Chapter 66: The Hangover of Glory
Saturday, December 26, 2015 – 9:00 PM
Michael crossed the black velvet curtain into the safety of the stage wings ("side stage"). The instant the darkness enveloped him, his legs almost failed.
The adrenaline, which had sustained him like a drug for the last thirty minutes, evaporated at once, giving way to brutal physical exhaustion.
Karl was there, waiting for him. His manager had wild eyes and a smile that split his face.
"Fuck, Mike!" shouted Karl, grabbing him by the shoulders to steady him. "That was... that was war! You destroyed the place!"
Michael nodded, unable to speak. His chest heaved violently. T-Roc arrived a second later, coming down from the DJ booth, soaked in sweat too.
"Good job, kid," said the DJ, handing him a clean towel and a dry t-shirt he had taken from Michael's backpack. "You have lungs of steel."
Michael dried his face and torso. He put on the dry t-shirt, feeling the cotton fabric soothe his burning skin.
The Observatory setup crew was already moving frantically around the stage, removing T-Roc's table to clear the space for the main act.
"Let's go to the dressing room," said Karl. "You need to sit down."
"No," said Michael. His voice was a hoarse croak. He cleared his throat. "No. I want to see this."
He stayed there, on the side of the stage, hidden among equipment boxes and cables. His friends —Leo, Sam, and Nate— appeared from the pit and the audience, reuniting with him. They were euphoric, shouting about the mosh pit, but Michael motioned for them to be quiet.
The house lights went out completely again.
The roar of the crowd changed. It was no longer the wild, punk scream Michael had provoked. It was a high-pitched, massive scream of pure adoration.
The stage lit up with a production that made Michael's setup look like a toy. Giant LED screens came to life.
And then, The Weeknd came out.
Michael watched, fascinated.
Abel didn't run out. He didn't jump. He didn't scream for energy. He simply walked to the microphone with a languid, almost indifferent calm.
He started singing 'The Hills'.
The difference was abysmal. Michael had had to set the stage on fire, run, jump, and scream until his voice broke to keep the crowd under his control. He had had to provoke chaos to hide his inexperience.
Abel, on the other hand, had complete control of the stage without barely moving.
Michael watched how Abel held the microphone. How he handled the silences. How a simple look to the left made a thousand people scream. His voice was perfect, nailing every note with studio precision, without needing to hide behind distortion.
"Shit," whispered Sam, standing next to Michael. "It's another level."
"It is," admitted Michael.
He realized that, although his show had been a success, it had been a success of brute force. He had won by knockout in the first round because he had come out swinging wildly.
But The Weeknd was a technical boxer. He was a master.
Watching him perform was a necessary lesson in humility. Michael realized he had the hype, he had the energy, and he had the songs. But he didn't have the craft yet.
He looked at Abel, bathed in red light, controlling the mass with a finger movement.
'Someday', thought Michael, feeling a new ambition burn beneath his exhaustion. 'Someday I won't have to jump to get them to look at me. Someday, I'll just have to be there.'
He stayed a moment longer, absorbing the lesson, mentally recording every move of the King.
"Okay," said Michael finally, turning to his friends. "I've seen enough. Let's go before the crowd comes out and catches us."
Saturday, December 26, 2015 – 9:30 PM
The Weeknd's set was reaching its climax inside the venue, the bass rumbling through the building's brick walls. But outside, in the rear loading parking lot, the air was cold and quiet.
Michael's team was gathered around the rented Chevrolet Suburban, with the trunk open.
They were loading the equipment. Sam carefully put the VHS camera into its case, treating it like a sacred relic. Leo checked the DSLR lens. Nate and Jake were loading the cable boxes T-Roc had left.
Michael separated from the group and walked to where T-Roc was leaning, next to his old dented sedan. The DJ was smoking a cigarette, the red ember glowing in the dark.
"Good show," said T-Roc, exhaling smoke toward the night sky. "The Toronto kid (The Weeknd) is good, but you... you had hunger. That can't be taught."
