Five musicians—each lost in their own cities thanks to a GPS app that thought "rehearsal studio" was a metaphor—stumbled into the same dive bar ten minutes before a mystery gig neither of them knew they’d booked. With no setlist, no rehearsal, and only three functioning guitar strings between them, they improvised a set so electric that the bar's ancient neon sign flickered back to life mid-solo. The crowd roared, the beer flowed, and someone yelled, “What’s your band called?” They glanced at the faded blue subway map behind the stage and, in unison, declared, “We’re BluLine!”—and just like that, a band that never meant to exist suddenly couldn’t imagine not playing together.