Saturday, December 19, 2015 (Afternoon)
Michael closed the door to his studio, muffling the sound of Karl's voice, who was already downstairs shouting on the phone, negotiating with so unfortunate promoter.
The silence of the soundproof room enveloped him. He felt relieved. Business was in motion; now he could go back to what really mattered.
He sat in front of his MacBook Pro and woke the screen. The betrayed_beat_v1 project was still open, just as he had left it that morning.
He put on the Sennheiser headphones. The loop of the "Dream Bells" began to play, hypnotic and bright. The beat was soft, a total contrast to the violence of 'Look At !' or the darkness of 'Paris'.
It was ti to record the vocals.
Michael stepped into the booth. He adjusted the pop filter on his Neumann microphone. This song required a different tone. Not a scream, nor a whisper. It was a lodic flow, almost sedated, but incredibly catchy.
He pressed record.
'Huh, aye...'
'What? Yeah, aye, aye...'
He started with the ad-libs, marking the rhythm. His voice was relaxed, gliding over the beat with lazy ease.
'Pop the trunk I open up I sold my soul for a good price...'
'Outta' sight, and my hoe got talent right...'
'Whole squad ran through that shit yikes...'
He got into character. The kid who has seen it all, who is tired of the fakeness.
'Ay, I'm a business man, I did my business, damn...'
He smiled singing that line. It was ironic. Downstairs, Karl was doing real business. He, up here, was turning business into art.
'But I'ma bend it down and I'ma lick her up, then dick her down...'
'She gon' turn around then I'ma kick her out...'
'She gon' talk that shi, but say...'
The flow changed, becoming faster, more rhythmic.
'How you make it up? How you fake a love?...'
'Holy son, I was the chosen one...'
'I'm sippin' out the glass, she gon' kiss and tell...'
'She keep my wishes well, I don't need her, well...'
He reached the bridge. His voice went up in pitch, the Auto-Tune gently correcting the edges to give it that perfect "watery" sound.
'How my enemy a friend of ?...'
'Why y'all feed off of my energy? Like I ain't dead yet...'
That line resonated. He felt like people, school, the system, everyone was feeding off his energy.
'Higher entity, foreign bitch that think she into ...'
'Whip the foreign very viciously...'
'Why these dudes wanna take pics with ?...'
He thought of school. Of the unsolicited photos.
'She said she gay, but still into ...'
'Said she gay still into ...'
'Said that she hates that I'm in the streets...'
'And I said that I hate that I'm in the streets...'
'I wanna blow up and make history...'
'And she said that she hate my Insta feed...'
And then, the chorus. The hook. He knew this was what would sell the song. He sang with a repetitive, hypnotic lody, almost like a toxic lullaby.
'Xans don't make you...'
'Xans gon' take you...'
'Xans gon' fake you...'
'Xans gon' betray you...'
He repeated it, stacking the vocals to create a soft choir. It was an anti-drug ssage disguised as a drug song. It was brilliant.
'Xans don't make you...'
'Xans gon' take you...'
'Xans gon' fake you...'
'Xans gon' betray you...'
He moved on to the second verse, where the lyrics beca more absurd and characteristic of the "mumble rap" style he was emulating, but executed with impeccable technical precision.
'And her pussy tastes like Skittles, what?...'
'Yeah, ay, and you can really taste the rainbow, what? (Hah, no)...'
'Yo' bitch just like a Crayola (what, ay)...'
'You can draw her on the table, flip her like so yola...'
He had fun with these lines. They were colorful, stupid, and catchy.
'Heart shaped kisses, I really miss my mistress...'
'666, evil bitches want my ntions...'
The dark touch. A nod to his 'Paris' fans.
'Heart shaped kisses, I really miss my mistress...'
'And it's 666, evil bitches want my ntions...'
He returned to the final chorus, letting the repetition stick in the brain of any future listener.
'Xans don't make you... Xans gon' take you... Xans gon' fake you... Xans gon' betray you...'
'Xans don't make you... Xans gon' take you... Xans gon' fake you... Xans gon' betray you...'
The outro faded with the last echoes of his voice.
'Xans gon' take you... Xans gon' take you...'
'What, ay, what, ay...'
