Backstage at Madison Square Garden smelled like cigarettes and old wood. December 18th, 1953, a Christmas charity concert sold out. 18,000 people packed inside. Every seat was full. People were even standing in the back. The fire marshals looked the other way because it was for a good cause.

 Bing Crosby owned Christmas. Everyone knew it. White Christmas was the biggest song in the world. When people thought about holiday music, they thought about Bing’s voice. Smooth, warm, safe. It sounded like Christmas morning in an American living room. Dean Martin was the new guy, 26 years old, just coming off his big success with Jerry Lewis, making movies, selling records, becoming famous fast.

But he wasn’t Bing. Nobody was Bing. And tonight, standing on the same stage as the legend Dean felt it. He felt how heavy it was to sing next to someone like that. They had never met before today. Never talked, never even been in the same room. When Dean arrived at Madison Square Garden at 4:00 in the afternoon for soundcheck, Bing was already there sitting on the edge of the stage alone looking out at 18,000 empty seats.

 Dean walked down the aisle slowly. He didn’t want to bother him, but Bing heard him and turned around. You must be Dean, Mr. Crosby. It’s an honor. Bing. Just Bing. Mr. Crosby makes me feel like I’m in trouble. Dean stepped up onto the stage and shook his hand. Bing<unk>s grip was strong, confident. The grip of a man who had built a whole career with his voice and wasn’t scared of anyone.

 “You nervous?” Bing asked, terrified. “Good. That means you care. The day you stop being nervous is the day you should quit.” They sat together on the stage. Two singers from different generations, different styles, different lives, but the same job, the same pressure, the same feeling that tonight 18,000 people would judge everything they did.

 I listen to your records, Bingle said. You’re good. Really good. Different from me. More relaxed, more modern, but good. Thank you. That means a lot coming from you. You do that drunk act on purpose, or is that just you? Dean smiled. It’s an act. I don’t drink. Never have. Smart. Give people a character they can understand.

Keep it simple for them. I do the same thing with the pipe and the sweater. I make myself seem safe, friendly, like someone they’d want in their living room. Does it ever bother you? Playing a character. Bing thought for a moment. Sometimes when I’m alone, when I think about the parts of myself I hide because they don’t fit the picture people expect, but most of the time, “No, that character pays my bills, takes care of my family, lets me make the music I want, so I play the part, and I don’t complain.” They sat quietly for a

moment. Then Bing asked something that would change the whole night. What kind of music did you grow up with? Mostly Italian folk songs. My father used to sing them around the house. And gospel, too. We lived next to a black church in Stubenville. I used to sneak over there on Sunday mornings and listen through the window.

The way they sang, the passion, the rawness. It was unlike anything I’d ever heard. Bing’s eyes lit up. You like gospel? Love it. Always have. The honesty in it, the emotion. It’s not about sounding pretty. It’s about meaning what you sing. You ever sing it? At home in the shower. Never professionally. Doesn’t fit the image.

People want me to sing love songs and comedy numbers. Nobody wants to hear the drunk Italian kids sing gospel. Bing smiled a mischievous smile. What if I dared you to do it tonight? What? Sing gospel tonight on this stage in front of 18,000 people. I dare you. Dean laughed nervously. Bing. I can’t.

 It’s not on the program. The organizers would kill me. My manager would have a heart attack. So what? This is a charity concert. We’re raising money for orphans. Those kids don’t care about the program. They care about the money we raise. And I’m betting if you sing something real, something from your soul instead of your usual material, people will give more. They’ll feel something.

And when people feel something, they open their wallets. I don’t know. I’ve never sung gospel in public. That’s exactly why you should do it. Because you’re scared. Because it matters to you. because it’s real. Dean looked out at those empty seats, imagined them full. Imagined 18,000 people watching him sing something he’d kept private his whole life, something sacred, something that meant more than anything he’d ever performed professionally.

 What would I even sing? What’s your favorite gospel song? Dean didn’t hesitate. His eye is on the sparrow. I learned it from listening through that church window when I was 14. used to sing it to myself when things were hard. When my family had no money, when I thought I’d never make it out of Ohio. That song kept me going. Bing stood up.

