Chapter 67: The Demand and the Holy Grail
Monday, December 28, 2015
Michael opened his eyes shortly before noon. His room was in semi-darkness, the closed curtains blocking the bright California sun.
He tried to sit up and his body protested immediately. His calves were stiff as stones, his back had a painful knot right under his shoulder blade, and his neck felt like he had been in a minor car accident.
It was the physical hangover of success.
He cleared his throat to test his voice.
"Hello," he whispered.
It sounded like he had swallowed gravel. His throat was irritated, raw from the screams of 'Look At Me!' and the euphoria of 'Boss'.
He turned to the nightstand to grab his phone. He expected to see the usual Instagram or Twitter notifications, the digital echo of the concert.
But what he saw was different.
His lock screen was dominated by a single name: Karl.
Ten missed calls. Fifteen text messages. Three voicemails.
Michael frowned. Had something bad happened? Had Harris found a legal problem? Had someone been sued over the mosh pit?
He unlocked the phone and dialed Karl's number.
His manager answered on the first ring, as if he had been staring at the phone waiting for it to light up.
"Finally!" shouted Karl. His voice didn't sound worried. It sounded electric. It sounded like money. "Wake up, rockstar! I've been trying to get the green light from you for three hours!"
"I was sleeping, Karl," Michael croaked, his voice a painful thread. "I'm still dead."
"Well, resurrect, Lazarus, because my phone hasn't stopped ringing since Saturday night," said Karl, with a quick, nervous laugh. "The jump video... the mosh pit video... it's everywhere, Mike. Not just on music blogs. It's on meme accounts. It's on WorldStar."
"Great," said Michael, closing his eyes. "Virality."
"No, it's not just virality. It's demand," Karl corrected. "Listen to this. I have my inbox open right now."
Michael could hear Karl's frantic typing on the other end of the line.
"I have an email from the Roxy in West Hollywood. They want to know if you're available for February. I have another from the Troubadour. They want you to headline their 'New Sounds' night. I have three different small festival promoters in San Diego and San Francisco asking for your fee."
Michael rubbed his eyes. The Roxy. The Troubadour. They were legendary places. Places where historic bands had played before they were big.
"There are even a couple of local bars and college party promoters who want to jump on the bandwagon," Karl continued. "They're offering cash. A thousand, two thousand dollars a night."
Michael grimaced. "Bars?"
"Exactly. They saw the atmosphere at the Observatory. They saw that you sell tickets, that you bring young people, and that those people drink alcohol like the world is going to end. To them, you're a gold mine."
"I'm not playing in bars, Karl," said Michael. "The sound is shit."
"I know, I know. That's why I'm calling you," said Karl. "The situation has changed, Mike. Before Saturday, we were the ones begging for a slot. Now, they are looking for us."
Karl paused dramatically.
"They are offering me standard viral rookie rates. Fifteen hundred. Two thousand. They think you're still the SoundCloud kid who would accept anything for exposure."
"And what did you tell them?" asked Michael.
"I laughed in their faces," Karl said proudly. "I told them that yesterday's price is not today's price."
Michael smiled despite the sore throat.
"Since they want it now, they can be charged even more," explained Karl, entering his shark negotiation mode. "The base rate just went up, buddy. You don't get out of bed for less than $7,500 anymore. Plus flights. Plus four-star hotel for the team. And total control over technical production. If they don't have the subwoofers to handle your 808, we don't play."
Seven thousand five hundred dollars. For one show.
With two shows a week, Michael would be making $60,000 a month. That covered his rent, his expenses, Karl's salary, and Harris's quarterly fee, and he still had plenty left to keep investing in his "Chaos Fund".
His music career had just officially become self-sufficient. He no longer needed to drain his savings from the house sale.
"Sounds good to me," said Michael, fully trusting his manager's aggressive instinct. "You handle that. Close whatever is good. Filter out the trash. I trust you."
"Consider it done," said Karl. "I'm going to make the Roxy pay. You... rest that voice. You sound like you swallowed sandpaper."
"I will," said Michael.
"Oh, and Mike," added Karl before hanging up. "Start thinking about a rider. If we're going to charge like pros, we have to ask like pros. New socks, chamomile tea, whatever you want."
"I'll think about it," said Michael.
He hung up the phone and left it on the bed. The silence of the room returned, but it no longer felt empty. It felt like the silence before the next battle.
The business was secured. Now, he had to make sure his body could handle the pace Karl was about to set.
Monday, December 28, 2015 (Noon)
Michael forced himself out of bed. It was a slow and painful process.
When his feet hit the floor, his calves cramped. He shuffled toward his bedroom door, feeling like an eighty-year-old man trapped in a sixteen-year-old's body.
He went down the stairs to the kitchen. Every step was a reminder of Saturday night.
