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"It is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose. That is not a weakness; that is life."
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****
Somewhere nearby, a phone rang and kept ringing until somebody finally answered it.
None of it interrupted them.
---
Morning light came through the windows of the Wolf Cousins executive suite, bright enough to make the city outside look almost clean.
Marvin stood by the glass with a cup of black coffee in his hand.
Behind him, Max sat on the sofa with the track sheets spread across his lap.
It was time.
The Columbia deal had served its purpose. When Marvin signed it, he needed reach more than he needed independence. Columbia had the pressing plants, the warehouses, the retailers, the radio relationships. They could put his records on shelves in countries where Meyers Music Group didn't even have an office yet.
Marvin gave them hits. They gave him distribution.
That arrangement had taken him where he wanted to go.
He didn't need it anymore.
Meyers Music Group had spent the last two years building the pieces it had been missing. Studios were coming online. Distribution arrangements were being put in place across Europe and Asia. The company didn't have Sony's reach, and Marvin wasn't pretending it did.
It didn't have to.
It was smaller. Faster. And every month, another independent label with an aging catalog and a useful distribution network was becoming available.
More importantly, Marvin had something Columbia couldn't give him.
People who would buy his records.
They had already done it with *My Heart Will Go On*. The company had handled the physical distribution itself wherever it could, and the numbers had been good enough to remove most of the doubt.
His audience would follow him.
The logo on the back of the CD wasn't what sold the record.
The name on the front did.
Still, there was one thing left to do.
He owed Columbia an album.
Marvin had spent most of yesterday going through the tracklist, cutting songs, moving others around and digging through memories.
He knew what he wanted this album to sound like. More importantly, he knew what he wanted it to become.
Max looked up from the pages.
"You've been staring out that window for ten minutes."
"I'm thinking."
"About the album?"
"About what comes after it."
Max lowered the music sheets.
Marvin took another drink of coffee.
One of the artists he's borrowing today, who's barely old enough to know better.
Justin Bieber.
In his old life, Bieber had taken simple pop music and turned it into a global machine. Marvin wasn't interested in copying him. The songs were only part of the lesson.
The timing.
The image.
The way the music reached people at exactly the age when they were most likely to make an artist part of their lives.
That was what interested him.
At nearly 14, Marvin was sitting in exactly the right place for the kind of record he had in mind.
Young enough that nobody would question a softer pop sound. Old enough that he could sing about something besides nursery-school romance.
He kept coming back to Justin Bieber.
Not because he wanted to become Bieber. He wanted the blueprint.
Bieber's early records had the right ingredients: acoustic guitar, clean pop production, a little R&B underneath it, simple hooks and choruses that stayed in your head after one listen. The formula was almost insultingly effective.
Marvin could make it better.
He already had replacements for songs that weren't strong enough with his own songs: *Bumblebee on the Ferris Wheel*, *That Girl*, *My Boo*—songs that could sit inside that sound without feeling borrowed.
The advantage was obvious.
In his old life, Bieber had proved how far that particular formula could go. My World had introduced him. My World 2.0 had turned him into something much bigger. It had gone straight to number one and produced *Baby*, *U Smile* and the rest of the material that would carry him through the next few years.
Marvin knew all of that.
He also knew when it had happened.
That was the part that mattered.
He could take the strongest songs from that album, throw away the weaker ones and release the result years before Bieber had ever had the chance to make them.
And he had something Bieber hadn't.
Experience. Magic.
Marvin smiled to himself.
It wasn't fair.
He liked it that way.
….
…
..
.
Later that afternoon, the cars pulled into the Wolf Cousins studio complex in West Hollywood.
Marvin went inside with Max.
The room was built for recording, not showing off. Wood, diffusers and acoustic panels covered the walls, breaking up the reflections without making the place feel dead. The control room centered around an SSL 4000 console, its rows of faders and knobs already glowing under the studio lights.
Max with other engineers was behind it.
A Pro Tools system was running beside the console, the sessions already loaded and waiting.
They had spent most of the previous night going through the album. Tempo. Keys. Arrangements. Where the drums should drop out. Where Marvin's voice needed to sit. The background music for every song.
By now, there wasn't much left to decide.
The songs were ready.
Max looked through the glass toward the vocal booth. "First one?"
Marvin nodded. "The rest of the tracks are printed?"
"Everything we agreed on."
"Good."
Max pushed back from the console.
At the back of the control room, Jessica Lindsay, Dorothy and Beyoncé had taken over the couches. They had come to see Marvin record his new album and first-hand experience the magic of his music, and, for the moment, were doing their best not to get in the way.
Marvin walked into the booth.
No vocal coach. No label people. No executives.
Just Max, four engineers and the song sheets spread across the console.
He slipped on the headphones and adjusted one side over his ear.
Max leaned toward the talkback.
"Ready?"
"Play it."
The engineer started the track.
The first notes came through the headphones.
Marvin closed his eyes.
Then he sang.
The room went quiet.
Behind the glass, one of the engineers watched the meters while the other kept an eye on the console. Marvin stood in front of the Neumann U87, one hand resting loosely at his side, the other holding the headphones against his ear.
He didn't need to move much.
The first verse came easily. His voice sat right where Max had wanted it, clean and close, with enough warmth to keep the softer parts from sounding thin.
Max listened without touching the controls.
Marvin reached the chorus.
Beyoncé leaned forward.
She had been listening carefully from the first line. Now she stopped looking at the room altogether and watched Marvin through the glass.
The second verse came.
No missed notes.
No strain.
