Elon Musk Surprises SpaceX by Singing ‘Rocket Man’—And Moves Everyone
Everyone knew Elon Musk as the genius behind Tesla and SpaceX—the man obsessed with sending humans to Mars and transforming Earth’s energy systems. What no one knew was that behind his technical mind and awkward public persona was a voice that had remained hidden since childhood—a voice that would unexpectedly emerge during a company talent show, forever changing how the world saw him, and perhaps how he saw himself.
The June sun blazed through the glass roof of SpaceX’s headquarters in Hawthorne, California. Elon Musk shifted uncomfortably in his front-row seat. The annual SpaceX Family Day was in full swing, and the talent show was about to begin.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our 7th annual SpaceX Family Day talent show!” announced Maria Gonzalez from Human Resources. Her voice echoed through the massive assembly area, normally used for rocket part inspections. Today, it was filled with folding chairs, a makeshift stage, and about 500 SpaceX employees and their families.
Elon checked his watch. He’d agreed to stay for the first hour before sneaking back to his office. There were Starship designs waiting for his review, and the Tesla board wanted updated production numbers by morning.
Jensen Wong, head of the rocket engine team, leaned over and whispered, “You know what would really boost team spirit? If the boss got on stage.”
Elon laughed. “Not happening.”
“Come on,” Jensen pressed. “You make us do impossible things every day. Time to practice what you preach.”
Elon shook his head. “The talent show is for you guys, not me.”
On stage, a group of engineering interns was performing a rap about rocket propulsion. The crowd cheered as they finished with a synchronized dab.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Elon said, pointing at the stage. “Young people’s stuff.”
Rebecca Leu, the materials science director, turned around from the row in front. “I heard that, Musk. You’re only 52. Stop acting like you’re ancient.”
“My 10-year-old daughter is performing,” added Carlos Mendes from the software team. “If she can do it, you can.”
Elon felt trapped. More employees were turning to look at him now. He fixed his eyes straight ahead, pretending not to notice.
“What would you even do up there?” Jensen asked. “Boring corporate speech? Robot dance?”
“I don’t dance,” Elon said flatly.
“Then what’s your hidden talent, boss?” Rebecca grinned. “Everyone’s got one.”
Elon’s mind flashed back to his childhood bedroom in Pretoria, South Africa. Sitting alone, singing quietly to his cassette player while his parents fought downstairs. Music had been his escape during those dark days when school was a daily battle and home wasn’t much better.
“Earth to Mars,” Jensen waved a hand in front of his face.
Elon blinked. “Sorry, thinking about the new heat shield design.”
“Sure you were,” Jensen said, not believing him for a second. He raised his voice just enough for nearby rows to hear. “I dare Elon Musk to perform in the talent show today.”
Several employees gasped; others chuckled nervously. No one challenged Jensen Wong—except Elon, and even that was during design reviews, not social events.
“I double dare you,” Carlos added, his eyes twinkling.
“Triple dare,” Rebecca chimed in.
Elon’s face flushed. He was the man who had revolutionized electric cars, commercial space flight, and online payments. He employed thousands of the smartest people on the planet. Yet somehow, these playground rules still applied. You couldn’t back down from a triple dare.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered.
.
.
.
On stage, a facilities manager was juggling wrenches. The crowd applauded as he added a fourth wrench to the rotation. Elon felt his phone buzz. It was a text from Sasha, his assistant: Board meeting tomorrow moved to 9:00 a.m. Reminder: Mars habitat deadline this Friday.
The real world was calling. He should excuse himself now, escape to his office, and let his employees enjoy their family day. But something stopped him. Maybe it was the memory of those kids in South Africa who said he’d never amount to anything. Maybe it was the countless investors who’d laughed him out of their offices, or the auto industry executives who’d predicted Tesla’s failure year after year. His whole life, people had underestimated him, and every time, proving them wrong felt better than anything else.
“Fine,” he said suddenly.
Jensen nearly choked on his water. “What?”
“I said fine. I’ll do it.”