 Then that’s what you sing tonight. I’ll introduce you. I’ll tell the crowd that we’re doing something special, something unplanned. And you’ll walk out here and you’ll sing that song the way you sang it to yourself when you were 14 and scared and didn’t know if you’d survive. Bing, I don’t think I’m not asking. I’m daring. and I don’t think you’re the kind of man who backs down from a dare.

” Dean looked at Bing, this legend, this giant of American music, challenging him, pushing him, believing in him enough to put him on the spot in front of 18,000 people. You’re going to regret this when I embarrass myself. You won’t embarrass yourself. You’ll be honest, and honest always works. The concert started at 8:00.

 The opening acts went well. A choir sang. A comedian told jokes a violinist played. The crowd was warm, generous, happy to be there. Happy to support Orphans. Happy to celebrate Christmas. Bing performed at 9ine. Did his hits. White Christmas. Silent Night. I’ll be home for Christmas. The crowd sang along. Swayed. Some people cried.

 This was what they’d come for. Bing Crosby doing what Bing Crosby did better than anyone in the world. After 40 minutes, Bing should have thanked the crowd and introduced Dean for his set. That was the program. That was the plan. But instead, Bing did something different. Ladies and gentlemen, before I bring out our next performer, I want to tell you something.

 Tonight is about giving, about helping children who don’t have families, who don’t have homes, who don’t have much of anything except hope. And hope is a powerful thing. It’s what keeps us going when everything else falls apart. It’s what makes us believe tomorrow might be better than today. The crowd was silent, listening.

 Bing had their complete attention. I’ve been doing this for a long time. 30 years of performing thousands of shows. And I’ve learned something. The best performances aren’t the polished ones. They’re not the ones where everything goes according to plan. They’re the ones where someone is brave enough to show you something real, something honest, something from their soul. He paused. Let that sink in.

Tonight, I’m going to ask our next performer to do something he’s never done before. Something he’s scared to do. And I’m asking him because I believe that’s when music matters most. When it scares us, when it costs us something, when it’s real. Backstage, Dean was sweating. This was really happening. Bing was really going to make him do this.

 Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Dean Martin. The applause was strong. Dean walked out. The spotlight hit him. 18,000 faces looking up at him, expecting the drunk act, expecting the comedy, expecting the smooth love songs. He walked to the microphone, stood there, no introduction, no explanation, just stood there gathering himself.

 Bing walked over, put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, spoke into the microphone. Dean, I want you to sing something for these people. Not from your repertoire, not from your act. I want you to sing the song you told me about earlier. The one from the church in Ohio. The one that kept you going when you were young and scared and didn’t know if you’d make it. I want you to sing.

 His eye is on the sparrow. The crowd murmured. Gospel. Dean Martin singing gospel. This wasn’t what they expected. Some people looked confused. Some looked skeptical. Some looked intrigued. Dean looked at Bing. You sure about this? Completely sure. Sing it like you mean it. Forget about the crowd. Forget about the image.

 Just sing. Bing walked off stage, left Dean standing there alone. No band, no arrangement, no preparation. Just him and a microphone and 18,000 people waiting. Dean closed his eyes, took a breath, and started singing. Why should I feel discouraged? Why should the shadows come? His voice was different. Not the smooth kuner voice, not the casual drunk voice.

 Something raw, rougher, real. Why should my heart be lonely and long for heaven and home? The crowd went completely still. This wasn’t performance. This was something else. Something vulnerable. Something true. When Jesus is my portion, my constant friend is he. Dean’s eyes were still closed. He wasn’t singing to the crowd.

He was singing to himself. To the 14-year-old kid in Stubenville who’d had nothing. Who’d listened through church windows because he couldn’t afford to go inside. who’d sung this song to himself in the dark and believed it might be true. His eye is on the sparrow and I know he watches me.

” His voice cracked slightly on that last line. Not from poor technique, from emotion, from meaning every word. His eye is on the sparrow and I know he watches me. The second time through the chorus, something happened. Dean’s voice opened up, got stronger, fuller, like he was drawing power from somewhere deep inside, somewhere he’d never accessed on stage before.

 People in the crowd started crying, not everyone, but enough because they could hear it, could feel it, could sense that this wasn’t entertainment. This was testimony. This was a man bearing his soul in front of strangers because he’d been dared to be honest. If you’re getting chills right now, hit that like button because this story is about to go somewhere you won’t believe.

