How to Bruno Mars
For as long as I can remember, silence has been my default. I’ve spent years seeking it—protecting it—in between conversations, around meetings, after long days. Silence offers space. And I’ve come to appreciate how much happens in that space.
But recently, something shifted. My partner loves music in the way I love quiet. Slowly, the soundtrack of my days changed. I still don’t pay attention to the names of most songs or artists, or even the lyrics. But I recognize what I enjoy. And over time, I began to enjoy Bruno Mars more than others.
Earlier this year, we went to Vegas to see Bruno Mars live. I’ve never been one to follow concerts closely. But something about this experience stayed with me.
The seats were surprisingly comfortable—though almost unnecessary, since we stood for nearly the entire show. The energy was infectious. Everyone was on their feet, moving, singing, letting go. I don’t remember the names of the songs. But I remember the feeling. Which, in the end, feels more important.
Before the show started, something unusual happened. As we entered the venue, they took our phones and locked them in small pouches. Pockets we carried with us, but couldn’t open for the next three or four hours. At first, it felt inconvenient. Disorienting. But then the initial discomfort softened into something else.
It’s one thing to be without a phone. It’s another to be without a phone in a room with tens of thousands of other people who are also without theirs. There was no glow from screens. No arms raised trying to film the stage. Just people. Bodies swaying, voices rising, everyone there.
I noticed something in myself—a flicker of an impulse. There were moments when I wanted to reach for my phone. Not to call anyone. Not even to share. Just to capture. I don’t post on social media, but even so, I quietly thought, “This would be a beautiful moment to record.”
That impulse said something. About how deep the habit runs. About how fast the urge can pull us out of a moment, even just a little, to step outside it and preserve it. And yet, the simple reality of not having the option made everything feel more complete. Nothing to do but enjoy what was unfolding.
After the opening track, he leaned into the mic and sang a song about the phones. About taking them away just for one night. About returning to the good old days, when we danced and laughed without having to hold anything in our hands. There was humor in it. A little teasing. But also something sharper—like we were being offered a glimpse into what we’ve forgotten.
And I thought about how rare this experience has become. Not just being present, but being present together. Most modern concerts are designed with sharing in mind. Other performers, like Taylor Swift, have made it part of their strategy. Phones in the air aren’t a distraction—they’re marketing. The show doesn’t end when the lights go down. It lives on through stories, reels, and FOMO. It’s good for business.
But this wasn't.
There’s something economically irrational for an artist to ask people not to share. And yet, maybe that's why it felt so special. Something about its inaccessibility made it more vivid. Unrepeatable. More real.
Later, at the gym, one of his songs came on again. And suddenly, I wasn’t on a rowing machine—I was back in that theatre. I could see the lights. The way he danced across the stage. The way we danced. Every detail came rushing back, not because I watched a video of it, but because I had lived it fully.
There’s something ironic about that. That not trying to remember might be the best way of remembering. When I’m fully present, not just without technology but without being pulled into thoughts elsewhere, the memory doesn’t fade. It stays. It sinks in deeper. It’s not a photo—I can’t scroll to it—but it’s mine.
What struck me most wasn’t just my own presence, though. It was the presence of everyone else. There’s something profoundly different when an experience is shared by a crowd all focused on the same thing. It felt a little like being in a meditation retreat—or a yoga retreat—where stillness and focus are collective, where silence isn’t lonely but full. But I’ve only ever felt that kind of shared presence in small groups. A dozen people. Maybe a room of fifty. Never in a crowd of thousands.
And now, days and weeks later, what stays with me is exactly what didn’t get captured. What couldn’t be replayed. What couldn’t be posted or liked or remembered externally. It lives quietly inside me. And maybe that’s the whole point.
Sometimes, the most vivid memories don’t come from the moments we hold onto. They come from the ones we fully live.
And that is how I learned to Bruno Mars.