Rebecca’s eyes widened. “Seriously? You’re going to perform?”
“Don’t look so shocked. I’m human, contrary to the internet rumors.”
Carlos laughed. “So what’s it going to be? Please tell me you’re not going to talk about Mars colonization. It’s Saturday, boss.”
Elon’s mind was already racing ahead. If he was going to do this—really do this—then it had to mean something. Not a joke. Not a half-effort. “You’ll see,” he said mysteriously.
His heart pounded as he pulled out his phone and texted Sasha: Find me the karaoke version of Rocket Man. Don’t tell anyone.
Three dots appeared immediately. Sasha never questioned his strange requests anymore.
Do I need to look for a costume too? she texted back.
Just the music, thanks.
Elon slipped his phone back into his pocket. Across the aisle, he spotted Marvin Hayes, the night shift janitor who’d been with SpaceX since the early days. Marvin had once told Elon that he took the job because he wanted his grandchildren to know he was part of sending humans to Mars. Marvin caught his eye and smiled. Elon nodded back, suddenly feeling the weight of all these people’s dreams on his shoulders.
What if he made a fool of himself? What if videos spread online? The board would be furious. The headlines would be brutal: Musk Melts Down at Company Event. But what if… what if they actually liked it?
He hadn’t sung in front of anyone since his grandmother Wifred visited from Canada when he was twelve. “You have a beautiful voice, Elon,” she told him. “Don’t hide your light.”
For forty years, he’d done exactly that—hidden this one small part of himself while exposing everything else to the world’s constant scrutiny.
His phone buzzed again. Sasha had sent the file. Good luck with whatever this is, her message read.
Elon took a deep breath. What was one more impossible thing? After all, he’d already decided to die on Mars.
“You might regret that dare,” he told Jensen with a half-smile.
Jensen rubbed his hands together excitedly. “This is going to be epic. Either epically good or epically disastrous. Win-win for us either way.”
Elon laughed, despite himself. The knot in his stomach loosened a little. These people were his team. They’d seen him through rocket explosions and production nightmares. Maybe it was time they saw this side of him, too.
On stage, Maria was checking her list of performers. “Next up, we have Lucy Chen with a violin piece.”
As 11-year-old Lucy walked confidently to center stage, Elon made his decision. He’d go after her. No more hiding.
Lucy lifted her violin and began to play. The sweet notes of Vivaldi’s “Spring” filled the room, silencing the crowd. Elon watched her small fingers dance across the strings with perfect precision. She played with her eyes closed, lost in the music.
As Lucy’s melody flowed through the SpaceX assembly hall, Elon’s mind drifted back to another time and place—his childhood bedroom in Pretoria, South Africa, 1986. Twelve-year-old Elon sat on the edge of his bed, a worn paperback science fiction novel beside him. Downstairs, his parents argued again. He reached for his cassette player and headphones—a birthday gift from his mother, May. Slipping the headphones over his ears, he pressed play. David Bowie’s voice transported him away from the shouting, away from the loneliness.
When the house was empty, Elon would sing along—at first quietly, then with growing confidence as he realized no one was there to laugh or judge. Music became his secret companion.
A week after his 12th birthday, his parents called him and his siblings into the living room. “Your father and I are getting divorced,” his mother said gently. Kimbal and Tosca cried. Elon remained silent, already retreating into his private world.
His grandmother Wifred visited that summer. She’d studied at the Royal Academy of Music in London. One afternoon, she passed by his room while he was singing along to his cassette player.
“Elon,” she called, knocking lightly.
He yanked the headphones off, embarrassed to be caught.
Wifred smiled. “You have a beautiful voice. Has anyone ever told you that?”
He shook his head.
“Music is math and feeling together,” she said, sitting beside him. “Just like those rockets in your books. Both need precision and passion.” She tapped his chest. “Don’t hide your light.”
But he did hide it, especially after moving in with his father, Errol—a brilliant engineer but a harsh critic. “Focus on what matters,” he would say whenever he caught Elon wasting time with music. “Singing won’t change the world.”