Dean sang all three verses. Every word perfect, every note meant. When he finished, he opened his eyes, looked out at the crowd. They were silent, completely silent for 5 seconds, 10 seconds, 15 seconds. Then one person started clapping, then another, then a section, then the whole crowd was on their feet applauding, crying, shouting.

The noise was deafening, but Dean wasn’t looking at them. He was looking at the side of the stage where Bing Crosby was standing. And Bing was crying. Really crying. Not polite tears. Deep body shaking sobs like something had broken open inside him. Bing walked back on stage. Couldn’t stay in the wings.

 Had to be there. Had to be part of this moment. He walked to Dean, hugged him long, hard, the kind of hug that said more than words ever could. When Bing pulled back, he took the microphone. His voice was shaking. Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been in this business for three decades. I’ve performed with the best. I’ve sung with Sinatra, with Ella, with Lewis Armstrong.

 I’ve been on stages all over the world. And what Dean just did, what I just witnessed is the most honest performance I’ve ever seen. That wasn’t singing. That was prayer. That was soul. That was everything music is supposed to be. The crowd applauded again. Bing wiped his eyes. Tried to compose himself. couldn’t quite manage it.

 When I was a boy, my mother used to take me to church, Catholic church. We’d go every Sunday. And I hated it. Hated the Latin I couldn’t understand. Hated the ritual that felt empty. Hated pretending to feel something I didn’t feel. But my mother believed. She really believed. And she’d tell me that God was watching, that he saw everything, even the sparrows, even the smallest, most insignificant creatures, that nobody was too small or too lost to matter.

Bing<unk>s voice was barely holding together. I stopped believing that a long time ago. I stopped believing that anyone was watching, that anyone cared about the sparrows. I built a career, made money, got famous, and I told myself that was enough, that success was the same as meaning, that being Bing Crosby was better than being Gary Crosby, the scared Catholic kid from Spokane who didn’t know if he mattered.

He looked at Dean. But hearing you sing that song, hearing you mean every word, I remembered. I remembered what it felt like to believe. To think someone was watching, to think maybe I wasn’t alone. And I realized how much I’ve lost, how much I’ve buried under the image and the career and the perfect Christmas albums.

I realized I’ve been playing it safe for so long that I forgot what it feels like to be real. The crowd was dead silent now. This had gone somewhere nobody expected. Bing Crosby, America’s most famous singer, breaking down on stage, confessing doubt, admitting loss. Dean, thank you.

 Thank you for being brave enough to do what I asked. Thank you for showing me what I’ve been missing. Thank you for reminding me that music is supposed to mean something. Bing turned to the crowd. I’m going to do something I haven’t done in 20 years. I’m going to sing a song I learned as a boy in Spokane. A song my mother taught me.

 A song I’ve been too proud to sing because it’s not sophisticated enough. Not polished enough, not Bing Crosby enough, but tonight after watching Dean be that honest, I need to do this. I need to be real for once instead of perfect. He looked at Dean. Will you sing it with me? I don’t know what song you’re talking about. Amazing Grace.

 You know it. Of course. Then let’s sing it together. No arrangement, no band, just two voices and the truth. They stood together at the microphone. Bing counted them in and they sang. Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. Bing’s voice was shaking, breaking. Not the smooth Bing Crosby voice that sold millions of records.

Something human, something flawed, something real. I once was lost, but now I’m found. Was blind, but now I see. Dean’s voice was steady, strong, supporting Bing, holding him up, giving him the strength to keep going. By the second verse, half the crowd was singing along. By the third verse, everyone was 18,000 voices singing Amazing Grace in Madison Square Garden on a cold December night in 1953.

When they finished, nobody applauded. Nobody made a sound. They just stood there in the silence, in the weight of what had just happened, in the understanding that they’d witnessed something sacred, something that transcended entertainment. Bing hugged Dean again. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for saving me.

” “I didn’t save you. I just sang a song. No, you did more than that. You showed me it’s possible. Possible to be honest. Possible to be real. Possible to let people see who you really are instead of who they want you to be. The concert continued. Other performers came out, did their sets. The night went on, but nobody forgot what happened.

 Nobody forgot Dean singing His Eyes on the Sparrow. Nobody forgot Bing breaking down. Nobody forgot 18,000 people singing Amazing Grace together. Backstage after the show, Dean and Bing sat in Dean’s dressing room, exhausted, emotionally drained, but somehow lighter, like they’d put down weight they’d been carrying for years.

