A Story With No Ending.

Would you jump out of a Boeing 727 in the middle of the night for $200,000?

One man did.

His name was DB Cooper, and I first discovered the story after being hired to score a documentary about him.

Somewhere over the Pacific Northwest in 1971, DB Cooper hijacked a commercial airliner, demanded two hundred thousand dollars in ransom money, ordered another bourbon, then lowered the rear staircase mid-flight and parachuted into the night.

Nobody knows what happened next.

Had they found him the following morning hanging upside down in a pine tree, the story would have ended there. Instead, he vanished cleanly enough for America to turn him into folklore.

Before I’d been sent a single frame of footage, I’d already fallen down the rabbit hole, convinced I was about to work on the coolest project of my career.

The story had everything.

Sky pirate.
Gentleman thief.
The only unsolved hijacking in American history.

A man so strangely calm during the ordeal that one of the flight attendants later described him as “rather nice.”

I didn’t wait for a brief. I just started writing.

Mystery music.
Action cues.
Dramatic tension.

The music came easily. The story was harder to shake.

In my head, DB Cooper felt less like a criminal and more like the coolest character from a seventies movie.

Boarding the Myth

A couple of weeks later the production crew called. They were heading to Planes of Fame Air Museum – a sun-bleached aircraft graveyard where Hollywood goes when it needs old planes – and after that, to Skydive Perris, to shoot the parachute scenes.

They wanted publicity stills.

Would I be interested?

Hell yes.

On film sets, anybody standing around long enough eventually gets roped into something they weren’t expecting. Within minutes somebody handed me a yellow vinyl jacket and told me I was an airline passenger on a not-yet-hijacked Boeing 727 in 1971.

By the afternoon I’d become an FBI agent.

In the finished documentary I appear twice for approximately half a second each, which I think everybody involved would agree was the correct amount of me.

But somewhere between the costume changes and the camera setups, the story started feeling strangely real.

Old Planes and Bad Ideas

Being inside an authentic seventies passenger plane was both fascinating and slightly unsettling. The moulded plastic panels. The patterned seat fabric. The ashtrays built into the armrests. The chunky little buttons that looked like they belonged on a washing machine rather than an aircraft.

Peering into the cockpit was surreal. Dials everywhere. Rows of switches that looked less like aviation technology and more like the control panel of an old submarine.

Sitting inside that thing, I found myself wondering how these clunky metal contraptions stayed in the air.

Once the actors took their positions, the mythology stopped feeling abstract.

Cramped in that old airplane, the whole thing suddenly felt very real.

I could picture exactly how DB must have felt as he donned his parachute and opened the rear stairway doors. At ten thousand feet, the whole plane would have been shuddering – the noise, the darkness, the freezing wind.

The Myth Starts Cracking

He hadn’t specified the denomination of the banknotes, meaning he’d jumped with a bulky sack of twenty-dollar bills strapped to his body.

No gloves.

No goggles.

Business suit.

Slip-on shoes.

Suddenly he seemed less like a criminal mastermind and more like somebody who really hadn’t thought things through.

Between takes, the other fake passengers and I quibbled about whether Cooper had survived.

Some thought he’d made it. Others argued there was no chance. Everybody seemed to have their own theory.

After the interior scenes wrapped, I grabbed the actor playing Cooper and took him out onto the tarmac for some publicity stills. At one point I angled him toward the runway until I caught the reflection of the plane in his mirrored sunglasses.

The cinematographer noticed what I was doing, liked the image, and recreated it. It ended up becoming one of the defining shots of the documentary.

I remember feeling strangely proud of that.

Gravity

At the parachute club, the aircraft was too small for me to join the jump crew, so a few of us remained on the ground watching the tiny plane climb higher and higher until it became a speck over the California sky.

The jump itself looked strangely peaceful from below. A tiny dot separating from another tiny dot before blooming open.

For a brief moment, several of us considered paying for a jump ourselves.

And honestly, it felt tempting.

If you’re ever going to jump out of a plane, a professional parachute club full of cheerful adrenaline junkies seems like the perfect place to do it.

I considered it carefully, then I decided my feet were happy where they were.

While we stood watching the actor drift back toward earth, I asked the producer whether he thought Cooper had survived.

“Almost certainly not,” he said.

He explained that the deeper they’d gone into the evidence, the harder it became to imagine anybody surviving it. This, he explained, was the documentary’s conclusion.

I felt genuinely disappointed.

I realised I wanted the myth more than the reality.

I think we all do.

Vanished Without a Trace

The following week I sent all my music through to the editor and waited for notes.

There were none.

Somehow I’d delivered enough music to score the entire documentary.

I was thrilled.

At the screening, I smiled at my two half-seconds onscreen, waiting for the composer credit at the end.

Except it never came.

Somewhere in the chaos of post-production, I’d been left off the on-screen credits.

Initially, I felt genuinely deflated.

Then, gradually, I started finding the whole thing strangely amusing.

I’d stepped into a story, done the job, and vanished without a trace.

How Did I Get Here?

I’m grinding down Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd in a clapped-out Ford Bronco permanently stuck in second gear — and somehow that’s the least strange part of my day.

Through the windshield I’m watching a man in full clown makeup and a multicoloured wig snapping and jerking to bass-heavy hip hop that rattles my windows.

In the rear-view mirror: a man on stilts dressed as a shrubbery, swaying gently every time I touch the brakes.

On both sides of the street, South LA cheers and waves, and I’m suddenly aware I may be the only white guy in the entire Kingdom Day parade.

I’m trying to remember how exactly I arrived at this moment.