Lucy’s violin piece came to an end, snapping Elon back to the present. The crowd erupted in applause as the girl took a small bow, her face flushed with pride.
“That was Lucy Chen, daughter of our propulsion engineer, David Chen,” Maria announced. “Wasn’t she amazing? Let’s give her another round of applause!”
Elon clapped harder than anyone. Lucy reminded him of his own children—the five boys who also knew nothing about this side of their father.
On stage, Maria called the next act: “The IT department with their robot dance routine!” Five people in cardboard robot costumes shuffled onto the stage. The crowd laughed as they began a jerky dance to a techno version of “Mr. Roboto.”
Elon felt his phone buzz again. Another text from Sasha: Got the file. Sent to your email and phone. Good quality backing track, no vocals.
He typed back quickly: Thanks. Ask Tyler at the sound booth to be ready. I’ll be after the robot dancers.
Elon glanced around the room. Nearly everyone was watching the stage, laughing at the intentionally awkward robot dance. No one was paying attention to him—no one could see how his heart was racing.
During the hardest days at Tesla in 2018—what he publicly called “manufacturing hell”—Elon had sometimes stayed in his office until midnight, trying to solve impossible problems. Those nights, when the factory floor finally emptied, he would sing to calm his nerves. Songs about space, about leaving Earth, about finding new homes among the stars.
“You know,” Jensen said, pulling Elon from his thoughts, “whatever you do up there, it can’t be worse than what happened at the Christmas party three years ago.”
Elon winced at the memory. The software team’s attempt at standup comedy had turned into a roast of SpaceX’s early failures—funny, but not in front of the investors who had been invited.
“At least I can’t blow up a rocket on stage,” Elon replied.
The robot dance finished to enthusiastic applause as the IT team clanked off stage in their cardboard costumes.
Maria stepped forward. “Thank you, IT department! Always good to see our tech specialists demonstrate their unique talents.”
The crowd laughed.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, we have a surprise guest performer.”
Elon felt his stomach drop. This was it.
“Wait, now?” Jensen asked, looking confused. “Did you secretly sign up?”
Elon stood. “Not exactly.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, opening the music files Sasha had sent. His hands were trembling slightly.
“Good luck, boss,” Rebecca said, her earlier teasing replaced with genuine encouragement.
Carlos gave him a thumbs up. “Remember, my daughter went before you. No pressure.”
As Elon walked toward the stage, memories from his life’s journey flashed before him: the lonely boy in South Africa, the struggling student in Canada, the determined entrepreneur sleeping on office floors, the man who had nearly lost everything in 2008, and now the billionaire who still sometimes felt like an outsider.
His phone buzzed one more time as he reached the stairs to the stage. He glanced down to see a text from his son, X: Dad, Mom told me you’re doing something at SpaceX today. Whatever it is, you’ve got this.
Elon smiled. Maybe it was time for his children to know this part of him, too.
He climbed the steps to the stage, his legs feeling heavier with each step. Five hundred pairs of eyes watched him in stunned silence. Phones were already coming out to record whatever was about to happen. There was no turning back now.
Maria Gonzalez’s eyes widened as Elon approached. She fumbled with her note cards—this wasn’t part of the plan. “Um, ladies and gentlemen,” she stammered into the microphone, “please welcome Mr. Elon Musk.”
A confused murmur swept through the crowd. Parents leaned toward each other, whispering. Children pointed. Employees sat up straighter in their chairs.
Maria handed Elon the microphone with shaking hands. “What will you be performing for us, Mr. Musk?” she asked, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Elon took the microphone. The weight of it surprised him—or maybe that was just his nerves. The spotlight felt hot on his face.
“I, uh—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’ll be singing a song.”
The murmur grew louder. In the front row, Jensen’s mouth hung open. Rebecca was frantically whispering to Carlos, who kept shaking his head in disbelief.
Elon spotted Tyler at the sound booth, looking confused. He walked to the edge of the stage. “Tyler, I sent you a file. Can you play it?”