 “I didn’t expect that to happen,” Dean said. “Neither did I. I thought you’d sing a nice gospel song. The crowd would appreciate it. We’d move on. I didn’t think it would break me open like that.” “Why did it?” Bing was quiet for a long time. Because I’ve been pretending for so long. Pretending to be confident.

Pretending to have all the answers. Pretending that success means I’ve figured out life. But I haven’t figured out anything. I’m just as lost as I was when I was 20. Just as scared, just as uncertain. I’ve just gotten better at hiding it. So have I. Dean admitted. The drunk act isn’t just about being funny.

It’s about keeping people at a distance, making them think I’m simple, uncomplicated, not someone who thinks too hard or feels too deeply. But that’s not who I am. I think all the time. I feel everything. I just hide it because that’s what sells. What are you afraid of? Dean thought about it. That I’m not good enough. That the success is luck.

That one day people will figure out I’m just a kid from Ohio who got lucky. That I don’t deserve any of this. You’re describing me. Bing said, “I feel the exact same way. Every day, every performance, I’m waiting for them to realize I’m a fraud. You’re Bing Crosby. You’re not a fraud. And you’re Dean Martin. You’re not a fraud either.

 But we both feel like we are because we’ve built these images that aren’t quite us. And the distance between who we are and who we present to the world creates this constant anxiety that someone will see through it. They sat with that truth. Two of the biggest stars in America admitting they felt like imposters.

What do we do about it? Dean asked. I don’t know. Maybe what we did tonight. Maybe sometimes we just have to be honest. Let people see the real us. Even if it’s scary, even if it doesn’t fit the image. You think anyone will remember this? Bing smiled. I don’t know if they’ll remember, but I will. This was the first time in 20 years I felt like myself on stage, like Gary instead of Bing.

 And that matters more than any record sale or any award. That matters because it’s real. They talked for another hour about their childhoods, their families, their fears, their hopes, things they’d never told anyone, things that didn’t fit their public images. And in that conversation, they built something rare. Real friendship based on honesty instead of networking, on vulnerability instead of mutual benefit.

When they finally left Madison Square Garden at 2:00 in the morning, photographers were waiting, wanting pictures, wanting quotes, wanting the story. Bing gave them one line. Tonight, we sang the truth. That’s all you need to know. The next day, the newspapers ran stories. Bing and Dean’s spiritual moment.

 Gospel surprise at charity concert. Crosby breaks down during performance. Some reviews were positive, calling it brave and authentic. Some were critical, saying it was unprofessional and inappropriate for a Christmas concert. Some were confused, not sure what to make of Bing Crosby crying on stage. But the charity raised $400,000, double what they had expected, double what any previous year had raised because people had been moved.

 It felt something real. And when people feel something real, they give. Subscribe to this channel right now if you love stories about the moments when celebrities stopped performing and started being human. Three weeks later, in early January 1954, Dean got a package in the mail. Inside was a record. Acetate, one of a kind.

 A note was attached. Dean, I recorded something. Wanted you to hear it first. This is me being honest. This is me being real. Thank you for showing me it was possible. Bing. Dean put the record on his player. Hit play. Bing’s voice came through the speakers, singing his eye is on the sparrow. The song Dean had sung that night, but Bing’s version was different.

 slower, more contemplative, more broken. You could hear the doubt in it, the struggle, the hope, fighting against despair. It was the most beautiful thing Dean had ever heard. He called Bing immediately. This is incredible. You need to release this. I can’t. It doesn’t fit my image. People want happy Bing, confident Bing, Christmas Bing.

 They don’t want struggling Bing. But this is better than anything you’ve ever done. This matters. To me, it matters. To you, it matters. But to the public, I don’t know. release it anyway. Put it on your next album. Even if it’s just one track, even if it gets buried in the middle, let people hear this version of you.

 Bing was quiet for a long time. I’ll think about it. He didn’t release it. Too scared, too worried about the image, about what his record label would say, about what America would think of Bing Crosby singing a gospel song with that much vulnerability. But he kept the recording, kept it in his personal collection.