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Accosted by a Tree

A few weeks earlier, I’d been taking a stroll along the Venice boardwalk, enjoying the sunshine and the usual carnival chaos. One thing you quickly learn about the boardwalk is to expect the unexpected, whether it’s a semi-naked man on top of a stepladder holding a snake in each hand while balancing a stick on his head, or someone dragging an out-of-tune piano onto the sand to enthusiastically play all the wrong notes.

After a couple of years living here, I thought nothing could surprise me.

That was before I was accosted by a tree.

I’d been walking past a tall green hedgerow when part of it suddenly detached itself and leapt directly into my path, nearly giving me a heart attack. Once my pulse settled down, I realised I had just received an ‘awakening’ courtesy of the Treeman of Venice.

Mirrors for Eyes

As he bent down to give me a high five, he explained that his mission was to wake people up — to make them aware of their natural surroundings. As he spoke, I noticed he had mirrors for eyes. I could see my own reflection staring back at me. He wanted to remind me, he said, that I am a reflection of nature.

I thanked him sincerely and continued on my way, but my encounter with the Treeman of Venice lingered in my mind long after I’d left the boardwalk.

Maybe it was the mirrors for eyes. Maybe it was the complete sincerity with which this man approached his mission of waking people up. Or maybe he just felt like the perfect embodiment of Venice Beach itself — absurd, performative and strangely profound.

Whatever the reason, I decided to make a video about him.

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Treeman Interviews Treeman

A few days later, I spotted him again, camouflaged against a row of beachside shrubs along the Venice boardwalk. I stood back for a while and watched him deliver a series of ‘awakenings’ to unsuspecting tourists. Most people reacted the same way: first shock, then laughter.

Eventually I approached him with an idea for a video interview — except I didn’t want to interview him – I wanted him to interview himself.

I explained that I could split the screen and have him play both roles. That way, he could ask Treeman all the right questions.

To my delight, he loved the idea.

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The Man Beneath the Shrubbery

On the night of the shoot, he arrived as Treeman. I’d built a makeshift set out of branches and plants that looked like some kind of low-budget treehouse.

We filmed Treeman answering the questions first. Then he disappeared to remove the costume.

A few minutes later, I met Lionel for the first time.

The man beneath the shrubbery was older than I’d expected — but carried the same joyful energy as his alter ego. He seemed to relish the chance to interview the Treeman, and before long we’d finished filming both sides of the conversation.

I quickly cut together the opening sequence and was eager to show Lionel what we’d made, but when I tracked him down, he had some awkward news.

It turned out Treeman was already attached to a documentary project by a filmmaker named Michael Angelo, and Lionel had apparently agreed not to participate in outside productions without his approval.

By filming with me, he had broken that agreement.

Which meant that if I wanted to publish the interview, I’d first need permission from this mysterious Michael Angelo character.

The next day, Lionel took me to meet him.

Enter Michael Angelo

Michael Angelo — or “M.A.” as Lionel called him — watched the opening sequence with visible surprise and delight. For a brief moment, I thought I might have won him over.

Then he explained that Lionel should not have agreed to do the interview, and that he’d prefer it if I did not upload it.

However, he was genuinely impressed by what we’d made, and to soften the disappointment, he offered me something unexpected instead.

He was making a feature-length documentary about Treeman called A DocumenTree and he invited me to come aboard the project. The whole production, he explained, was being put together by volunteers, film students, creatives, and people who simply believed in what Treeman was trying to do.

And now, somehow, I found myself part of it too.

A few weeks later, I was driving M.A.’s beat-up Ford Bronco down Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd as part of the Kingdom Day Parade. Tommy the HipHop Clown danced out in front while Treeman swayed behind me on his stilts.

At the time, the whole thing felt completely surreal.

I had no idea it was only the beginning.

M.A. had all kinds of interviews lined up, and I slowly found myself being pulled into an entire ecosystem of artists, volunteers, community organisers, oddballs and idealists — the kinds of people who make Venice Beach what it is beneath the carnival surface.

I started volunteering at the Community Learning Garden, teaching filmmaking with Venice Arts, and getting pulled deeper into a side of Venice I hadn’t even realised existed.

Looking back on it now, I realise the Treeman didn’t just wake me up to nature that day. He woke me up to a community I’d been living beside for years without really noticing.

Venice has a way of doing that — if you let it.

Sometimes it just needs to jump out of a hedge at you first.

“You’ve got this,” I told myself, alone in the studio at KXLU.

The previous DJ had just left. My co-host was stuck somewhere on the 405. In front of me sat a desk full of blinking lights and enough buttons to accidentally silence Los Angeles.

There’s a specific kind of dread that comes from being very nearly qualified to do something. Not totally out of your depth – that’s almost easier, because you can just admit you’re lost. This was worse. I knew enough to understand exactly what could go wrong.

I’d spent years producing radio shows, but I’d never actually hosted one.

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Behind the Glass

Back in my producer days, DJs seemed to have the easiest job in the building. Producers did all the work. The presenters walked in, turned on the charm, and collected all the glory.

At least, that’s how it seemed to me.

I’d had a few opportunities to appear on air, but every time I found myself behind a live microphone, my brain would lock up. Mouth dry. Heart pounding. Mind blank. In fact, I used to have a recurring anxiety dream about being live on air with the record about to run out, unable to find the next one in time. I’d wake up in a sweat amid the dead air.

After I left radio and moved into music production, my fascination shifted toward club DJs. Unlike radio presenters, they didn’t need the gift of the gab. It was all about the tunes. A job built on technical skill, taste, and creativity. The best DJs were essentially superstars.

I wondered if maybe I could do that too.

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Beat Academy

I enrolled in a DJ school in Studio City called Beat Academy. This was old-school DJing too. Vinyl. Headphones. Trying to nudge the record into sync by ear.