'Xans gon', Xans gon' take you...'
'Yeah, Xans gon'...'
'Xans' gon' take you...'
'Xans' gon' take you...'
Michael stopped the recording. He stood for a mont in silence in the booth.
He stepped out and sat down to mix. This ti, he didn't look for dirt or distortion. He wanted it to sound like glass.
He used compression so the voice was always up front, intimate, and present. He EQed the "bells" so they sparkled in the highs. He ensured the 808 was round and smooth, a cushion for the lody.
He listened to the final result. It was a radio hit. It was accessible. It was pop wrapped in the aesthetic of trap.
He exported the file: Betrayed_Final_Master.mp3.
He opened his "WEAPONS" folder on the desktop. There were 'White Iverson' and 'Boss'.
He dragged 'Betrayed' inside.
He smiled. Now he had the full trident: The Viral Hit ('Look At !', which would co out on Christmas), The Club Hit ('Boss') and The lodic Hit ('Betrayed').
He was ready for any scenario. He was ready for war.
At that mont, the studio door burst open, without warning.
Michael spun his chair. It was Karl.
His new manager walked in with the smile of a predator who had just eaten. He had his phone in one hand and a water bottle in the other. He looked energized, electric.
"Stop typing, genius," Karl said, leaning on the doorfra. "We have business. Real business."
"What did you get?" asked Michael, taking off his headphones.
"I made so calls," Karl said, walking around the room as if he owned it. "I called the Observatory guys. Those tough guys who offered you a thousand dollars. I told them that offer was insulting."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "And did they hang up on you?"
"Almost," laughed Karl. "But then I told them that 'Look At !' is about to co out next week and it's going to break the internet. I sold them the future, Mike. I told them if they didn't want you on the main stage now, you'd go to the Roxy and they'd look like idiots in a month."
Karl shoved his phone in Michael's face. On the screen was a confirmation email.
"It's done," said Karl. "The Observatory in Santa Ana. Next Saturday, December 26th. One day after Christmas."
Michael read the details. His eyes widened a little.
"No small tents at two in the afternoon," continued Karl. "Main stage. Pri ti, at 8:00 PM, right before the headliner. You're going to have a full house."
"And the fee?" asked Michael.
"Five thousand dollars," said Karl, proudly. "Plus travel and hotel expenses for the team. Five tis their initial offer."
Michael nodded slowly. $5,000 for twenty minutes of work. That was more than he earned in three months at the Burger Barn.
He looked at Karl. The guy was arrogant, loud, and aggressive. And he was exactly what he needed.
"Well done, Karl," said Michael, extending his fist. "Very well done."
Karl bumped fists. "Just the beginning, kid. Now, you have to fill that place. We need an announcent."
Karl's phone vibrated in his hand. He looked at the screen and smiled.
"They just sent it," said Karl. "The Observatory's design team is fast when you yell at them enough."
He forwarded the file to Michael. "Check this out."
Michael opened the image on his phone. It was the official digital flyer for the event.
The background was black. In the center, in gothic, silver letters that looked like lted tal, it said: MICHAEL DEMIURGE.
Below, in smaller but legible letters: Saturday December 26 - The Observatory OC - Main Stage.
It looked incredible. It looked real. It wasn't a Photoshop montage made by a fan. It was a legitimate concert poster.
"I like it," said Michael.
"Then use it," said Karl. "Tickets just went on sale on their website. It's ti to mobilize the troops."
Michael nodded. He opened his social dia. Instagram first. Twitter second.
Until now, his posts had been cryptic or song releases. This was different. This was a call to action. An invitation to the physical world.
He uploaded the flyer image. He wrote the caption, feeling a strange mix of nerves and power.
"First official show. The Observatory, Santa Ana. December 26. Tickets on sale now. Let's break sothing. (Link in bio)"
He pressed "Post".
The reaction was instant.
His phone, still in his hand, began to vibrate with furious intensity. "Likes" were coming in by the hundreds.
But it was the comnts that showed him the reality of his situation.
"LETS GOOOOO!!!"
"Santa Ana! I live 20 minutes away! Bought mine!"
"Will he play 'Drugs'? If he plays 'Drugs' I'll die right there."
"Road trip from San Diego. Not missing this."
