“THIS NEEDS MUSIC.”
In 2022, I stood at the summit of Haleakalā National Park in Maui with my girlfriend, Megan.
We were just beginning to emerge from the lockdowns of the pandemic, and I had taken time away from performing—time to reflect, to reset, and to reconsider what I wanted from music, and from life.
That night, more than 10,000 feet above the clouds, everything felt quiet.
The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving behind streaks of deep orange, blue, and gold.
And then, darkness.
Clear, infinite, and overwhelmingly alive.
The stars were everywhere, with the Milky Way perfectly etched across the sky.
And in that silence, I felt both small and deeply connected to something much greater than myself.
About 30 seconds passed—just quiet. Megan and I stood still, taking it all in. The only sound was the soft rustling of wind. (And yes, it was freezing up there.)
Then suddenly—swear on my life—I heard what I can only describe as the voice of God:
“This needs music.”
It was so clear. Unmistakable. Powerful and reverent.
A beat—then, not three seconds later, my mind flooded, overflowing with every fragment of inspiration, every creative instinct, every technical skill I’d ever collected.
It was as if a vision I’d been preparing for my entire life had finally revealed itself.
That feeling. All of it. The darkness, the awe, the stillness, the clarity, and the voice. It was the same feeling I get when hearing a piece of music that stops me in my tracks. A performance so honest, it bypasses language and speaks straight to the soul.
Music and the cosmos share something profound: Both are infinite in possibility.
Both speak in rhythm, resonance, silence, and design.
What I felt that night—that was what I wanted to recreate.
The spirit I wanted to share.
The pulse of what it means to be an artist. And what it means to be human.
When NASA launched the Voyager spacecraft into deep space, they included the famous golden record—a time capsule of who we are. The sounds of the earth and our music.
And just in case someone—or something—should find it one day, NASA included a needle cartridge, so they’d have everything they needed to play it.
Because even in science, we still believe in long shots. In beauty. In the chance that someone might one day listen.
That choice says everything.
When we reach beyond our world, we send art.
In that way, Constellation Concerts is something like Voyager in reverse.
Rather than sending our music to the stars, we bring the stars to us.
While we wait for the universe to answer
we gather beneath the night sky,
we share something beautiful,
and we dream of the day we might finally be heard.
Etched into the Golden Record’s surface were the 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. Here. Today.
This is Constellation Concerts.
