I want to write the long version down. Not the pitch-deck version. Not the elevator version. The actual version, the one I would tell a close friend at 11 pm in a booth at a diner when they asked me what it was we thought we were doing.
Casamoré is three things at once, and every time somebody asks 'what is Casamoré' they get a different slice depending on what part of the brand they came through. If you found us through Spotify, you think we're a music duo — which we are. If you found us through a wedding rental, you think we're a silent-disco rental company — which we are. If you found us through a Fort Myers Beach sunset, you think we're a dance-floor-on-the-beach experience — which we are. All three are true. They're the same thing.
The underlying thing — the one sentence that joins all three — is this: Casamoré is an attempt to build a house of love. An actual one. A place you walk into and feel, immediately, welcomed. A place where the music is the first greeting. A place where strangers become temporarily family. And we are trying to build that house in as many different forms as we can find, because we think Southwest Florida needs it, and because we think the world past Southwest Florida needs it too.
The sunset series is one form of the house. Two or three times a summer, we build a dance floor on the sand, fill it with 200 strangers, play them records for two and a half hours, and send them home slightly changed. That's the most photogenic version of the house. It's the one the newsletter is mostly about.
The rental business is another form of the house. Every time someone rents a Casamoré silent-disco kit for their wedding or their backyard or their corporate retreat, they are — without necessarily knowing it — hosting their own house of love. We ship the room, they bring the people. The night that happens in their backyard is, in its own way, the same night we throw on Fort Myers Beach. Same headphones. Same warmth. Same dance floor that doesn't need a room.
The music — the Casamoré duo, the playlists, the album — is the third form. That's the house that fits on your phone. That's the house you can carry with you when you can't be at a sunset and can't host a dance floor of your own. It's the same house, compressed into songs, and every song we put out is supposed to be an invitation into the same feeling.
Why does this matter enough to spend three years of our lives on it? Because Tony and I grew up in a place that got broken, watched it get rebuilt, and realized somewhere in the middle of that rebuild that the thing a town actually needs when it's rebuilding isn't another business — it's a house. A place where people gather. A place where the music knows their name. A place that gives back the feeling of being a local, even to people who just arrived. Fort Myers Beach needed that. Southwest Florida needs that. And honestly, every beach town in America that has ever lost something needs that.
So that's what we're building. A house of love, in three forms, in as many places as we can reach. The sunset is the heart. The rentals are the hands. The music is the voice. And the Journal you're reading right now is just us, at a kitchen table at 11 pm, trying to write down what it feels like to build it while we're building it, so that one day somebody reads these posts in order and says — oh, I see. They meant it.
We mean it. Come find us. Sunset 01 is May 16.