"Is it all ages? Tell yes!"
Michael refreshed the page. The comnts kept coming. People tagging their friends, organizing trips, showing off their ticket purchase screenshots.
Karl was looking at his own phone, probably monitoring real-ti sales through the promoter.
"The servers haven't crashed, but they're hot," Karl said with a laugh. "Tickets are moving fast, Mike. Very fast."
Michael put the phone on the desk. He stared at the flyer on his computer screen.
He wasn't just an internet artist anymore. It wasn't just numbers on a SoundCloud screen or Impact Points in an invisible interface.
They were real people. People who were spending real money to go see him in a real place.
The digital world had just collided with the physical world. And Michael was at the epicenter.
Saturday, December 19, 2015 (Night)
Karl left shortly after, phone glued to his ear, shouting instructions at so unfortunate graphic designer. The front door closed, and Michael's house returned to its usual silence.
But this ti, the silence didn't feel empty. It felt charged. Electric.
Michael went up to his studio. His computer screen was still on, showing the event's digital flyer. "The Observatory". "Main Stage".
He sat down and looked at the image. It looked impressive. It looked real.
But as the euphoria of the announcent faded, a cold, heavy sensation began to settle in his stomach. It wasn't the financial anxiety of Ethereum. It was sothing new.
Stage fright.
He looked at the calendar in the corner of his screen. December 26.
One week left. Seven days.
Tickets were moving fast. Karl had sent him a text ssage ten minutes ago: "We already sold 50% of capacity. We're going to sell out by Tuesday."
That ant there would be a thousand people. A thousand real, sweaty, expectant bodies, paying real money to see him.
And he realized sothing terrifying: he had never played a full set.
His only "live" experience had been in a fraternity kitchen, drunk, with a cheap microphone and a homade sound system. That had been chaos, pure energy.
This was a professional venue. A hundred-thousand-watt sound system. Lights. A raised stage.
He couldn't just go up, press the spacebar on his MacBook, and jump around a bit. That's what diocre "SoundCloud rappers" did. They hid behind the backing track with the recorded vocals.
Michael refused to be that. He was a musician. He played the guitar. He produced. He had to sound incredible live.
He opened a new note on his computer. He wrote in capital letters: OBSERVATORY SETLIST.
He had to curate the experience. It had to be a journey, not a random playlist. He had to take them from sadness to rage and then to euphoria.
He started writing, deleting, and rewriting.
Intro ('Star Shopping') - Start with the guitar. Silence the room.
'Ghost Girl' - Keep the vibe, but bring up the tempo a bit.
'Sodium' - The transition to the dark.
'Paris' - The explosion. The mosh pit.
'White Iverson' - The singalong anthem.
'Drugs You Should Try It' - The atmospheric closer.
Encore: 'Look At !' - Destroy everything at the end.
Encore 2: 'Boss' - The triumphant farewell (exclusive premiere).
He looked at the list. It was about 25 minutes of music. It was perfect for a support set.
But having the list was the easy part. Now he had to execute it.
He got up from the chair. He set up his Ableton session for "Live Performance".
He had to adjust the latency, configure the Auto-Tune to work in real-ti without delay, prepare the tracks to have the choruses but not the lead vocals.
He stood in the middle of his small studio, microphone in hand. He closed his eyes. He imagined the lights, the heat, the noise.
He hit play on the instruntal version of 'Star Shopping'.
He started singing.
He wasn't recording. He was rehearsing. He noticed he ran out of breath faster than usual because he was moving. He noticed he had to project his voice more.
He realized he has a week to prepare a set that won't bore anyone. A week to turn his body into that of a perforr. A week to learn to control a crowd that didn't exist yet.
The pressure had changed. It was no longer about creating the best song. It was about being the best artist.
He sang until his voice got tired. And then, he sang so more.
The show had started in his head, and it wasn't going to stop until the lights at the Observatory went out.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Thanks for reading!
If you want to read advanced chapters you can visit my Patreon page: Patreon / iLikeeMikee.
I am planning to upload a base of 3 chapters per week here, and 5 per week on Patreon.
But based on Power Stone goals, the quantity will increase for both free and Patreon readers.
The goals for next week are:
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Mike.
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