Michael nodded, grateful. He took out his phone. "I just transferred the rest to you. Seven hundred fifty. It should be in your account."
T-Roc took out his own phone, checked the notification, and smiled. "Punctual. I like it."
He put the phone away and looked Michael in the eye, his usual cynical expression softening a bit.
"Listen, Mike. I've worked with a lot of SoundCloud rappers. Most are idiots who spend the advance money on chains and disappear in six months. You... you are different. You have a plan."
T-Roc threw the butt on the ground and stepped on it.
"That jump you took... you got guts. Or you're crazy. Probably both," said the DJ. "But it worked. People aren't going to forget that."
He opened his car door. "Call me whenever you want for your next show. But I warn you: my price will go up. Now that you're a rockstar, I have to charge you like one."
"It'll be worth it," said Michael, extending his hand.
T-Roc shook it. "See you, Demiurge."
The DJ got into his noisy car and left the parking lot, leaving Michael alone with his friends.
Michael turned toward the Suburban. Leo, Sam, Nate, and Jake were there, euphoric, reliving every moment of the concert amidst nervous laughter.
"You saw that guy's face when you jumped!" shouted Sam. "I thought he was going to drop you!"
"And the mosh pit," added Nate, rubbing a sore shoulder. "It was brutal. I think I lost a shoe at some point and miraculously got it back."
Michael watched them for a moment. They were dirty, sweaty, and exhausted. They had spent their Christmas working for him, carrying boxes, recording videos, and protecting him on stage.
They weren't employees. They were his tribe.
Michael reached into the inner pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a thick envelope he had prepared before leaving the house.
"Hey," he said, getting their attention.
The group went quiet, looking at him.
"Thanks," said Michael. "Seriously. I couldn't have done this without you. If I had been up there alone with a laptop... it would have been a disaster. You made it look like an event."
"That's what we're here for, brother," said Leo, downplaying it.
"No, seriously," insisted Michael. "This was work. And work gets paid."
He opened the envelope. He took out four bundles of bills, held together with rubber bands. Fifty twenty-dollar bills in each.
He approached Leo and put one in his hand. Then Sam. Nate. And finally Jake.
The four of them stared at the money in their hands. 500 dollars each. For teenagers in 2015, it was a fortune. It was more than they earned in a month of part-time jobs.
"Mike, no..." started Sam, trying to give the money back. "Dude, we just wanted to go to the party. And see the show. You don't have to..."
"Shut up and keep it," Michael cut him off, but his tone was soft. "T-Roc got paid. The promoter got paid. You are my team. You worked harder than anyone. You are the cameramen, security, and moral support. You earned it."
Leo looked at the bills, then at Michael. He understood what this meant. Michael wasn't giving them charity; he was giving them professional respect.
"Thanks, Mike," said Leo, putting the money in his pocket.
Nate nodded, a grateful smile on his face. "Thanks, boss."
Jake, however, looked at the money and then let out an incredulous laugh.
"Five hundred dollars!" he shouted, kissing the bundle of bills. "Shit! I'm rich! The new car is closer!"
He looked at Michael and winked. "Well, since the boss is paying... beers and gas are on me for the rest of the year. And next time we go to the Burger Barn, double burgers are on me."
Everyone laughed. The tension of the money disappeared, replaced by the warmth of shared victory.
"Let's go home," said Michael, feeling exhaustion finally hit him. "I'm dead."
They got into the black SUV. This time, there were no nerves. Only satisfaction. The team had survived its first battle.
Sunday, December 27, 2015 (Noon)
Michael opened his eyes. Or at least, he tried to. His eyelids felt heavy, as if made of lead.
The midday sunlight entered mercilessly through his bedroom window. He had slept almost twelve hours straight, but he didn't feel rested. He felt like he had been hit by a truck.
He tried to sit up. An involuntary groan escaped his lips.
"Ah... fuck."