Tyler, a 23-year-old with blue hair and multiple piercings, blinked several times. “We don’t have that ready, sir.”
“I do.” Elon held up his phone. “Can you connect to this?”
Tyler nodded, snapping into professional mode. “Yes, sir. Bluetooth to the board. Give me one minute.”
As Tyler worked, Elon stood awkwardly center stage. Five hundred people stared at him in silence. He could feel sweat forming on his brow.
“Technical difficulties,” he said into the microphone.
A few people laughed nervously.
Elon’s mind raced with doubt. What was he thinking? He ran car companies and rocket companies. He sent people to space. He didn’t perform at talent shows.
Failed Tesla demos flashed through his mind—the Cybertruck window that shattered when it wasn’t supposed to, the rockets that exploded on live streams, the cruel headlines that followed. But other images came, too: the Falcon rockets that now successfully flew and landed, the thousands of Tesla cars rolling off assembly lines each day, the millions of people who believed in his vision for a sustainable future.
“I’ve sent rockets to space,” he whispered to himself. “I can do this.”
He looked out at the crowd again. His employees were watching with a mix of curiosity and concern. Many had their phones out. Whatever happened in the next few minutes would likely be all over the internet by dinnertime.
In the third row, he spotted Gwynne Shotwell, SpaceX’s president and his right hand for over 20 years. She gave him an encouraging nod. Near the back, Marvin the janitor stood watching, arms crossed, a small smile on his face.
“Ready when you are, Mr. Musk,” Tyler called from the sound booth.
Elon nodded. “The song is ‘Rocket Man’ by Elton John.”
Another wave of whispers swept through the audience. Parents who recognized the classic song raised their eyebrows. Younger employees looked it up on their phones.
Elon closed his eyes for a moment. He thought about the red Tesla Roadster he had sent to space aboard the Falcon Heavy, now floating somewhere past Mars. He thought about his dream of humans becoming a multi-planet species. The song suddenly felt right. It wasn’t just about rockets—it was about loneliness, about sacrificing normal life for a bigger mission, about the emptiness of space and the fullness of purpose.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Tyler said.
Elon’s phone buzzed in his pocket once more. He pulled it out to find another text from his son, X: Dad, whatever you’re doing, you’ve got this.
That message from his son, who had grown up watching him take impossible risks, made his decision final.
“Play it,” Elon said to Tyler.
As Tyler pressed a button on his soundboard, Elon turned to face the audience. He spotted Jensen in the front row—the man whose dare had started all this. Jensen gave him a thumbs up.
The familiar piano intro began to play through the speakers. The notes hung in the air, filling the massive space where rocket parts were usually assembled. Elon lifted the microphone. His hand was steady now. The moment of doubt had passed. In his mind, he was no longer on stage but floating in space, looking down at the blue marble of Earth, speaking to everyone who had ever called him crazy or impossible. He had spent his life proving people wrong. Today would be no different.
As the moment approached for him to sing the first line, Elon saw Marvin Hayes, the janitor, now standing against the wall near the stage. Marvin, who had cleaned SpaceX’s floors for 15 years because he believed in the mission. Marvin, who wanted his grandchildren to know he helped send humans to Mars. Marvin caught his eye and gave him a slight nod, as if to say, “Show them who you really are.”
Elon took a deep breath and began to sing.
The first notes were soft, almost hesitant. His eyes remained fixed on the back wall, avoiding the hundreds of stares. But as the familiar melody carried him, something shifted. His voice grew stronger with each word—about a rocket man heading for the stars.
In the audience, Jensen Wong’s skeptical smile faded. Rebecca Leu’s phone, raised to record what she had expected to be an awkward moment, lowered slightly. The children in the crowd sat up straighter, suddenly interested in the tall man on stage who built real rockets and was now singing about them.
As Elon reached the first chorus, a memory flashed in his mind—the last time he had performed in public. He was 13, standing on the stage at Bryanston High School in Pretoria at the annual talent competition. His mother, May, had encouraged him to play piano, which he had been practicing for months. “Show them what you can do,” she had said.
