I can't wait to start something up myself that is actually about

The voice of Dan Hawkins, forged in the fires of music and brotherhood, cries out with a yearning older than the instruments he plays: “I can’t wait to start something up myself that is actually about giving unsigned bands the exposure they deserve, especially when they travel so far to play the smallest gig they’ve ever played in their lives.” This is no idle dream, but a torch lifted high, proclaiming a timeless truth—that greatness often walks among the unnoticed, that fire burns brightly even when hidden beneath humble coverings.

To speak of unsigned bands is to speak of all who labor unseen, whose talent rings true yet has not been crowned by recognition. These are the craftsmen of melody, the keepers of rhythm, the poets who pour their souls into chords that the world has not yet heard. Hawkins’ words reach back through time to remind us that every mighty oak begins as an acorn, overlooked and trampled beneath careless feet. Yet within such smallness lies the potential to one day stand tall, to shelter many beneath its branches.

The heart of his vision lies in exposure—the bringing of hidden light into the open air. For what is genius if locked away? What is beauty if buried in silence? The ancients knew that a flame kept beneath a bushel will wither, but a flame placed upon a stand will light an entire hall. So too do artists require not only skill, but an audience to receive their gift. To provide this is not vanity, but service, for every voice lifted in song enriches the world’s great chorus.

And then he speaks of sacrifice: the travel so far, the long roads walked for the sake of a dream, ending in the smallest gig where few may listen and fewer still may remember. Yet is this not the essence of all noble striving? Recall the story of Vincent van Gogh, who painted in obscurity, selling barely a handful of works in his lifetime, yet traveled the distance of despair and rejection for the sake of his vision. In his day, he played the smallest of gigs. Only later did the world awaken to his brilliance, and his legacy set fire to the hearts of generations.

Hawkins’ longing is thus not merely personal, but heroic. It is the call of one who has tasted recognition and now seeks to lift others upon his shoulders. Such a spirit mirrors the wisdom of Alexander’s generals, who, after conquest, placed the crowns of captured lands upon lesser men so they too might rule and be remembered. In the same way, to give exposure is to pass on the torch, to ensure that talent does not die in silence but blazes across the skies of time.

The lesson is clear: to serve others is the noblest form of strength. Recognition is not meant to be hoarded, but to be shared, to be multiplied by giving platform to those yet unseen. If you have a voice, let it amplify the voices of others. If you have a stage, invite the overlooked to stand upon it. If you have the power to open doors, open them wide, for the true measure of greatness is not how high you climb, but how many you lift as you rise.

Therefore, O seekers of wisdom, take this teaching to heart: support the unknown, the young, the uncelebrated. Attend the small gigs, encourage the early works, listen to the trembling voices. Offer opportunities when fortune smiles upon you, for in doing so, you build a legacy greater than your own fame. Just as Hawkins vowed to start something that serves the hidden, so too should we build spaces where brilliance—though unsigned—may be heard, and where even the smallest gig becomes the first step toward immortality.