When Marvin finished the chorus, Max pressed the talkback.
"Keep going."
Marvin nodded.
He went straight into the next section.
Lindsay glanced at Jessica. "Does he ever sound bad?"
Jessica shook her head. "Apparently not."
Dorothy smiled without taking her eyes off the booth.
Beyoncé said nothing.
She was still listening.
Marvin reached the final chorus and opened his voice up, letting the last notes carry instead of forcing them.
The song ended.
The engineer let the track run into silence.
Max looked at the clock, then back through the glass.
"That was one take."
Marvin pushed the headphones off one ear. "Need another?"
"No."
Max looked at the engineer. "Save it."
The engineer reached for the keyboard.
Before he could touch it, a sharp voice came from the hallway.
Everyone in the control room looked toward the door.
"What the hell?" Lindsay said.
Another voice followed, hurried and excited, then the door opened.
A man stepped inside with an assistant behind him.
For a second, nobody moved.
Michael Jackson stood in the doorway.
Even Max Martin froze.
Beyoncé was already on her feet.
Marvin was still inside the vocal booth, headphones over his ears. He hadn't noticed the commotion outside. He was listening to the playback, one hand resting against the microphone stand as the last notes of the take faded through the monitors.
Michael turned his head toward the booth.
Then he stopped.
He listened.
The track was still running quietly through the speakers, and Marvin's voice filled the room again.
The voice coming through the speakers didn't sound like a boy. It was clean and controlled, but there was something underneath it that was harder to describe. Warmth. Ache. A strange weight that seemed to reach through the glass and settle somewhere behind the ribs.
Michael had spent his entire life around singers.
He knew what a beautiful voice sounded like.
This was different.
Marvin wasn't simply hitting the notes. He was pulling emotion out of them.
Michael's expression softened. "Oh…"
Max noticed him first.
He looked toward the doorway, then immediately straightened in his chair.
Marvin hadn't seen the man yet.
Michael glanced back at the hallway behind him. He had only found the studio because Jeff Raymond, his agent, had managed to track down Marvin's location that afternoon. Michael had asked where Marvin was recording, and Frank, after making a few calls, had gotten the answer.
Michael had come intending to speak to Marvin for a few minutes.
He hadn't expected to hear him sing.
He listened until the final note disappeared.
There was something in the voice that caught him.
It wasn't simply the range or the control. Michael knew plenty of technically gifted singers. What stopped him was the feeling behind it.
The voice carried the words.
Not just the melody.
Emotion.
The kind that made you stop whatever you were doing and listen.
Michael looked through the glass at Marvin.
Marvin finally noticed him.
Their eyes met.
Michael gave him a small, apologetic smile.
"I'm sorry. I hope I'm not interrupting."
Michael hadn't planned on interrupting the session. Then he'd heard the singing.
Now he couldn't bring himself to walk away.
Marvin stopped the playback.
Max reached for the controls and muted the track. The beat vanished, leaving the room strangely quiet.
Marvin pulled off his headphones and opened the booth door. "Not at all."
Michael stepped farther into the room.
The King of Pop stood just outside the booth, dressed in a black shirt beneath a fitted military-style jacket, dark trousers, polished shoes and his familiar fedora. His sunglasses hid his eyes, but not the unmistakable curiosity on his face.
Up close, there was something surprisingly gentle about him.
Marvin extended his hand. "Mr. Jackson."
Michael immediately shook his head. "Michael."
Marvin smiled. "Michael."
They shook hands.
Michael's grip was firmer than Marvin expected.
"I've heard a lot about this place," Michael said, glancing around the control room. "It's beautiful."
"Thank you."
His attention drifted toward the console. "You have an SSL?"
"Yeah."
Michael leaned slightly closer, studying it. "I've been thinking about changing mine."
Max let out a quiet laugh.
Michael turned toward him. "Don't laugh. I'm serious."
"I believe you."
Michael smiled.
Then he looked back at Marvin. "I hope you don't mind me coming by like this."
"You could've called."
"I know."
There was a brief pause. "Marvin."
Their hands separated.
Michael smiled. "I have been looking forward to meeting you for quite some time.."
Marvin's eyebrows lifted slightly. "You have?"
"Yes." Michael glanced toward the vocal booth.
"Your voice."
He paused, searching for the right words. "That voice is... out of this world."
Marvin gave a small, uncertain smile.
Michael shook his head. "No, really. I mean it. I was standing out there listening to you and..." He gave a quiet laugh. "I forgot why I came in."
That earned a genuine smile from Marvin.
Michael's expression became more thoughtful.
"You have something very rare. It's not just that you can sing. A lot of people can sing. Your voice makes people feel something."
He touched his chest lightly. "Right here."
Marvin looked at him without answering.
Michael's voice softened. "When you sing, people listen. They don't just hear the song."
There was no exaggeration in his tone. He sounded almost fascinated.
Then Michael glanced toward Max. "Sorry for coming in like this."
Max shook his head quickly. "No problem."
Michael looked back at Marvin."I'll get right to the point. I know you're all busy, and I've already interrupted your recording session, so I won't waste any more of your time."
He smiled. "I wanted to ask you myself."
Marvin's expression became more attentive.
Michael adjusted the brim of his hat. "I'm doing a concert in Munich next month."
Marvin waited.
"For the children," Michael added. "I want the money to go toward helping them. That's the important part."
His voice was quiet, but the request itself was direct. "I'd like you to come."
Marvin raised an eyebrow. "Come to Munich?"
Michael smiled. "Come perform."
****
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