Halfway through the classical piece, his mind went blank. The notes he had practiced hundreds of times vanished. The audience of students began to whisper. Someone snickered. After ten painful seconds of silence, he managed to finish, his face burning with shame.
That evening, his father, Errol, had looked up from his engineering magazine long enough to say, “You made a fool of yourself today, Elon.” Elon never performed again. He buried himself in computers and physics books, his music relegated to private moments.
Now, on the SpaceX stage, those old shadows threatened to return. But this time, he wasn’t 13. He wasn’t powerless. He kept singing, his voice growing in confidence as he described the loneliness of space.
The crowd was absolutely still. No phones buzzed. No children fidgeted. Everyone watched as their boss, known for his technical mind and sometimes awkward speaking style, transformed before their eyes.
Elon thought about how far he’d come from that humiliated teenager. After leaving South Africa at 17, he had moved to Canada with nothing but ambition and $2,000 in his pocket. Working odd jobs, he put himself through college—first at Queen’s University, then transferring to the University of Pennsylvania. His first company, Zip2, was started with his brother Kimbal in 1995. Those were hungry years—sleeping on office floors, showering at the YMCA, eating cheap hot dogs—but never once giving up on the dream.
Then came the PayPal years and the power struggles with the board that ultimately pushed him out of his own company. Despite making millions when eBay acquired PayPal, Elon had felt lost, rejected. He remembered driving alone along the California coast, singing at the top of his lungs to drown out his doubts. Music had been his companion when everything else failed.
As he continued singing the familiar song about a rocket man, Elon’s voice carried the emotional weight of those memories. He wasn’t technically perfect—there were no vocal acrobatics or fancy runs—but there was something raw and authentic in his performance that caught everyone off guard.
In 2008, both Tesla and SpaceX had nearly gone bankrupt. Elon had put his last $40 million into the companies, facing the very real possibility of losing everything. The financial crisis had hit hard. Critics were gleeful, predicting his failure. Those nights, alone in his office with the weight of hundreds of employees’ livelihoods on his shoulders, he would sometimes sing quietly to himself—songs about perseverance, about getting up after being knocked down.
The third row of the audience held several Tesla employees who had come to support their SpaceX friends. They exchanged surprised glances. They had seen Elon at his most stressed during the “production hell” of 2018, when the Model 3 ramp-up pushed everyone to the breaking point. Back then, some factory workers had called him “alien dude” behind his back, finding his intensity and demanding nature almost inhuman. Yet here he was, singing about a rocket man who wasn’t the person everyone thought he was. And suddenly, that nickname took on new meaning.
As Elon approached the final chorus, his eyes finally met the audience. He saw Marvin the janitor nodding in rhythm. He saw Gwynne Shotwell smiling proudly. He saw Jensen’s shocked expression. He saw children watching with wide eyes, perhaps realizing for the first time that the man who built rockets was just a human after all.
The song’s outro began—those long, fading notes about a rocket man alone in space. Elon’s voice softened, carrying the feeling of isolation that often came with his position. The spotlight felt less harsh now, the stage beneath his feet more solid.
As the final piano notes faded away, the massive assembly hall fell completely silent. For a moment, Elon feared he had made a terrible mistake. But then he saw Maria Gonzalez wiping a tear from her eye. The spotlights were too bright for him to see much else. He cleared his throat, suddenly conscious of the silence.
“Thank you,” he said simply, his voice slightly shaky.
Then, from the back of the room, Marvin began to clap—slowly at first, then faster. One by one, others joined in. The applause built like a wave, washing over Elon as he stood awkwardly holding the microphone. Children jumped to their feet. Parents followed. Soon, the entire room was giving him a standing ovation—not because he was their boss, not because he was one of the richest men in the world, but because for three minutes and fifty-five seconds, he had shown them something real.
Elon gave a small, awkward bow and quickly handed the microphone back to Maria. As he walked off stage, his legs felt wobbly. Had that really happened? Had he really just sung in front of 500 people?