I was older than most of the students, which somehow made the whole thing worse. The kids had this effortless confidence I seemed to lack. They’d jump onto the decks and immediately start performing. I approached the turntables like somebody diffusing a bomb.

Still, I got reasonably good.

At the end of the course, we had a graduation event where each student was supposed to play a short live set in front of a crowd. Nothing major. Just a few songs.

I spent most of the night strategically remaining out of sight while the extroverts fought for the spotlight.

Eventually the night ended and I escaped without playing a single track.

Driving back through LA, I felt the very specific shame of someone who has successfully avoided the one thing they went there to do.

Then it occurred to me. Not every DJ had to keep a dance floor alive at 2am. That wasn’t my thing anyway. I liked weird music. Jazz. Funk. World. Old soul records. Atmospheric stuff.

And who says every transition has to be seamless?

I figured I could approach DJing more like the radio DJs. Just play good songs one after another and create a mood.

So that’s exactly what I did.

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Nothing Could Go Wrong

I found some low-pressure gigs. Cafes. Art events. Restaurants. Places where atmosphere mattered more than seamless transitions.

And honestly, it was fun.

But even then, I still dreaded trainwrecking two songs together in front of a room full of people.

That is, until I discovered DJ software – it felt like somebody had handed me the cheat codes.

I could lock tracks so they’d never drift. I could pre-program entire sets at home. I could build perfect segues in advance and trigger them with a single click.

Suddenly I had total control.

Nothing could go wrong.

But once everything was automated and perfected, something disappeared. The feeling that anything could happen. No mistakes, sure. But no happy accidents either.

Then, unexpectedly, radio called again.

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No Parameters

My friend Harry invited me to sit in on his KXLU radio show.

A few of us gathered in the studio late at night and took turns playing whatever we wanted. The show was called No Parameters because that was basically the entire concept. No format. No playlist restrictions.

Those nights were genuinely fun.

Harry handled the desk and answered phone calls while the rest of us played records and talked nonsense between songs. With Harry taking care of the technical side, I could relax. There’s real comfort in being the supporting character.

Alone in the Studio

Then one night, the others couldn’t make it. It was going to be just me and Harry.

I arrived at the station on time, but Harry was nowhere to be seen.

A text came through. He was stuck in traffic. I’d have to start the show alone.

My stomach dropped.

You’d think after years in radio this wouldn’t be a problem. But sitting behind the actual broadcast desk with full responsibility for the station felt very different from playing sidekick.

Still, I had my music ready.

“You’ve got this,” I told myself.

I put on my first track. Everything worked.

One song passed.

Then another.

I started calming down.

By the third track I’d begun thinking maybe I’d built this whole thing up too much in my head. Maybe I actually could do this. So when the song ended, I opened the mic to do my first ever radio link. A little shoutout to Harry stuck in traffic. Nothing fancy.

And honestly?

It was going great.

Relaxed voice. Natural pacing. Funny, even.

I barely noticed my phone buzzing in my pocket.

After the link, I put on another song and answered my phone. It was Harry.

“You just put out almost a minute of dead air,” he said. “What happened?”

“What do you mean? I was talking.”

“Nobody heard you.”

The microphone was live in my headphones, but there was another button routing the signal to air – one Harry had forgotten to mention.

My voice never left the station.

After years of anxiety dreams about dead air on live radio, it had finally happened for real.

Harry arrived a few minutes later and took over the desk while I happily retreated back into the shadows.

That remains the one and only time I ever sat alone in the DJ chair, live on air.

Relaxed voice. Natural pacing. Funny, even.

Talking away to an audience of precisely zero.

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The BBC Radio One building has a specific kind of hum after hours. The basement studio is usually empty, and most nights I’ll head down there to work alone.

Tonight, however, I’m not alone. I’m with a notorious international cannabis smuggler. A man with forty aliases and a stack of federal prison time. Some call him Howard Marks, but to me, he is Mr. Nice.

I’d recently finished reading his bestseller. Mr. Nice isn’t just a memoir; it’s a gripping tale of life lived on the edge. He’d described his entire weed and hash smuggling exploits in the casual way someone might talk about a stroll in the park.

It was a fascinating read, and I was sad when I turned the final page – until I noticed an email address at the end of his bio.

Am I really going to message one of the world’s most notorious smugglers and invite him in to do a voice session?

Yep.

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To my surprise, he responded almost immediately. Maybe he thought he’d get the chance to promote his book – or maybe he didn’t. Either way, he glanced over the scripts I’d prepared, and smiled. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s roll.”

He pulled the microphone close to his face, and in a gravel voice with a faint Welsh accent, he started reading.

The scripts I’d written were a gamble – designed to slip under the radar of the daytime suits who’d be listening back on Monday morning. This was the 90s, and words like “joint” and “dope” were commonly used to describe anything cool and creative.

“Time to get this joint moving,” read Howard.

He didn’t need direction. He gave a small, knowing grin as he read them line by line.

“High time for another music marathon.”

“Bong! Time for another three in a row… Nice!”

“Rolling up another number one.”

I wasn’t sure I’d get away with it. I didn’t care – I wanted to be a rebel, like Howard.

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With the sweepers done, I threw him a script for a competition idea:

Free Pot Weekend. The catch was that the prize was to be a potted geranium. Howard loved the idea, but just as we were about to start recording it, the heavy studio door swung open.

Shit. Management.

“Just a reminder that we need that breakfast promo done for the predawn show…”

She didn’t even look at Howard.

Barely looked at me.

To her, we were just two bodies in a basement studio occupying a time slot.

