Whether they stood alone or lingered behind, it was an opportunity. It was a way of becoming, and there he stood before the crowd, dressed in black. Many of them were older, yet all of them remembered Billy's music with patience. That, after all, was what was expected of him—his singing gave people a quiet sense of clarity, as if the world of rock could breathe life into them again, simply granting them that refined, misunderstood vitality that made the stars beside him seem extraordinary.
--Good job, kid. —Patty Sullivan remarked, never having imagined electrifying the stage with such boldness and force. When the lights dimmed, the songs faded, and the night swallowed everything.
—Another song.
-More.-
-Billy.-
-Songs.-
—Another song.
The moment lingered in a clear margin, and then Billy smiled, caught by the cameras. He opened his arms and felt the world's affection. The cold didn't matter—now he only wanted to celebrate with a good woman. But he didn't need alcohol, nor the loud proclamations of men.
Thanks to all of you old-timers. I've wanted for a while to spend time with you—or at least with a band—reliving the memory of another era. —Billy said, whether by chance or admiration, nothing fleeting.
Well, you left us speechless. We expected you to break down halfway through the concert—but instead, you carried it with strength and brilliance. —John Densmore replied, clashing his cymbals in his own style, a man who stirred the purest desires from deep within, and this—this was happiness.
Gentlemen, I think we need to celebrate. —Billy added.
Both laughed, in that effortless way.
We don't celebrate like that anymore, you foolish kid. We'll grab something to eat at a bar, have a beer, then head home—maybe stay up until dawn until the tobacco runs out, and in the morning we might go to a spicy restaurant. Wings, maybe. —Ray Manzarek replied calmly, a man shaped by the clarity of years.
—I think I'd like that. —Billy said.—I can do whatever you want, as long as you tell me stories about those days when you were young; old men always have something worth saying.
The cold bothered him, and everything moved too fast. For anyone who had time to notice, life had been slipping through like smoke through a keyhole, and that thought lingered in Billy's mind as his name began to resonate among people—he didn't want anything to falter.
Without meaning to fall behind, he weighed the lives around him; all the old men were truly exhausted. Holding the standard of the concert had become something simple. Something had shifted over time. Perhaps he needed to tone down the celebrations that had become so common in his life.
You'll ditch us for a lady! But you're invited! —John said.
—Well, I suppose you've saved me from having to join the party. —Billy replied, not wanting to push himself into it. Time passed there.
***
Outside, in another place, everything felt simple and clean.
--I can say it plainly, it's the greatest concert I've ever had the chance to see. The Doors, right there in front of me again… I was ten years old when I first heard them. —said an older man with a thick mustache, as the journalist stood there five hours later, hoarse yet amazed, reflecting on everything he had witnessed.
--I'm afraid anyone who says it was a bad concert simply wasn't there, and that's the truth people are speaking. We'll keep drawing our conclusions, but I've known for some time about the bold leap into cinema. —the journalist replied, doubting that detractors would have much left to say, as if the world itself had grown hesitant.
The interviewers now turned to the most important segment.
--I think, in any case, he did an acceptable job. —commented another man, standing with his partner—two older figures dressed in a style straight out of the 80s, a memory both striking and beautiful.
…
Billy didn't want the bad moments to linger; he needed the good ones, the kind born from risk, the kind that could change a life through a single interview.
--What a strange life. —Billy said, watching the camera's light up. He took a breath. For some time now, he had felt worn down by the way everything unfolded, how every opportunity seemed to demand something from him.
The cameras closed in, notes were taken, voices sharpened—yet he responded in his own way, and there was something almost coherent in how he chose to provoke, to strike, to assert himself.
—I'm afraid I don't have much time for you, my devilish friends. —Billy said, illuminated under the London lights, the moment opening itself for something unfiltered.
--We hear you have a new album. How do you see this affecting your career? —asked a reporter from The Sun.
--It's another step, a big one. The Doors are one of the most important bands in history. And well, I love rock. My life is rocking. I'll do whatever it takes to keep living it. —Billy replied, grounded in a truth that felt entirely his own.
—Are you sure it's the right move?
--I'm not afraid of being wrong. I'm the best singer in the world, and I'll make people stay. I'll make sure they don't regret it. Anyone who chooses to reject my music is a fool. Welcome—but still a fool. —Billy smiled; it was simply the way he spoke.
--So you're saying you're the best singer in the world? —The man pressed.
--Of course I am. I can say it to your face. And you—are you the best journalist…? —he smiled again.—Or are you just one of those who settle for being the same as always? If you're not the best, then what are you doing with your life?
Deep down, he reflected on his own arrogance, on the ceiling he had learned to hold himself beneath as time passed. He needed to make an impact.
--That's why I stand by it—my voice is my foundation, and it's the best. In terms of technical ability, sure, some people surpass me in style—but every form, every refinement, ultimately feeds into what I do. —Billy concluded.