(#025) There are no Plan B’s in celebrations
Last Thursday, Milan was drowning in rain like it hadn’t in ages.
At 4:30 p.m., I had to pick up two large-format posters from the printer — the kind that will soon guide guests and catch eyes at the music festival I’m organizing on June 21st. The event will be hosted in an urban cascina — a renovated farmhouse that now houses a restaurant, a bar, a flower shop, a bookstore, a guest house, and more.
I rode my bike to the printer. I don’t mind getting soaked — at least not during the seasons when rain feels more like a rainforest shower than a cryogenic bath.
To protect the posters, I rigged up a makeshift cover using scrap plastic wrap and scissors, cutting two small holes to thread through the leather straps of my trusty Filson rucksack — which was as cool as it sounds.
The shop assistant even coronated my efforts by baptising me “MacGyver.”
Then I unfolded my Brompton bike, hoisted the pack on my shoulders, and pedaled toward the cascina.
Along the way, I realized I’d be passing one of the music venues where I also wanted to promote the event (I’ll keep it anonymous). I veered left, arrived shortly after, and walked in.
The owner greeted me warmly. He’s someone I deeply appreciate — not just for his practical and moral support of Jam Nation, but because he’s simply a good person.
He happily put up one of the smaller versions of my poster, asked for more copies to help spread the word, and checked in on the event’s progress. Then he asked:
“Do you have a Plan B?”
For a moment, it felt like the universe glitched. My awareness stalled. My brain rebooted, trying to make sense of the question. Did he doubt the initiative? Was there something he knew — not necessarily about Jam Nation, but about the world of events in general? Or maybe I’d misunderstood?
I stammered, then bought time by asking him to clarify. He meant exactly what he said: What if no one shows up? Worse: What if no one shows up... except the press?
Honestly? I hadn’t thought of that. It struck me as both sobering and clever.
I thanked him, promised to consider it, and continued on to the cascina.
But something still didn’t sit right. Not because I felt foolish or naïve. No — it was deeper. My instincts told me I’d allowed a sliver of doubt to sneak in where it didn’t belong. That short exchange kept echoing in my mind. I felt like I’d let go of something important — a thread, a vision, a truth.
When I reached the cascina, the team welcomed me with warmth and excitement. They’ve believed in this project from the beginning and waited over a year to see it come to life. They thanked me for the posters, and I set off again — this time heading home.
And I kept thinking.
Eventually, it clicked.
Why would someone assume I need a Plan B in case no one shows up?
Well, because it would look bad if I gave it my all — and it didn’t work.
Sure. It would look bad.
But for whom?
Conventionally, such a circumstance reflects poorly on the organizer — that’s what 99% of people would think.
But let’s revisit what’s actually happening here:
I spent two years in music school, playing and learning with fellow students and amateurs. I gained insight into the frustrations and dreams of musicians. I dedicated a year to building a platform to help them connect, jam, and organize their own gigs — easily. And I offered that platform to the world, for free.
I then booked a farmhouse in the heart of Milan. I hired a music service company to build a stage, bring instruments, set up gear, and send two sound engineers. I launched a contest with rules, prizes, and intention. I invited musicians, conservatories, producers, and press. I sent out a dozen media packages.
And maybe… no one will show up.
A friend of mine — let’s call him M — put it perfectly:
“What you’re doing isn’t a grasp for attention over a half-hearted wish. You’ve built something. You went above and beyond. This event is a celebration of what you have already done. And celebrations don’t need Plan B’s.”
If musicians won’t show up...
Maybe they need a Plan B.
L.F