After the session, Howard rolled up a loose joint at my desk and told me about a hash den on Tottenham Court Road disguised as a pool hall.

“If the cops know about it, they turn a blind eye,” he said, with a shrug.

He sparked up as we made our way along Great Portland Street.

The bouncer shook Howard’s hand and waved us through. Inside was a bar that sold more than just booze, a few pool tables, and a low-lit chill-out zone with sofas and beanbags.

Howard rolled another. “Medical cannabis. Changing attitudes. Legalisation.” He grinned. “Won’t be long now.”

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At the next management meeting, I pitched the Free Pot Weekend competition. Unsurprisingly, it was a hard no – but the sweepers went out anyway.

Nobody asked.

Nobody knew.

If you liked this story, you might enjoy my book - Chasing Ghosts

Greetings Fellow Travellers,

As I mentioned last time, I’ve been dealing with a slow healing foot injury that has had me limping around my apartment for weeks. The good news is that I’m finally on the mend, and should be tap dancing again very soon.

All this hobbling about has reminded me of another LA story worth sharing …

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I’d somehow landed the joy of scoring a National Geographic documentary about a chap named Percy Fawcett. He was a stubborn British explorer, obsessed with the idea of a lost Amazonian civilisation. Rumours of ancient golden cities had long circulated through the region, so in 1925 he set out to find one, never to be seen or heard from again.

It was an ambitious music commission, so I began preparing sounds and samples for the score.

One afternoon, the producer casually mentioned they were shooting all the jungle scenes in the Los Angeles arboretum. He knew I had a decent camera – would I like to shoot some publicity stills? Always keen to venture out of the studio and mix with the crew, I happily agreed.

I arrived bright and early. They were already setting up lights, cameras, wardrobe, catering – everything that makes a film shoot fascinating. As the actors gradually transformed into conquistadors and indigenous warriors, I started to wonder how on earth they were going to make these beautifully manicured botanical gardens resemble anything like the Amazon jungle.

“Lots of very tight shots,” the DP smiled.

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As I wandered about with my camera, I noticed the producer and the director watching me closely, glancing at their monitors, then back to me.

The producer approached. I knew something was up. What I didn’t know was that my day was about to take an unexpected turn.

Percy Fawcett had entered the jungle with his son, and his son’s best friend, Raleigh Rimmel – the actors playing Percy and son had turned up, but Rimmel, for reasons unknown, had not.

I was being sized up.

I had the right build, and crucially, the right haircut for the job.

Before it could fully sink in, I was wearing a grubby linen shirt, a battered fedora, and having makeup grime dabbed onto my face.

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The actor playing Percy Fawcett would be more at home tending his roses than tackling the untamed wilderness. The beard they’d given him looked comically fake, stuck on with more optimism than glue.

The local tribespeople and the Spanish conquistadors were Mexican extras, and the ‘jungle’ was little more than a cluster of shrubs next to a rather delightful pond where families were enjoying ice creams and feeding the ducks.

It felt, in its own way, perfectly LA.

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The first scene was the three intrepid explorers, stealthily hacking their way through the dense and unforgiving jungle, trying to ignore the peacocks. We'd been told to act nervous, exhausted, and to slap at non-existent mosquitoes. At this stage, I'm feeling confident that I can pull this off – then I'm informed that Rimmel had damaged his foot early in the expedition. I have to walk with a limp, and wince. Convincingly.

Limp – Wince – Slap.

Got it.

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Between takes, I’d shoot stills and watch the movie magic come together. It was fascinating to watch how the director, assistant director, and DP turned a bunch of misfits in a manicured garden into a convincing jungle adventure.

After a long day of filming, the crew finally had everything they needed. Tribespeople hunting, conquistadors invading, muskets firing, spears flying, and three explorers disappearing into the undergrowth, never to be seen again.

It’s a wrap.

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By the time I got back to the studio, I knew my initial thoughts for the score were all wrong. I’d imagined big orchestra, charging rhythms, the romance of exploration. But after one day sweating in the undergrowth, swatting insects that didn’t exist, it felt less like adventure and more like discomfort, doubt, and sheer stubborn endurance.

The music needed to reflect that. Less adventure, more haunting. Less John Williams, more bone and sinew.

Sometimes you understand a project only when you get a chance to step inside it.

I got a double credit on the film: composer and actor. Raleigh Rimmel walked into the Amazon on a damaged foot and was never seen again. Here I am, hobbling around my apartment – but hopefully you’ll be hearing from me again sometime soon.

Stay tuned…

And thanks for reading.

Jay 🪶

By the way, if you liked this story, you might enjoy my book: Chasing Ghosts

Greetings Fellow Travellers,

Thanks to everyone who reached out with well wishes and healing vibes. You’d think being stuck at home with a foot injury would be ideal for getting some solid writing done, but it seems to have coincided with a dip in creative energy. Not quite writer’s block, more a gentle malaise — possibly something to do with being back in the West, where things aren’t looking particularly inspiring at the moment.

But fear not, friends. I’ve taken a break from the doom scrolling to share a light-hearted LA story that popped into my head this morning.

But first, a little context:

Back in 2010, a YouTube video went viral. You may remember it: Double Rainbow, by Paul Vasquez — or Bear, as he was affectionately known. The video was one man’s semi-religious meltdown at the sight of a perfect double rainbow over Yosemite National Park.

If you haven’t seen it, it’s worth a watch. If you have, it’s worth another. Either way, it’s the catalyst for the story.

You can check it out HERE

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The Call to Adventure

At the time, I was living in Santa Monica and spending a lot of time at a café called Flying Saucers – a UFO-themed establishment that attracted a steady stream of colourful regulars.