The sound that came out of his throat wasn't a human voice. It was a dry, broken, painful croak. His throat hurt terribly.
Having screamed 'Look At Me!' and 'Paris' without any vocal technique, competing against a hundred-thousand-watt sound system, had taken its toll. His vocal cords were on strike.
But that wasn't the worst part.
He moved to get out of the sheets and every muscle in his body protested. He was sore all over. Michael wasn't an athlete. He barely exercised, other than walking or carrying equipment.
The night before he had spent thirty minutes jumping, running, and being thrown in the air by a frenzied crowd.
He had cramps in his calves. His neck was stiff from headbanging. He looked in the bathroom mirror. He had a huge bruise, purple and yellow, on his ribs, probably from when he landed on the monitor or on someone's hands during the crowd surfing.
He washed his face with cold water, trying to wake up. He felt fragile, as if he were made of cracked glass.
He limped to the kitchen, made himself tea with honey (coffee seemed too aggressive for his throat) and grabbed his phone.
He was afraid to look. The night before had been a blur of adrenaline. Had it been as good as he remembered? Or had he made a fool of himself?
He checked socials.
His notifications were maxed out (99+). He opened Twitter. Opened Instagram.
He hadn't made a fool of himself.
There were many videos of last night's show. Hundreds of them.
He saw a viral clip recorded from the Observatory balcony. It showed the exact moment he jumped into the audience during 'Look At Me!'. It looked like a scene from a zombie movie, a body being devoured by a mass of arms.
He saw another clip, recorded from the front row, of him singing 'White Iverson' shirtless, bathed in golden light.
The comments were unanimous.
"Best show of the year. No doubt." "I thought he was a studio artist. I was wrong. His energy is unreal." "That mosh pit in 'Paris' almost broke my nose. 10/10, would go again."
"Does anyone know the name of the last song? The one at the end."
His urban legend had been confirmed. The "ghost" was real, and he bled on stage.
Michael put the phone on the table, feeling a strange mix of physical pain and deep satisfaction.
Now, the important part.
He summoned the System interface. The cyan light appeared in front of him, floating over his cup of tea.
He needed to see the tangible result. He had spent his entire balance on the Roulette. He was at zero.
He checked his points.
[LIVE EVENT ANALYSIS COMPLETE]
Source: Live Debut - The Observatory (Santa Ana).
Bonuses:
Crowd Control (Level: Riot)
Social Media Virality (Jump Clips)
Exclusive Premiere ('Boss')
Impact Points generated: +18,500 IP
TOTAL BALANCE: 68,500 IP
He smiled, even though his face hurt. Almost twenty thousand points in a single night. It was more than he earned in a month with his early songs.
The System rewarded physical risk.
He closed the interface. He had money (points). He had glory (videos).
But he had an outstanding debt.
He saw the comment on Twitter again: "Does anyone know the name of the last song?".
He remembered what he had shouted on stage, microphone in hand, sweating and full of adrenaline: "It comes out tomorrow."
Michael looked at the clock. It was 2:00 PM on Sunday.
"Tomorrow" was today.
He got up, groaning from the pain in his legs, and dragged himself to his studio. He sat in front of the MacBook.
He opened the "WEAPONS" folder.
The file boss_final_master.mp3 was there, waiting patiently.
He didn't need to do anything. The song was ready. The cover (a photo of him in a suit, or maybe just the word BOSS in gold letters) was ready.
He logged into his digital distributor. Uploaded the file.
He released 'Boss' on all platforms: Spotify, Apple Music, YouTube.
He made a quick tweet, without energy to think of something witty.
"I promised it last night. Here it is. 'BOSS'. (Link)"
He closed the laptop. The tweet was sent. The song was out.
His body screamed at him. He couldn't take it anymore. The adrenaline was completely gone.
He got up, walked back to his room, collapsed onto the bed, and covered his head with the pillow.
The world could enjoy his new music. He was going to sleep until Tuesday.
He fell asleep immediately, with the buzz of success and the pain of victory as his only company.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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