounded than the rest, someone who, at least at first glance, didn't carry madness in his words. The atmosphere was powerful—not only were ordinary people present, but others as well, including those from the structured English media, each subtly shaping the narrative across the world.
Music legends were in attendance, film icons too—Pierce Brosnan among them. Further away, perhaps a hundred meters out, Johnny Depp could be seen with his partner, heavyweight boxing champion Tyson Fury, retired football legends, presenters, and a few silent magnates. All drawn by the event that had grown from whispers into something undeniable—something foundational.
—Long live rock.— the man said again, his eyes suddenly wild; the shift was abrupt, almost vintage, leaving the interviewer stunned.
—What do you think about the ticket prices?— the interviewer asked, trying to regain composure, to cling to whatever calm remained.
—It's rockkkk!— the man roared.
Ticket prices had been heavily criticized, though some understood the breakdown: £50 for standard entry, £300 for front-row and VIP access, and up to £1,000 for premium admission—a steep cost, nearly £100 higher than comparable events. But the old guard wanted their payout, their pension, their final reward, and that desire outweighed everything.
***
Billy wished he could be the man everyone spoke about; he felt, with reason, that the cigarette smoke made him dizzy, a strange mirror of what he despised and what he was about to face.
-We don't have groupies, kid. Sorry, but no one's into that anymore.— Ray Manzarek said humbly, his words simple yet firm.
-I don't think that matters. I just want to sing. Women are more of a distraction now, and well… I've got some good ones waiting at the hotel.— Billy replied, smiling.
Billy looked into Ray's eyes, and for some time now, they had been doing what was expected of them, their words carrying a quiet bravery. Together with Robby Krieger, they would form a collaboration, becoming part of his circle, supporting him in their own way. They would merge with Josh Roberts and his band—Jerry acting as the bridge, the manager of forces, while Billy was the financial explosion driving everything forward.
-You're going to take us around the world. We've got a great album, and you already know almost all our songs—what more do you want to do once the deal is over?— Ray asked. Each band member stood as sandwiches were brought in—roast beef. Each one nodded in agreement.
-I want two.
-I want three.
For them, the taste of meat was a tribute to what they had once shared with Jim Morrison, something they had abandoned after his death. Jim used to ask for the "fool's gold," and Billy had said he'd eat it with a beer—and that was enough to bring the ritual back, spoken again by someone so fresh.
—Then let's honor the tradition—for a great album.— Billy said, grabbing the large sandwich. It was a lot of food. Lately, he had developed a taste for bold flavors—meatball sandwiches, cheese with jam, serrano ham with spinach, even egg sandwiches—but the "fool's gold" was something else entirely.
French brioche-style bread, filled with peanut butter, grape jelly, blueberries, and crispy fried bacon.
-It's a good combination.— Billy said, taking a bite with a sip of beer. It was rich—more than delicious, though it would probably bring a stomachache later. Still, he could stop the concert and head to the bathroom whenever he wanted; nothing about that would seem strange for him.
…
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎵🎶
You know that it would be untrue
You know that I would be a liar
If I was to say to you
Girl, we couldn't get much higher
Come on baby light my fire
Come on baby light my fire
Try to set the night on, fire
The time to hesitate is through
No time to wallow in the mire
Try now we can only lose
And our love become a funeral pyre
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎵🎶The song could only express his irreverence, the same irreverence that struck straight into the heart of anyone who heard it—it hit hard. That was its charm. It was a song made for him, and every time he sang it, two things remained: the thrill it ignited and the emotion it carved into the moment—precise, intense, filled with allegory, awakening something in everyone.
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎵🎶
Come on baby light my fire
Come on baby light my fire
Try to set the night on, fire yeah
The time to hesitate is through
No time to wallow in the mire
Try now we can only lose
And our love become a funeral pyre
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎵🎶
Billy felt it again—that feeling he hadn't known in a long time, something that had once been a prison for his voice, yet now reached into people's hearts. A connection with the crowd, with those who followed, with those who simply listened—the smallest perception.
He didn't need to shout; with a whisper, he spoke of men and carried pride in his voice. All that remained was to give his heart, his soul—the concert bound them together, and it created what it always did when something real was lived.
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎵🎶
Come on baby light my fire
Come on baby light my fire
Try to set the night on, fire yeah
You know that it would be untrue
You know that I would be a liar
If I was to say to you
Girl, we couldn't get much higher
Come on baby light my fire
Come on baby light my fire
Try to set the night on fire
Try to set the night on fire
Try to set the night on fire
Try to set the night on fire
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎶🎶🎵🎵🎵🎶