Among them were Marty and Natasha. He was a songwriter and she was an actress, and together they navigated LA with a level of unironic, slightly ridiculous ambition that was actually quite endearing – and if the phone wasn’t ringing with offers, Marty would do all he could to create new opportunities.

On this particular day, he’d come across a strategy: take a viral YouTube video, write a song about it, make your own version, and tag the original creator.

At the time, Bear’s Double Rainbow video wasn’t just going viral – it was going stratospheric, pulling in tens of millions of views and climbing fast.

So, Marty wrote a rainbow song, pulled in a few phrases from the original, recorded it with Natasha, and tagged Paul Vasquez himself.

And then something unexpected happened.

Bear saw it.

Bear liked it.

And Bear invited them up to Yosemite to film a new version of the video with him in it.

This was an opportunity I couldn’t miss, so I asked if I could tag along.

The next day, we set off in Marty’s car, along with their little terrier lap dog, Vivienne.

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Meeting Bear

Meeting Bear was an experience in itself.

He lived in a trailer that had been dragged up a steep, unpaved, rutted road – the kind of ride that makes your suspension question its life choices. The view at the top, though, was worth it. It was the exact spot where he had filmed the original viral video.

Bear was quite a character. He had long hair tied into plaited pigtails, a beard decorated with coloured rubber bands, and was dressed in red shorts and a red tank top with two black paw prints on the chest. He was a short, heavy-set man with a big personality, striking eyes, and the kind of face that looked like it couldn’t stop smiling even if it tried.

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Bear Burglars

Evening was already setting in, and the shoot was planned for the following morning. We sat in the trailer drinking tea and chatting as the light faded.

At one point, I noticed a large paw print on the glass door and pointed it out.

“Oh, that’s from one of the bears,” Bear said. “Sometimes they break in looking for food.”

As we all sat there staring at the print, the door simply slipped out of its frame and fell outward, shattering on the ground below.

There was a moment of silence.

We all just sat there, completely gobsmacked.

Then we turned to Bear.

He burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter.

To this day I have no idea what happened. Did the door get uncomfortable with all the attention? Or did one of us suddenly develop telekinetic abilities? Either way, it remains one of the strangest and most unexplainable events I’ve ever witnessed.

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The Night

With no guest room – and now no front door – Marty and Natasha pitched a tent outside and climbed in with Vivienne. I chose the back seat of the car, which felt like a strong strategic decision given the earlier bear briefing.

After a long, restless night of barking dogs and unrelenting rooster crows, I woke early and stepped out to take in the view. As I did, I noticed a pair of dogs circling the tent – sniffing, pacing, and pawing at the fabric.

When Marty and Natasha eventually surfaced, they looked utterly exhausted. They hadn’t slept a single wink. They’d spent the entire night convinced a bear was trying to break into the tent and eat them.

In reality, it had been the dogs trying to make friends with Vivienne.

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The Shoot

Despite the restless night, the four of us set out into the national park to shoot the video.

Bear knew the park like the back of his hand and took us to all the best vantage spots. At one point, he stepped straight into a waterfall and stood there getting drenched while Natasha sang.

It was incredible to experience the park with someone who knew it so well. It was a day filled with astonishing views and unforgettable scenery.

The Cosmic Event

As evening approached, the shoot wrapped, but Bear had one more surprise in store.

By chance, we had arrived on the day of a well-timed cosmic moment. The sun would set as a full moon rose – each kissing the horizon at exactly the same moment – and Yosemite’s Half Dome was the perfect place to watch it unfold.

We made our way over, climbed the dome, and settled in.

Just as Bear had promised, as the sun set, directly opposite, the full moon began to rise.

An auspicious end to a wonderful day.

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The Ride Home

Tired but happy, we made our way back to Santa Monica – a car full of footage and a story ready to be told back at Flying Saucers Cafe.

In the end, the new video didn’t become the viral hit they’d been hoping for, racking up a modest 3k views. While their original song pulled in a respectable 63k and even inspired a few cover versions, it was never going to catch the raw magic of Bear’s original – which sits today at an astonishing 52 million views.

You can see them all here:

Bear’s Viral Video

Double Rainbow Song Featuring Paul ‘Bear’ Vasquez

Original Double Rainbow Song by Marty and Natasha

Thanks for reading!

If you enjoyed this story, you might like my book – Chasing Ghosts

Greetings Fellow Travellers,

The year was 2018, my final year in Los Angeles as it turns out. I’d been shooting and live-streaming dozens of A-list acts at KCRW, but the station was relocating, the video department was downsizing, and the writing was on the wall. Looking for new opportunities, I reached out to a TEDx event in Venice Beach. They didn’t just need help; they needed a miracle. They asked me to run front-of-house audio – unpaid, naturally, which is essentially the currency LA runs on.

I wasn’t quite ready for that level of technical masochism, so I recruited my friend Kat to lead while I assisted. On the day, the organizers handed me a box of radio microphones and told me I was in charge of micing up the talent.

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I had never used a wireless mic in my life. As the audience filed in and my anxiety spiked, I fumbled through the boxes looking for instructions that didn’t exist. Kat eventually rescued me, showing me how to toggle channels and – bang – we had signal. My only job now was to clip the tiny mics to the speakers’ ears and thread the cable down to the transmitter on their belts.

Then came the first speaker.

He had incredibly tiny ears – like little dried apricots pinned to the side of his head. As he stepped onto the stage to rapturous applause, I watched in horror as the mic began to lose its grip. With every shake of his head, the device flopped more violently until the talk had to be stopped. I had to walk out in front of the crowd to fix it, my face turning a shade of red that no stage lighting could mask. I even got a round of applause for my efforts – it was a nice gesture, even if it did make the whole public humiliation feel a lot more official.

