Scarlett walked with ease, biting into an egg-and-bacon bagel like a ravenous dog. People gathered inside the recording studio's control room as Billy cleared his throat, took a sip of water, drew a deep breath, and set his guitar aside. He closed his eyes, waiting for the signal.
She hadn't even swallowed before a voice—clear, full, and commanding—reached her, dressed in the role of a true lead. The room fell silent. He steadied his tone; for the past two hours, every song he sang had been like a thread of gold weaving through the air, twisting from every angle to ensnare the listeners in knots that tightened around their hearts. Each one struck something deep and raw within—a song that grazed the soul.
A clear voice.
Naughty Boy (Sam Smith).
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
Na-na, la-la-la-la-la, na-na-na-na-na, la-la
Na-na, la-la-la-la-la, na-na-na-na-na, la-la
Na-na, la-la-la-la-la, na-na-na-na-na, la-la
Na-na, la-la-la-la-la, na-na-na-na (tu meri mauja hain), na-na
Hush, don't speak
When you spit your venom, keep it shut
I hate it when you hiss and preach
About your new messiah 'cause your theories catch fire
I can't find your silver lining
I don't mean to judge
But when you read your speech, it's tiring
Enough is enough
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
...
Billy took a deep breath, two slow inhalations filled with doubt and fear that seemed to ripple through the room. He hadn't realized that what he evoked would be sorrow itself—the kind of melancholy that stripped away the charm usually tied to his work. Fleeting moments of sadness, like the long winter nights of Chekhov, enclose the soul in solitude. A house once full of happiness, now hollow with loss—for reasons far beyond anyone's control. The spirit of a boy who had never wanted more than a life of small, beautiful moments.
A spark roared from within the people's souls, drained of color, suspended from every point in the room. He left everything behind.
Scarlett trembled. Part of her was touched—another part, struck hard. What a difference between artists: a true amateur longing to be a singer versus one of the industry's seasoned professionals. Climbing Everest—the impossible task of doing what no one else can do perfectly. A man who could stir people's hearts and leave them glowing with gold.
How much sadness could a person convey with just a few words? The image that twisted in her mind wasn't the one Billy projected. For her, the night itself brought those thoughts to life. A massive moon. Seeing it reminded her how fleeting her existence really was. Watching Billy bare his soul filled her with a certainty—that this album, under her help, would become something memorable. All of this won't matter in a few years, the girl thought.
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
I'm covering my ears like a kid
When your words mean nothing, I go, "La, la, la."
I'm turning up the volume when you speak
'Cause if my heart can't stop it, I'll find a way to block it, I go
Na-na, la-la-la-la-la, na-na-na-na-na, la-la
Na-na, la-la-la-la-la, na-na-na-na-na, la-la
(I found a way to block it, I go)
Na-na, la-la-la-la-la, na-na-na-na-na, la-la
Na-na, la-la-la-la-la, na-na-na-na-na, la-la
If our love is running out of time
I won't count the hours, rather be a coward
When our worlds collide
I'm gonna drown you out before I lose my mind (lose my mind)
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
....
How do you make people stay inside your music forever? Billy could say that many singers have what's called the pull—the power to make people listen. Others are simply good dancers. But when a good voice that feels meets true emotion, something happens. Emotions carry listeners into their own memories, tangling them in a web of everything they've lived. From there, it's simple.
Billy always poured his heart into everything he did. Without that, he'd just be another singer—and no one wants to be just another singer. Everyone wants their music to echo through the lungs of their fans. When that connection happens, that's when it works. Easy for some. Impossible for most. Singers, then, are like needles that pierce the skin—no… more like a drink that wets your lips and seeps through your entire system.
He didn't build up or down; he left the song lying bare on the floor.
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
I can't find your silver linin.g
I don't mean to judge
But when you read your speech, it's tiring
Enough is enough
I'm covering my ears like a kid
When your words mean nothing, I go, "La, la, la"
I'm turning up the volume when you speak
'Cause if my heart can't stop it, I'll find a way to block it, I go
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
...
How good it was that some people could separate their heads from their hearts and just do their jobs—Jozz Stockton was everything but lazy. He smoothed his mustache, cursing under his breath for not being able to simply enjoy each live take.
The girl in the back was crying to the song. Ah, women and their sensibilities, the old man thought. But damn, it was good. He listened to every track carefully, focusing on each line—less harmony here, less precision there—but so much force that they'd now have to record each song with the guitar tuned down an octave, because when Billy sang like this, the world adjusted to him.
Anyone else might say otherwise. But Jozz knew this was the best final version he could ask for. Maybe in twenty years, his body would no longer walk this earth, turned to dust—but this song, this was what he wanted for the album. It stood almost indecent among the others that filled Billy Carson's halls.
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
I'm covering my ears like a kid
When your words mean nothing, I go, "La, la, la"
I'm turning up the volume when you speak
'Cause if my heart can't stop it, I'll find a way to block it, I go
I'm covering my ears like a kid
When your words mean nothing, I go, "La, la, la"
I'm turning up the volume when you speak
'Cause if my heart can't stop it, I'll find a way to block it, I go
Na-na, la-la-la-la-la, na-na-na-na-na, la-la
Na-na, la-la-la-la-la, na-na-na-na-na, la-la
Na-na, la-la-la-la-la, na-na-na-na-na, la-la
Na-na, la-la-la-la-la
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
....
Billy ended the song with a pounding headache. It hurt—doing so much in so little time. His heart was racing, his hands shaking. Every second felt like an hour. His right foot throbbed; he'd stepped on a tuning peg that drew blood, though he barely noticed. Pain was part of the process now. Exhaustion reached his chest, undeniable. He wanted nothing more than a long nap. Three songs left to go.
—I think I want to stop, I've got a headache, old man,—said Billy.
—You've got two hours,—grumbled Jozz.
—Make it three, you old cheapskate.—
—Two, and that's final,—the old man shot back, stubborn as a child, muttering the words again and again.
-
...