 And years later, after he died in 1977, his family found it. Found dozens of recordings like it. Bing singing honest, singing real, singing songs that mattered to him instead of songs that sold. His son, Harry Crosby, said in an interview in 1993. “My father had two bodies of work. The one he released publicly and the one he kept private.

 The private recordings are better, more honest, more him. But he was too afraid to let people hear them. Too afraid they wouldn’t understand. too afraid it would destroy the image he’d built. Dean released his gospel album in 1965. Called it Dean Martin sings gospel hymns. It was a commercial failure, sold poorly.

 Critics didn’t know what to make of it. Fans wanted the drunk act and the love songs, not Dean singing church music. But Dean didn’t care. He’d made the album for himself, for the 14-year-old kid who’d listened through church windows. For the part of himself he’d been hiding, and that mattered more than sales. In the liner notes, he wrote, “These songs saved my life when I had nothing.

 I’m singing them now to remember where I came from, to honor the boy I was, to stay connected to the part of me that’s real instead of performed. I hope you enjoy listening. But even if you don’t, I enjoyed singing them.” “That’s enough.” Bing bought a copy, sent Dean a note. “Proud of you for doing this, for being brave, for letting people hear the real you.

 I wish I had your courage,” Dean wrote back. “You have the courage. You just haven’t used it yet. But you will when you’re ready and I’ll be there to hear it. They stayed in touch over the years. Not close friends too different, too busy, but respectful friends. Friends who’d shared something real, something that mattered.

In 1968, Bing was performing at the London Paladium. Big show, sold out. He was doing his usual set, the hits, the Christmas songs, the safe material. But near the end of the show, he stopped, looked at the crowd. I want to try something different, something I haven’t done in public, something I’m scared to do.

 But a friend taught me that the things we’re scared to do are usually the things we most need to do. He sang his eye is on the sparrow. The woot way he’d recorded it on that acetate, vulnerable, broken, real. The crowd didn’t know how to react at first. This wasn’t the Bing they knew. But by the end, they were on their feet crying, applauding because they’d heard something true.

 After the show, Bing called Dean. It was 4 in the morning London time, 11 p.m. in Los Angeles. Dean was still awake. Always was. I did it. Did what? Sang the song. Your song. Our song in public. For real. How’d it feel? Terrifying and liberating and right. It felt right. Dean, for the first time in 40 years, I felt like I was being myself on stage.

 I’m proud of you. I’m proud of me, too. And it’s because of you. Because you showed me it was possible. that night in Madison Square Garden. You changed my life. You dared me to sing that song. You’re the one who started it. We started it together. Two scared men helping each other be brave. They talked for an hour about their careers, their lives, their ongoing struggle to balance image with authenticity.

 It was the last long conversation they’d have. Bing died 9 years later. Dean lived another 18 years after that. But that conversation mattered because it was honest. because it was real. Because it was two men who’ built empires on performance, choosing to drop the masks and just be human with each other.

 At Bing’s funeral in 1977, Dean was asked to perform. He said no initially. Too emotional, too hard. But Bing’s family asked again, “Please, he’d want you to sing. He’d want the real you. The you from that night in New York.” So Dean agreed. And at the funeral, in front of Bing’s family and friends and colleagues, Dean sang His Eye is on the sparrow.

 The same way he’d sung it that night in 1953. Raw, honest, real. When he finished, Bing’s widow, Catherine, came up to him. “Thank you. That song meant more to Bing than you know. He listened to his recording of it all the time.” Said it reminded him of who he was. Underneath the image said it gave him permission to be human instead of perfect.

 I didn’t know he listened to it constantly, especially near the end when he knew he didn’t have much time left. He’d sit in his study and play that recording and cry. Not sad crying, grateful crying, because that recording represented the moment he gave himself permission to be real. And you gave him that moment.

 You and that dare changed his life. Dean couldn’t speak, just hugged her, held her while they both cried. Years later, in 1995, Dean was dying. cancer, emphyma, his body finally giving out after 78 years of life. His children gathered around his bed waiting, saying goodbye. His daughter Dena asked him, “Dad, what are you most proud of? All the movies, the records, the television show? What matters most?” Dean thought for a long time.

 Madison Square Garden, 1953. The night I sang His Eyes on the Sparrow with Bing. That’s what matters most. Why? Because that was the only time I was completely honest on stage. The only time I let people see the real me. Everything else was performance, but that night I was just Dino from Stubenville singing a song that mattered to him.