The director was cool about it, but issued a new mandate: every speaker had to pass a “mic inspection” before hitting the stage.

Which brings us to Moby.

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He was there to talk about animal rights and veganism. I’ve always been a fan of his album Play, and I told him so, but he seemed a bit uptight. I figured it was just pre-talk jitters, and given my earlier “apricot ear” disaster, I was determined to get his setup perfect.

The standard procedure involves dropping the cable down the back of the collar and then reaching up from the bottom of the shirt to grab it. I’d performed this minor invasion of privacy on every other speaker that day, but Moby was wearing a very tight shirt.

I dropped the cable. I reached up. I searched. I fished. Nothing.

After a few moments of me groping him in a desperate search for the connector, Moby snapped. He forcefully informed me he’d do it himself. What followed was a silent comedy routine as he awkwardly rummaged around, looking like a man trying to scratch an itch that was just out of reach.

Eventually, he conceded and asked me to help again. Together, in a brief, strained moment of intimacy, we found the wire. I’m not sure whose face was redder: mine from the sheer embarrassment of the situation, or his from the frustration of being fondled in the green room.

Despite the backstage wrestling match, he delivered a thought provoking talk, which you can watch HERE

As he spoke, I watched in horror as his mic slowly drifted further and further from his mouth. Luckily it hung in there til the end of the talk. Looking back, it was a classic LA moment: meeting a star, losing your dignity, and realizing that even the biggest celebs have a breaking point when it comes to a stranger’s hand up their shirt.

Thanks for reading!

If you enjoyed this story, you might like my book – Chasing Ghosts

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As I prepare to leave for Vietnam, some mates organised a farewell lunch at one of my hometown’s oldest pubs. As always at these catch-ups, old stories resurfaced, and new ones were pieced together. One about a mutual friend from my early UK days came up, and it stuck with me. So here goes…

Charlie’s Revenge.

One Man. One Parrot. Nowhere to Hide.

Thump!

What was that? I’m here alone, but it sounded like it came from downstairs. I crack my bedroom door open, listening.

A scuffling in the kitchen. Too heavy to be one of the cats, and I would have heard the front door if one of my roommates had come home. I’d better go and check.

I’m in the UK, by the way. Bristol, to be exact. Bedminster, to be precise. And, well, it’s not exactly the best part of town, to be blunt. Ordinary enough to be unremarkable, sketchy enough to keep me on my toes. The narrow streets are lined with endless rows of terraced housing. Each an exact replica of its neighbour, like pebble-dash dominoes pressed shoulder to shoulder. Sturdy, practical, no-nonsense. Built for the working-class families of Bristol’s industrial era.

I glance down the stairway. It’s quiet. Too quiet. I know this house well enough to be suspicious of silence.

When I first arrived here, a fresh-faced twenty-three-year-old, the place felt gloomy. The low-hanging grey clouds, heavy with drizzle, didn’t help. But it was more than just the weather. The area was worn down, its peeling paint, cracked concrete, and weathered brick bearing the weight of generations. It felt tired, like a place that had seen better days. It was a world away from the sun-drenched streets I’d left behind in Australia, and I felt it in my bones.

There had been nobody to meet me at the train station, but I had an address and jumped into my first ever Hackney cab, exhausted from the twenty-something-hour flight and still reeling from the chaos of the Underground and UK train systems. When the taxi driver dropped me off, I was sure he must have made a mistake. But no. This was the place I’d be staying. Just another grey brick on the street, identical to all the others, the only thing setting it apart was the rusting motorcycle in the front garden.

There was a hammering coming from inside, a rhythmic banging, loud and relentless. A handyman at work, no doubt. I waited for a pause so I could knock, but it never came. On and on it went.

The only way to get some attention was to time my knocks between the hammer blows.

Bang! knock. Bang! knock. Bang! knock.

The banging stopped. After a moment, the door cracked open, revealing a ghostly white face. White as a sheet. Actually, whi­te as plaster. Because that’s exactly what it was – Guy’s face, covered in a thick layer of dust and dried smears of filler.

He had been expecting me for weeks, but apparently, my arrival day had become the deadline he needed to put up a ceiling in what was to be my bedroom.

But that noise downstairs just now wasn’t Guy. He’s not here. Nobody is. And that’s what worries me.

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I knew I was going to like Guy from the instant I met him. He had an enthusiastic energy that lifted you up and pulled you along in his wake. His thin, wispy hair was a mess, and even through the plaster-dusted face, you could tell he was excited to welcome me into his home. Three steps inside, and I was immediately startled by a large scarlet macaw parrot perched in the middle of the living room. It squawked at me on sight, staring at me with beady eyes, hopping from foot to foot.

"That’s Charlie," Guy said. "He belongs to Chrissy, my girlfriend. She’ll be home later. Come in, I’ll put the kettle on."

As I walked past Charlie’s perch, he lunged, beak open, aiming for my neck.

"Don’t get too close," Guy warned. "He hates pretty much everybody, me included. Chrissy’s the only one he doesn’t want to kill."

"Squawk!" Charlie shrieked. Which, translated into English, probably meant, I’ll get you, human. It’s only a matter of time.

That’s what’s worrying me about that thump downstairs. Charlie hates me, and I’m worried he’s fallen off his perch. He has a habit of hanging upside down, either to show off, or to relieve the boredom. I’ve never been sure. Once, he slipped and hit the floor with a thud. Luckily, Chrissy had been home to set him back on his perch. But she’s not here now. If Charlie’s on the loose, it’s going to be a big problem.

