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One night while performing in the streets, a small crowd started to gather. We were feeling the energy, playing our usual set, when someone suddenly shouted, “Play Bohemian Rhapsody!” The crowd immediately cheered, and before we could even respond, another person added, “Yeah! Queen!”

The problem? We didn’t know the full song. We exchanged glances, realizing we were trapped. Instead of disappointing them, we decided to wing it. I started playing the intro, humming along while our bassist added some improvised lines. The crowd sang every word at full volume, practically drowning us out. It turned into a full-on karaoke session, and we just followed their lead, stopping and laughing at the parts we had no idea how to play.

By the end, people were clapping, some even throwing tips into our case. Someone shouted, “That was the best worst cover ever!” and we couldn’t help but agree. It wasn’t perfect, but it was definitely a performance to remember.

It was a gig like any other—crowd vibing, energy flowing, everything feeling just right. Then, halfway through a song, my mind completely blanked. Lyrics? Gone. Chords? No clue. I stared at my guitar, hoping my fingers would magically remember where to go. They didn’t.

For a split second, panic kicked in, but then I did what any performer would—I pretended it was part of the act. I started humming, letting the audience fill in the words. Some actually sang along, while I nodded as if I was just “remixing” the song live. My bassist gave me a look like, Seriously?, but kept playing.

By the time I fumbled my way back on track, the moment had passed, and somehow, the audience didn’t even seem to care. A guy even came up after the show and said, “I loved that raw, freestyle vibe!” I just nodded and said, “Yeah, totally planned that.”

Lesson learned: if you mess up, own it—because half the time, the audience won’t even notice… unless you panic.

Every musician has that one instrument—the one that shaped their sound, their passion, and their journey. For me, it was my first electric guitar. It didn’t have a fancy name, but it had character. Every dent, scratch, and worn-out fret told a story of late-night practice sessions, failed riffs that eventually turned into solid solos, and performances where it both saved and betrayed me.

It was there when I wrote my first song, played my first gig, and discovered what kind of musician I wanted to be. Over time, new gear came and went, but that guitar always felt different. Maybe it wasn’t the best in terms of specs, but it had something more important—history. Whether it’s still in my hands or retired in the background, it will always be the guitar that started it all.