The spotlight followed him as he returned to his seat in the front row. Jensen stared at him as if seeing him for the first time.
“Dude,” Jensen whispered. “What was that?”
Elon shrugged, his face flushed. “You dared me.”
“But how did you—when did you learn to sing like that?”
Elon just smiled. “Nobody ever asked.”
On stage, Maria Gonzalez was trying to regain control of the room. “Wow, that was unexpected. Thank you, Mr. Musk,” her voice shook slightly. “Let’s give him another round of applause.”
The audience obliged enthusiastically. Some people were still standing; others were furiously typing on their phones, undoubtedly sharing what they had just witnessed.
As the talent show ended and people began to rise from their seats, Elon found himself surrounded. Employees he’d worked with for years approached with shy smiles and new questions. Children asked for autographs. One little girl, about 7 years old, tugged on his sleeve.
“Mr. Rocket Man,” she said, “can you sing at my birthday party?”
Elon laughed. “I think today was a one-time special event.” The girl looked disappointed, but Elon added, kneeling to her level, “Maybe someday I’ll sing on Mars. Would you like to hear that?”
Her eyes widened. “Can I go to Mars too?”
“If you study hard and believe in impossible things, absolutely.”
As the crowd around him grew, Elon caught sight of Marvin the janitor, standing back, watching with a smile. Elon excused himself and made his way over.
“Marvin,” Elon said, extending his hand, “thank you for starting that applause. For a moment there, I thought I’d made a huge mistake.”
Marvin’s handshake was firm. “No mistake, Mr. Musk. People needed to see that.”
“See what?”
“That the man sending us to Mars has a soul. Makes the whole thing more meaningful, somehow.”
Before Elon could respond, his phone rang. It was Sasha, his assistant.
“I’m getting calls from every news outlet,” she said when he answered. “CNN, BBC, Bloomberg—the video is everywhere. What do you want me to say?”
Elon looked around at the SpaceX facility—the massive rocket parts, the brilliant engineers, the families all sharing in the dream of space. Then he glanced at Marvin, who gave him a knowing nod.
“Tell them no comment,” Elon said. “Some things aren’t for public consumption.”
“You sure about that?” Sasha asked. “It’s already out there.”
Elon smiled. “Let them wonder.”
As he hung up the phone, Gwynne Shotwell approached. SpaceX’s president and COO had been with the company almost from the beginning, weathering every storm alongside Elon.
“That was something else,” she said, her usual business-like demeanor softened with genuine surprise. “In 20 years, I thought I knew all your talents.”
Elon shrugged. “We all have hidden sides, Gwynne.”
“True, but most of us don’t hide a voice like that.” She lowered her voice. “The board is already texting me. They think it’s great PR.”
Elon frowned. “It wasn’t about PR.”
“I know,” Gwynne said quickly. “That’s why it worked. It was authentic.”
As they spoke, families and employees were making their way outside, where food trucks and carnival games awaited. Many paused to steal another glance at Elon, as if seeing him for the first time.
“I should get back to work,” Elon said, checking his watch. “Those Starship designs—”
“They can wait until Monday,” Gwynne interrupted firmly. “Stay. Enjoy the day. Your kids would want you to.”
Elon hesitated, then nodded. “You’re right.”
As he followed the crowd outside into the California sunshine, Elon thought about the first notes he’d sung on stage—how quiet and unsure they’d been. The memory took him back to his first presentation as CEO of Tesla. His voice had quavered then, too. People had underestimated him—the software guy trying to build cars. “It’ll never work,” auto industry executives had said. “Electric cars are toys.” Fifteen years later, Tesla was revolutionizing transportation.
His first SpaceX launch presentations had been similarly shaky. Aerospace giants had laughed at the idea of a private company succeeding where only nations had gone before. They’d stopped laughing when the Falcon rockets started landing themselves.
Outside, the SpaceX parking lot had been transformed into a festival ground. Children bounced in inflatable rocket-shaped houses. Employees lined up at food trucks serving everything from tacos to Thai food. A band was setting up on a small stage.