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I glance around my ‘bedroom.’ Despite his promises to finish it, Guy is still working on the plastering, so I’m sharing the space with bags of plaster, a cement mixer, and at least one of five cats. Sometimes all five at once.

I step onto the landing and peer tentatively down the narrow stairs to the hallway below.

Nothing.

I make my way downstairs. The moment I step into the living room, all my fears are confirmed.

Charlie is off his perch, wandering freely about the room.

Crap.

He spots me instantly and charges, beak first. To Charlie, I am just another nut to crack, and his sharp, hooked beak is strong enough to snap a broom handle, let alone my fingers. This is the moment he has been waiting for. A chance to exact revenge on the humans who tore him from the jungle and sentenced him to life in Bedminster.

My first instinct is to jump onto the sofa. Charlie keeps coming, eyes locked, murder in his heart. He can hardly wait to get my fingers in his beak.

Is he running? I didn’t know parrots could run.

Shit.

I’m not safe, and he’s getting close. He’ll have me cornered soon. I jump from the sofa and move to the other side of the room. He course-corrects and keeps coming. His beady little eyes are fixed, unwavering.

He can’t fly. Poor chap had his wings clipped. But he sure can move.

Nowhere downstairs is safe.

I spring back up the stairs, glancing over my shoulder, hoping the steps will stump him.

No such luck.

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He uses his beak to climb, gripping the wooden stairway, slowing him down but not stopping him. I’m screwed. My only option is to get back to my room and shut the door.

Before long, he’s right outside.

He’s not going to chew through the door. Surely.

Silence.

No, he’s just going to wait.

I’ll get you, human. It’s only a matter of time.

I am now a prisoner in my bedroom, held hostage by a parrot. I need a plan.

Throw a blanket over him? Risky. Make a run for it? Not a chance. I’m too nervous to even open the door.

I glance at the window and peer down. It’s a long drop, too far to jump. Then I spot the drainpipe. Not ideal, but doable.

And so, stuck between a hostage situation and a drainpipe to freedom, I choose the drainpipe.

From the back garden, I swung open the gate and stepped into the back lane, feeling rather pleased with myself for outwitting a bird. “Nice try, Charlie, but not today, my fine feathered friend.”

Then, from inside the house, a familiar squawk pierces the air.

I’ll get you, human. It’s only a matter of time.

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Have you ever imagined a day where the stars align, and the universe seems to conspire to bring you face-to-face with greatness? Well, that’s exactly what happened to me on an ordinary day that turned extraordinary in the blink of an eye.

Many of you showed a keen interest in my tales of encountering Hollywood celebrities when I conducted a recent poll. It’s a part of my past that I rarely share. From 2003 to 2018, I made my home in LA, working amidst the glitz and glamour of the entertainment industry. From the music scene and post-production to camera work, my journey eventually led me to the esteemed doors of KCRW in Santa Monica, where I captured the magic of live music performances.

Now, I'm not one to casually drop names, but prepare yourselves, because this story involves not one, but three MAJOR icons. What's even more astounding is that I met all three on the same day, in the same place! Stay tuned, as this is one for the books!

Unexpected Encounters:

Celebrity Stories with a Spiritual Twist.

West Los Angeles,

October 6th, 2017.

The Village Recorder.

My new role as a camera operator at KCRW has been an exhilarating ride, but today promises to be unforgettable. We’re filming at the legendary Village Studios in West LA, known for its chart-topping records and rich musical heritage.

But I have a reason to be doubly excited - the complex once served as the Maharishi's LA Transcendental Meditation headquarters, a place where The Beatles themselves had come to meditate!

I'm secretly hoping for a moment to sit in the grand hall myself, to connect with the echoes of that iconic past, and do a little meditation of my own.

Arriving at the unassuming warehouse style building, I park in a quiet corner of the lot. The show producer has kept us in the dark about who we are to be filming today. In fact, it’s all been a bit hush hush, leading to rumours that it must be someone pretty famous.

As I sit and wonder who it might be, the video van arrives, so we set about unloading all the equipment.

Making my way through the humble green-grey wooden doors, I find myself suddenly awestruck by rows of gold and platinum albums plastering the reception walls. I stand there, peering at the titles of albums that have shaped my life.

But there is work to be done, so it's through the complex we go, and into the famous Studio D - designed for Fleetwood Mac to record the album that was to become 'Tusk'. Arriving in the cavernous room of pristine wood and glass, the smell of old wood varnish in the airconditioned chill - I simply have to stop for a moment and soak it all in.

The arrival of the show producer snaps me from my daydream, and I start the lengthy process of setting up lights and cameras, gearing up for the action ahead.

"Hey everyone," the producer calls, "just so you know, we are shooting Dhani Harrison today - he will be here shortly."

Holy smokes! I am gonna be hanging with Beatle progeny – George Harrison's son, Dhani.

A Weird Presence.

Dhani and his band are just arriving, and I am running cables through the control room - an impressive space full of the latest audio technology. As I snake the cables, I spot a rather tall chap dressed all in black, standing alone by the door.

Looking up, I am amazed to see the squeezebox-master-parody-superstar, Weird Al Yankovic!

It seems he is recording in one of the other rooms, has popped in, and is waiting to say hi to Dhani.

We catch each other's eye ...

I stand there, with a starstruck look that says, 'Hey! You're Weird Al Yankovic!'

He makes a face that says, 'Hey! Yeah, it’s me!'

I make a face that says, 'Wow, I'm thrilled, but what's the protocol here?'

He makes a face that says, 'Hmm, not sure.'

Just as I am about to make a face that says, 'Hey, would it be cool if I got a selfie with you?' I catch the cold eye of my boss, the show producer.