 No act, no character, just truth. You should have done that more often. I know. I was too scared, too worried about the image, too convinced that people wouldn’t like the real me. But Bing understood. He lived with that same fear. And for one night, we helped each other be brave. That’s worth more than all the hits combined.

Three days later, Dean Martin died. His funeral was private, small, family, and close friends only. But Bing’s son, Harry Crosby, showed up uninvited, flew from London, walked into the funeral home, found Dean’s children. I’m sorry for intruding, but I needed to be here. Your father changed my father’s life, and by extension, he changed mine.

Because after that night in 1953, my dad was different. still performed, still did the Christmas albums, still played the Bing character. But at home, he was more present, more honest, more willing to let us see who he really was. And that made all the difference. He handed them something. A small box.

 This was in my father’s personal effects. He wanted Dean to have it, but he died first, so I’m giving it to you. Inside the box was the acetate recording. His eye is on the sparrow. Bing’s version. The one he’d never released. A note was attached in Bing’s handwriting. Dean, if you’re reading this, I’m gone.

 But I want you to know that the bravest thing I ever did was because of you. The most honest performance I ever gave was because you showed me how. Thank you for the dare. Thank you for the friendship. Thank you for reminding me that Gary Crosby from Spokane mattered as much as Bing Crosby the Star. You saved my soul that night.

I hope I helped save yours. your friend Bing. Dean’s children cried, understanding for the first time how much that night had meant, how much that friendship had mattered, how two legends had helped each other be human instead of just famous. Today, neither recording exists publicly. Dean’s gospel album is out of print.

 Bing’s acetate was never released. The only evidence that night in Madison Square Garden happened is newspaper clippings and fading memories from people who were there. But the impact lives on. In the lives of two families who learned that authenticity matters more than image. In the tradition of performers choosing honesty over polish.

 In the understanding that the most powerful performances are the ones where we drop the mask and let people see who we really are. There’s a quote from that night. A reporter asked Dean why he’d sung gospel when it didn’t fit his image. Dean answered, “Because Bing dared me.” And because some things are more important than image.

 Some songs need to be sung because they’re true, not because they sell. That quote hung in Bing’s office for the rest of his life. Reminder that bravery is contagious. That one person being honest gives permission for others to be honest. That we’re all carrying parts of ourselves we think the world won’t accept.

 And sometimes all it takes is one dare, one challenge, one moment of courage to let those parts out. If this story hit you somewhere deep, leave a comment and tell me about a time you chose authenticity over image. Tell me about a moment when you dropped the mask. Let’s remind each other that being real is always better than being perfect.

 And subscribe because we’re telling stories about the humanity behind the legends, about the moments when celebrities were just people trying to figure out who they were and what mattered. Bing Crosby dared Dean Martin to sing Gospel Live. What happened made Bing break down on stage, but more importantly, what happened changed both their lives.

Reminded them that underneath the fame and the success in the carefully crafted images, they were just two men trying to connect with something real. Trying to believe that someone was watching, that they weren’t alone. That maybe, just maybe, his eye really was on the sparrow.

 That night in 1953 wasn’t about the music. It was about two human beings helping each other be brave enough to be honest. And in doing so, they created something more valuable than any hit record. They created a moment of truth. A moment that echoed through both their lives. A moment that reminds us that the most powerful thing we can do is stop performing and start being real.

Dean and Bing are both gone now, but that night lives on in the memories of people who were there. in the stories passed down in the reminder that sometimes the bravest thing we can do is sing a song that scares us with someone who understands in front of people who don’t. That’s when music matters. That’s when performance becomes prayer.

 That’s when we stop being celebrities and start being human. Hit that like button if you believe authenticity is more important than perfection. Share this with someone who needs permission to be real. And remember, the next time someone dares you to be honest, to drop the act, to sing your truth, say yes.

 Because that’s how we change, that’s how we grow, that’s how we find out who we really are underneath all the images we’ve built. Bing dared Dean. Dean accepted. And for one night, two legends became human, became real, became the people they’d always been, but were too scared to show. That’s the story. That’s the lesson.

 That’s why it still matters 70 years later. Now go be brave. Go be real. Go sing your truth.