Jensen appeared at Elon’s elbow with two paper plates of barbecue. “Thought you might be hungry after your big debut,” he said, offering one to Elon.
“Thanks,” Elon said, accepting the plate. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.
“So,” Jensen said, taking a bite of his brisket, “when did it start? The singing.”
Elon chewed thoughtfully. “I was about 10, in South Africa. Tough time at school. Tough time at home.” He paused. “Music was safe.”
Jensen nodded, not pushing for more details. They ate in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the families enjoy the day.
“You know,” Jensen said finally, “that wasn’t what I expected when I dared you.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know—a corporate speech, maybe some awkward dancing. Something we could laugh about.”
“Disappointed?” Elon asked, raising an eyebrow.
“The opposite,” Jensen said seriously. “It was like seeing the real you for the first time.” He gestured around at the SpaceX campus. “All this amazing stuff you’ve built, and somehow you singing that song made it more human.”
Across the parking lot, Lucy Chen, the young violinist, was showing other children how to hold her instrument. She looked up and waved at Elon, who waved back.
“Sir,” a young engineer approached nervously. “I’m Alex Petroski from the propulsion team. I just wanted to say—my dad used to play that song when I was a kid. It’s why I wanted to build rockets. Hearing you sing it… it reminded me why we’re all here.”
Elon nodded, surprisingly moved. “Thank you, Alex.”
As Alex walked away, more employees began approaching. Some just wanted to shake Elon’s hand. Others shared how the performance had affected them.
“I never knew you had that in you, boss,” said Carlos, joining them with his daughter in tow. “Paola here hasn’t stopped talking about it.”
The little girl looked up at Elon with wide eyes. “Do you really want to live on Mars?”
“Someday,” Elon said, kneeling to her level. “Would you want to visit?”
She nodded solemnly. “Will you sing there too?”
Elon laughed. “Maybe—if anyone wants to listen.”
“I’ll listen,” Paola said decisively.
As the afternoon continued, Elon found himself more relaxed than he’d been in months. He played carnival games with employees’ children. He sat in the dunk tank and let the engineering team soak him. He even joined a pickup soccer game, his lanky frame surprisingly agile.
All the while, he noticed people looking at him differently. The usual awe and intimidation had been replaced with something warmer, more personal. One of the security guards, a retired Marine named Jackson who rarely spoke, approached him near the ice cream truck.
“My wife’s going to be sorry she missed this,” Jackson said gruffly. “She always said you had depth most people don’t see.”
Elon smiled. “Smart woman.”
“The smartest,” Jackson agreed. “She also says you work too hard. Says your eyes look tired in photos.” He shrugged. “Just passing that along.”
Before Elon could respond, Jackson walked away, returning to his post by the gate.
As the sun began to set, the carnival atmosphere wound down. Families gathered their tired children. Employees helped clean up. The day was ending. Elon found himself standing alone, watching his space company transform back from a family playground to the site of humanity’s next great adventure.
He felt different—somehow lighter. His phone, which he’d silenced hours ago, buzzed insistently in his pocket: 57 missed calls, over a hundred text messages. The video had gone viral.
“Worth it?” asked Gwynne, appearing beside him.
Elon looked around at his employees—the people who built rockets with him, who shared his impossible dreams. “Definitely worth it,” he said. “Even though the whole world now knows Elon Musk can sing.”
“They don’t know you,” Gwynne said. “They just heard a few notes.”
“Pretty impressive notes,” Gwynne said. “People won’t forget them.”
Elon nodded. The first notes had been quiet, uncertain, but something had changed as he’d continued singing. Something had unlocked inside him.
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” he said softly.
As darkness fell over the SpaceX campus, most families had gone home. Only a few employees remained, cleaning up the last of the festival. The massive rocket assembly building was mostly dark now, except for the safety lights that never turned off.