So instead, I make a face that says, 'I am but a lowly camera operator, and there is an unspoken rule that the video team must not fraternize with the celebs. So, as much as I am dying to ask for a selfie, I'm afraid I am going to just have to finish laying this cable and leave.'

Weird Al makes a face that says, 'Hey, no worries, I get it - take it easy.'

I reluctantly leave the room, buzzing with excitement tinged with disappointment. It was exhilarating to have a close encounter with Weird Al, the man who had given me so many laughs growing up, but regrettable that I couldn't seize the moment for a brief chat.

Finding the Meditation Hall.

Back in the studio, I set about attaching the heavy lights on their stands. With a niggling concern about their top-heavy nature - and the dire implications of a lighting mishap, especially on a Beatle offspring - I seek out sandbags for stability.

“Upstairs, straight ahead,” the technician casually directs me, his cool, laid-back demeanor typical of The Village staffers.

This is the opportunity I have been hoping for, the chance for a little exploration!

Ascending the stairs, I quickly find myself in the grand hall, the very space that Dhani's dad, alongside his Fab friends, had sought some transcendental peace.

Alone, in that vast, empty chamber, I let my imagination wander. The air hums with the unseen presence of spiritual seekers - each searching for a sense of meaning amidst their troubled times. For a fleeting moment, I become a part of that bygone era.

Closing my eyes, I try to empty my mind, but instead, I find myself thinking about George Harrison. He was such a huge musical and spiritual icon. It makes me wonder, has Dhani inherited his father’s spiritual side?

But my musings are interrupted by the sudden sound of approaching footsteps.

Dhani and his band have ascended to share in this spiritual legacy. My excitement is cut short, however, by the appearance of the show producer, her stern look a clear signal. My role is downstairs, anchoring the lights, not up here delving into spiritual reveries - and so I make my way back to the studio, sandbags in hand - the question of Dhani’s spiritual influences still lingering in my mind.

With everything in place, and the clock ticking down to showtime, the band take their positions - a moment of quiet anticipation fills the air. With seconds to go, Dhani reaches into a bag and unfurls a string of colorful Tibetan prayer flags, hanging them from his microphone stand.

I had my answer.

The studio buzzes with silent tension.

Three, two, one …

The producer gives the cue, and the session springs to life. A thrumming bass and driving kick drum build to a crescendo of strident guitars, rich vocal layers, and the full-bodied resonance of a string section. The sound is both cinematic and gritty, filling the studio with pulsing energy.

Dhani's voice bears a distinct echo of his father’s, but in this session it takes on a life of its own - gentle, understated, haunting. The lyrics explore themes of self-discovery, healing, and love.

Standing there, right in the middle of the action, camera perched on my shoulder, I can’t help but feel incredibly lucky. Watching Dhani doing his thing is just really cool. He seems perfectly at ease, unfazed by all the expectations you’d think come with his name. The whole band are simply enjoying the moment. It is an experience I won’t forget.

As the final note lingers, fading into a prolonged silence, the session draws to a close. The moment the producer declares that we are off air, the studio comes alive with a flurry of activity - a cacophony of congratulations and animated post-performance discussions fills the space. Meanwhile, the crew and I spring into action, beginning the arduous task of striking the set.

An Unusual Parking Lot Ritual.

With the day's work done and dusted, and everything safely packed away, I settle into the solitude of my car, tucked away in the quiet corner of the lot. Lost in reflection on the day's events, I prepare to start the engine when a peculiar sight catches my eye in the rearview mirror.

A couple, standing right behind my parked car, inadvertently blocking me in. They are engrossed in some kind of ritual.

The woman pulls crystals from a soft bag, handing them to her companion, who kisses them one by one, before tenderly returning them to the bag.

I am about to gently beep my horn to alert them to my presence, when I lean in for a closer look.

The man is none other than Steven Tyler, lead singer of Aerosmith.

I am now caught in a unique predicament - do I honk my horn at Steven Tyler and interrupt this private moment? Or do I silently wait for him to finish, feeling like an accidental voyeur, spying on this intimate scene through the rearview mirror?

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Opting for the latter, I sit and watch, fascinated, as each new crystal receives a delicate smooch.

This curious sight leads me to wonder - is this part of Steven’s pre-show routine - perhaps the secret behind his mesmerizing vocal performances?

One by one, the crystals keep coming - there seems to be an endless supply. I’m beginning to wonder just how long I am going to be trapped here. The scene is unexpectedly tender and intimate, yet so strange that I find myself struggling to stifle my laughter.

Finally, the last crystal receives its kiss and is tucked safely back into the bag. The couple stroll off, disappearing into the studio complex.

With their departure, I am free at last to reverse out and start my journey home, the day's surreal finale still playing in my mind.

A Personal Takeaway.

As I make my way along the wide, palm tree lined LA streets, my mind revisits each encounter of the day. Although I hadn't spoken a single word to Dhani, Weird Al, or Steven Tyler, they had each communicated something of their unique spirit. What struck me most was not their fame, but their simple humanity. Dhani's courage to carve out his unique sound, Weird Al's unpretentious warmth, and Steven Tyler's new-age ritual - all served as windows into their authentic selves, beyond their public personas.

Arriving home, with the energy of The Village still resonating, I feel a simple gratitude. This day hasn't just given me stories of celebrity encounters - it was a peek into the real, everyday humanity behind the fame. It hit me that no matter how bright the spotlight, we're all just people at the end of the day. This simple truth is one I will carry with me, a reminder for every moment I'm behind the camera, capturing moments of fame and flashes of real life.

Wishing you all a week filled with curiosity, enlightening conversations, and unexpected insights!

🪶

Jay

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