Haleakalā National Park, Maui, Hawaii
September 2022
In 2022, I stood at the summit of Haleakalā in Maui, 10,000 feet above the clouds beside my girlfriend, Megan.
The pandemic had paused my career, but it gave me something rare: Silence. Stillness.
A chance to ask myself why music mattered—really mattered—and what I was meant to do with it.
The sun dropped below the horizon, turning the sky to fire, then fading into the deepest black I’d ever seen. No city lights. No noise. Just wind, cold air, and a vault of stars above us.
And then it happened. I heard it.
Not a thought. Not an idea.
A voice.
Clear. Certain. Undeniable.
God.
I’ll never find the words for what it felt like. But I remember exactly what He said:
“This needs music.”
It hit like lightning. Everything I’d ever learned collapsed into one instant, one vision:
A concert under the stars.
But not the way the world had done it.
Not in a crowded park beneath streetlights and skyline.
Not on a pop-up stage bleeding sound into the noise of a restless city.
It had to feel like Haleakalā.
That silence. That stillness. That voice.
Millions of stars.
The wonder of the universe.
And then: music.
And I knew how to build it.
Because this is my world—the sound, the tech, the stagecraft, the experience.
I could see every arc. Every cue. Every point of light and sound.
Distinct. Connected. Forming something greater.
That’s what Constellation Concerts is.
Not a business plan. Not a gimmick.
A message. A map. A mission.
And I said yes.
Music and the cosmos have a secret handshake. Forged by God. Written in silence. Played in resonance.
They both speak without asking permission, through rhythm, design, and wonder.
They remind us how small we are...and how infinite we might be.
Here on this pale blue dot, as Carl Sagan called it, we look up and ask:
“Are we alone?”
But maybe that’s never been the real question.
Maybe what we’re really asking is:
Can anyone hear us?
Do we matter?
Does what we create mean anything at all?
In 1977, NASA launched Voyager 1.
A machine of science? Yes.
But for humanity, it was much more.
It was art.
It was communication.
A cosmic message in a bottle.
It was us, sharing something we created from nothing, just to say:
“We’re here.”
So, what else did we send with it?
Two gold-plated, 12-inch LPs.
Our first care package to the stars came with a free mixtape.
Tell me that’s not the most baller thing humanity’s ever done.
Why did we do it?
Because even in our most advanced engineering, we led with beauty. Without even trying. We can’t help ourselves.
The part of us that wants to figure out the scientific mysteries of the universe simultaneously wants to run, dance, paint, and be creatively expressive.
“Hey, we should probably gold-plate these records so they last longer in space. Gold and copper don’t decay as fast as vinyl.”
“Okay… if we have to.”
The most powerful message we sent wasn’t our knowledge. It was our humanity.
So what’s the point?
Constellation Concerts is Voyager in reverse.
We already sent our music to the stars.
Now, we bring the stars to us.
Etched on Voyager’s Golden Record were these words:
“To the makers of music—
all worlds, all times.”
That’s who this is for.
That’s who this is from.
This is our golden record.
This is Constellation Concerts.
Still here?
At any of our live shows,
Find a producer or supervisor and say:
“Voyager.”
They’ll ask:
“How long is one full rotation of the Golden Record?”
Answer correctly, and we’ll have something for you.
Claimed in Atlanta: 1/5