Elon walked slowly toward his Tesla Model S in the parking lot. His phone continued to buzz with notifications. When he finally checked it, he saw that #ElonSings was trending globally. The video had millions of views already. There were texts from people he hadn’t heard from in years—his college roommate from Queen’s University (“Dude, since when can you sing?”), his first investor from the Zip2 days (“Forget rockets, start a band”), even his ex-wife (“The boys are so proud. X can’t stop watching the video.”).
As Elon unlocked his car, he noticed someone sitting on a bench near the SpaceX entrance—Jensen, staring up at the stars.
“Thought you’d be gone by now,” Elon said, walking over.
Jensen looked up. “Just thinking. Dangerous pastime, so I’ve been told.” Jensen patted the bench beside him. “Got a minute?”
Elon checked his watch, then sat down. Above them, the night sky was partially visible through LA’s light pollution. A few stars twinkled faintly.
“I’ve worked for you for eight years,” Jensen said. “Helped design engines that are currently in space. But today was the first time I felt like I really saw you.”
Elon said nothing.
“That song,” Jensen continued, “the way you sang about loneliness, about Mars—it wasn’t just a performance, was it?”
Elon sighed. “No.”
“Do you really feel that way? Like the rocket man in the song—alone up there?”
Elon looked up at the stars. Somewhere up there was his red Tesla Roadster, still floating in space with its mannequin driver—the ultimate lonely traveler.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Building the future can be isolating.”
Jensen nodded. “I never thought about that. We all work crazy hours, but at the end of the day, we go home to our families. You just move on to the next impossible problem.”
“It’s what I signed up for.”
“Maybe. But today, when you were singing, it was like you were telling us something you couldn’t just say in a meeting.”
Elon smiled slightly. “Maybe I was.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, two engineers contemplating the stars. Finally, Jensen stood up.
“Thanks for taking the dare,” he said, extending his hand. “Best talent show ever.”
Elon shook his hand. “Don’t expect an encore next year.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
As Jensen walked away, Elon remained on the bench for a few more minutes. The night had turned cool. In the distance, he could hear the 405 freeway—a constant river of humanity flowing through Los Angeles.
His phone buzzed again. This time it was his mother.
“Elon,” May said when he answered, “I’ve seen the video. Your grandmother Wifred would be so proud.”
Elon felt a lump in his throat. “You think so?”
“I know so. She always said you had music in your soul. Remember when she visited when you were 12? She told me she heard you singing in your room.”
“I remember,” Elon said softly.
“She wanted you to take lessons. Your father said no—too impractical.”
Elon chuckled. “He wasn’t wrong about that. Hard to monetize singing.”
“That’s not the point of music, dear,” May’s voice was gentle. “It’s the point of you.”
After talking with his mother, Elon finally headed home. But he didn’t go straight to his house in Bel-Air. Instead, he drove to the coast, parking at a lookout point above the Pacific Ocean. The waters were black under the night sky, reflecting scattered stars.
He thought about the transformation that had happened on that stage today—not just how others saw him, but how he felt in himself. For those few minutes while singing, he hadn’t been the CEO of multiple companies, the man under constant scrutiny, the focus of both adoration and criticism. He had just been Elon—the boy who once sang alone in his room in Pretoria.
His phone rang again. This time it was Priya Sharma, a senior programmer who had once criticized his code so brutally in a meeting that junior engineers had gasped. Elon had promoted her the next day.
“Mr. Musk,” she said when he answered, “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“It’s fine, Priya. What’s up?”
“I recorded the whole thing,” she said. “Your performance. But I haven’t posted it.”
Elon frowned. “Looks like plenty of others did.”
“Yes, but those videos are shaky, taken from the back. Mine is clear—I was in the front row.” She paused. “I wanted to ask your permission before sharing it.”
This surprised him. In the age of instant sharing, someone was actually asking first. “Why?” he asked.
“Simply because it was—” she hesitated, “it felt private somehow, even though it was in front of everyone. Like we saw something you don’t usually show.”
Elon looked out at the ocean, thinking.
“I came to America as an immigrant too,” Priya continued. “Mumbai to MIT. Everyone back home thought I was crazy. My parents wanted me to be a doctor