When he reached the bottom, he had to lean on the kitchen counter to catch his breath. He wasn't tired from the effort of going down the stairs; he was tired because his cardiovascular endurance was pathetic.
He made himself a coffee and stared out the window at the dirt road.
'This can't go on like this,' he thought.
The adrenaline of the concert had masked reality: he almost collapsed after twenty minutes of performing. He had finished 'Look At Me!' seeing black spots in his vision. If Karl was going to book 45-minute or one-hour shows, Michael wasn't going to survive.
He realized that being a live performer wasn't just singing. It was a sport. It required the endurance of a boxer and the energy of a sprinter. And he had spent the last six months sitting in a Herman Miller chair, eating pizza, and smoking.
'I need to get in better shape. If I'm going to be the best, I have to endure like the best.'
He took out his phone. Opened Google Maps.
"24-hour gym near me".
He wanted something discreet. He didn't want a trendy gym where people went to socialize. He wanted a place with iron weights and treadmills that worked, where he could go at 2 in the morning with his hood up and no one would talk to him.
He found one fifteen minutes away by car. "Iron Gym". The reviews said it smelled like sweat and the music was bad.
Perfect.
He clicked the registration link. Started filling in his details. Name. Age. Credit card.
His finger stopped over the "Confirm Payment" button.
He looked at the date in the top corner of his phone.
Monday, December 28.
Three days left until New Year's Eve.
Michael hesitated. His rational mind, the one that planned millionaire investments, told him to start today. That there was no better time than the present.
But his human mind, the one that ached all over and just wanted to go back to bed, intervened.
'Who starts the gym on December 28th? It's ridiculous. The place will be empty or closed for the holidays. And I'm still sore. If I go today, I'm going to get injured.'
The logic of procrastination was seductive.
'New Year. Yeah. That makes more sense. I'll start on January 2nd. It will be my New Year's resolution. Clean slate.'
He closed the browser tab without paying.
He would sign up in the first days of January.
He felt strangely relieved to have postponed the physical torture for another week. He sipped his coffee. He had already made the executive decision about his health. Now, with a clear conscience (and a broken body), he could dedicate himself to what really mattered to him.
His throat still hurt too much to record. His voice was unusable.
But his fingers were fine. And his mind was racing.
He left the cup in the sink and walked toward his studio. He couldn't sing, but he could build. It was time to prepare the next phase.
Monday, December 28, 2015 (Afternoon)
Michael entered his studio, closing the door behind him. The silence of the soundproof room was a balm for his ears, which still had a slight residual ringing from Saturday's concert.
He sat at his desk. His body continued to protest with every movement, a constant reminder of his lack of physical fitness, but his hands were fine. His fingers, hardened by months of guitar practice, were ready.
He couldn't record vocals. His throat felt like he had swallowed crushed glass. If he tried to sing now, it would sound horrible and he could damage his vocal cords permanently.
But he couldn't sit still. The energy of the success of 'Look At Me!' and Karl's offers demanded movement.
'If I can't sing, I'll build,' he thought.
He summoned the System interface. He reviewed his inventory.
He had several options. But one song in particular caught his attention. One that fit perfectly with his current mood: a mix of melancholy and the desire to flex a success he was just beginning to touch.
'Beamer Boy'.
He opened the guide.
PRODUCTION GUIDE: 'Beamer Boy'
Core Element: Electric guitar riff with chorus and reverb (Sample/Interpolation of 'Broke' - Modest Mouse).
Beat: Half-time trap, with bounce.
Atmosphere: Grunge-Rap. Nostalgic but rhythmic.
He remembered that Harris was already negotiating the rights for the Modest Mouse sample. While that was being resolved, Michael decided to record a demo using his own guitar to get the structure ready.
He grabbed his Squier Stratocaster. The neck felt cold and familiar.
He plugged the cable into the Apollo interface. Opened a new project in Ableton: beamer_boy_v1.
He started playing.
The riff was simple, repetitive, hypnotic. A chord progression that went up and down, evoking a feeling of a night drive.
Michael adjusted the effects in the software. He added a virtual chorus pedal to give it that watery, undulating sound, characteristic of 90s alternative rock. Then, a little saturation to dirty it up.
He recorded it in a couple of takes. Listened to the loop. It sounded sad, but it had energy. It wasn't the heaviness of 'Paris'. It was something more... hopeful.
He put down the guitar and turned to the MIDI keyboard for the drums.
Unlike 'Ghost Girl', which was slow and dragged out, 'Beamer Boy' needed to move. He programmed hi-hats that jumped, creating a rhythm that made you nod your head automatically.
The kick was dry and hit in the chest. The snare was crisp.
And then, the bass.
He didn't use a distorted 808. He used a clean, deep one that followed the guitar melody, gluing the whole thing together.
As he worked, the song's lyrics floated in his mind, even though he couldn't sing them.
'I wanna a Z3, that's a two-seater...'
Michael looked out the window, toward where his reliable but boring gray Toyota Corolla was parked.
He smiled ironically.
The song talked about wanting a BMW. About wanting success, girls, recognition. About being a "Beamer Boy".
At this moment, with offers of $7,500 per show arriving in his email, Michael felt that reality was within reach. It was no longer a distant fantasy. He was building the road to buy that Z3.
He spent the next three hours perfecting the instrumental. He added background textures, small ambient noises that made the song feel alive.
When he finished, he leaned back and hit play.
The instrumental filled the room. It was a sad banger. It was perfect.
It was the ideal transition song between his underground era and his imminent stardom.
He felt satisfied. He had turned an afternoon of physical pain into a productive piece of art.
Monday, December 28, 2015 (Night)
Michael saved the 'Beamer Boy' project. The instrumental was finished, a perfect mix of grunge and trap that would serve as a bridge between his eras.
He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms. It was ten at night. He should go to sleep, rest his aching body.
But his mind was buzzing.
The residual euphoria of Saturday's concert, combined with the satisfaction of a good studio session, had left him in a state of hyper-alertness. He wasn't sleepy. He was hungry.
His fingers drummed on the desk. He looked at his MacBook screen. He could close Ableton. He could turn everything off.
Or he could take a look.
Just a look.
He moved the mouse toward the folder he had created on his hard drive the first day. The folder he never opened. The folder titled "KANYE".
His heart sped up a little. He knew he shouldn't. He knew he wasn't ready. But the temptation was irresistible. It was like having the keys to your dad's Ferrari in your pocket and knowing he isn't home.
He double-clicked.
Inside, shone the guide file: 'Runaway'.
Michael opened it. The System interface displayed the information. It wasn't a simple guide. It was a monument.
EPIC SONG: 'RUNAWAY' Complexity: Maximum.
Components: Steinway Piano, Orchestral Strings, Pete Rock Drums, Vocoder Outro (3 minutes). Emotional Imprint: The King's apology. Broken arrogance.
Michael swallowed hard.
He opened a new project in Ableton. He didn't name it. He wasn't going to save it.
He loaded a virtual grand piano instrument, the best one he had, one that took up 40 gigs of space.
He put his fingers on the MIDI keyboard.
He searched for the note. The most famous note in the history of modern hip-hop. The E note of the highest octave.
He pressed the key.
Ding.
The sound resonated in his Yamaha monitors, clean, sharp, solitary.
Ding... Ding... Ding...
He played it with the exact rhythm. One note. An entire world of meaning.
Michael closed his eyes. In that moment, he wasn't in his rented room in the suburbs of California. He wasn't a 16-year-old kid with a sore throat.
He saw himself in the future.
He saw a stage that made the Observatory look like a shoebox. He saw a stadium. Fifty thousand people. A sea of lights. And him, alone, in the center, with a piano, playing that note.
His fingers moved to the lower register. He played the answering chords.
Bohm... Bohm...
The melody came to life. It was menacing. It was beautiful.
Playing, he started to build the base. He couldn't help it.
He searched his library for the drum samples. He found one that sounded dirty, dusty, like old vinyl. The "Pete Rock drums".
He dragged them to the timeline.
The beat entered. Boom-bap-bap-boom-bap.
The room filled with a majestic energy. Michael turned up the volume. He felt the vibration in the floor.
He opened the lyrics guide.
'And I always find, yeah, I always find somethin' wrong...'
'You been puttin' up wit' my shit just way too long...'
'I'm so gifted at findin' what I don't like the most...'
He read the words. "I'm so gifted".
It wasn't the sadness of 'Star Shopping'. It wasn't the rage of 'Paris'.
It was the lament of someone who has all the power in the world and realizes he is his own worst enemy.
'Let's have a toast for the douchebags...'
Michael smiled. A wide, wild smile.
He imagined singing that. Raising a glass in front of the whole world, toasting to his own arrogance, to his own success, to the mistakes he knew he was going to make.
He felt euphoric.
He knew he couldn't record this today. His voice was too young. His life was too small. He hadn't won enough yet to lose it all. He hadn't been the villain of the story yet.
But he knew, with an absolute certainty that froze his blood, that one day he would create that song.
That song was his destiny. It was the final point of his journey.
When he released 'Runaway', he wouldn't be an aspirant. He would be the King.
He stopped playing. The echo of the piano faded.
He stared at the screen for a long minute, breathing heavily, as if he had just run a race.
He didn't save the project.
He closed Ableton. "Don't save changes".
It was a secret between him and the future.
He turned off the monitors. Darkness filled the studio again.
Michael stood up. The pain in his legs had returned, but he didn't care anymore.
The year 2015 was ending. He had survived. He had won his first battle. And he had the map to win the war.
He left the studio and closed the door. He was ready to welcome the New Year.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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