Chapter 84: The Price of Salvation
Thursday, February 4, 2016
Michael entered his studio at nine in the morning. The air in the room seemed different from the day before.
On Wednesday, with 'Hope', the studio had felt like a sanctuary, a place of mourning and respect. But today, that solemnity had dissipated, replaced by the static electricity of ambition.
Today it was back to business.
Michael sat at his desk. He looked at the calendar on the wall. He crossed out Wednesday. Two days left. Two songs.
He summoned the System interface and selected the guide for 'Save That Shit'.
He remembered this song. It was one of Lil Peep's definitive anthems. It was the song that perfected the sad trap formula: depressing lyrics over a beat you could play at a party.
Michael opened a new project in Ableton. Save_That_Shit_v1.
He started with the melody. The guide suggested a guitar riff.
In his early days, with 'Ghost Boy', Michael would have grabbed his Squier and recorded it poorly, seeking that lo-fi rawness.
But not today. Today he wanted shine.
Instead of his real guitar, he opened a high-end virtual instrument (VST), Omnisphere. He looked for a patch that mimicked an electric guitar, but with heavy synthetic processing.
He played the melody on the MIDI keyboard.
The sound that came out of the monitors wasn't organic. It was crystalline, processed, with a bright, metallic reverb. It sounded "expensive". It sounded like a Los Angeles studio, not a bedroom.
"Perfect," he thought.
That was the aesthetic he was looking for. He wanted sadness to sound luxurious.
He moved to the rhythm. He programmed fast, nervous hi-hats, typical of Atlanta trap, cutting the high frequencies so they hissed.
Then, the snare. He chose a dry, sharp sound, hitting like a whip on the third beat, driving the song forward.
And finally, the 808.
He didn't use the dirty distortion of 'Look At Me!'. He chose a deep, clean, tuned 808 bass. He mixed it high, to make the chest vibrate, but applied soft compression to keep it controlled.
He hit play on the full instrumental.
It was hypnotic. The synthetic "guitar" melody floated over the aggressive trap base.
Michael leaned back, analyzing what he had created.
He realized this song was the perfect bridge. It had the inherent sadness of his early works, the one his cult fans loved, but it had the production quality and "bounce" of 'White Iverson'.
It wasn't music to cry alone in the dark to. It was music to cry in a club to, surrounded by people, with a drink in hand. It was the sound of glamorous self-destruction.
The beat was ready. It was the perfect canvas for the story he was about to tell.
He got up and headed to the booth. It was time to talk about money and broken love.
Michael adjusted the Auto-Tune knob in his effects chain. For 'Save That Shit', he didn't want the invisible correction of 'Lucid Dreams'. He wanted that characteristic sound, that slight digital "cry" that made the voice sound broken and melodic at the same time.
He stepped into the booth. The synthetic guitar and clean trap beat played in his Sennheiser headphones.
He closed his eyes. He needed to find the middle ground between apathy and despair.
He pressed record.
'Fuck my life, can't save that, girl...'
'Don't tell me you could save that shit...'
He sang the first line with cynical resignation. He wasn't screaming. He was stating a fact. His "life" —his real life, his timeline, his parents— was fucked. There was no way to save it. No matter how much success he had here, that loss was permanent.
'All she wants is payback...'
'For the way I always play that shit...'
His voice glided over the beat, the Auto-Tune stretching the final notes, creating a catchy hook.
'You ain't getting nothing, now I'm saying, don't tell me you is...'
And then, the core of the song arrived. The line that defined his new existence.
Michael approached the microphone. His posture changed. He stopped hunching.
'Nothin' like them other motherfuckers...'
It was true. He wasn't like the other local rappers, nor like the SoundCloud musicians. He was a time traveler. A strategist.
'I can make you rich (I can make you rich)...'
He mentally stopped at that phrase while singing it, repeating the echo.
'I can make you rich...'
It was literal.
He thought of Jake. He thought of how he had turned his friend's $5,000 into almost $15,000 in a few months without lifting a finger. He thought of his own Ethereum account, touching a million dollars. He thought of the empire he was building.
He had the Midas touch. He could make anyone standing next to him rich.
But the song continued, and reality hit him back.
'I can make you this, baby, I can make you that...'
'I can take you there, but baby, you won't make it back...'
That was the trap. He could give them money. He could give them success. But he couldn't give them safety. He couldn't give them back time. And he himself... he had gone to a place ("there", this new universe) and knew he would never return ("won't make it back").
The irony was painful. He had the financial power of a god, but the emotional impotence of a ghost.
'Growing sick of this and I don't wanna make you sad...'
'Do I make you scared? Baby, won't you take me back?...'
He finished the chorus with a high note, almost pleading.
'Nothin' like them other motherfuckers...'
'I can make you rich (I can make you rich)...'
The final repetition sounded hollow, as if he were offering money to a corpse.
Michael opened his eyes. The take was perfect. It was seductive, it was luxurious, and it was completely hollow inside. It was exactly what the song needed.
He prepared for the verses. The lonely road continued.
The chorus echo faded slightly, leaving room for the beat to breathe. Michael didn't stop. The song required a continuous flow, a toxic stream of consciousness.
He leaned closer to the pop filter again. His voice changed, becoming softer, more conversational, but charged with a dangerous promise.
'I can make you this, baby, I can make you that...'
He sang the line with the confidence of someone who knows he can deliver. He could turn anyone into a star. He could buy anything. His Ethereum account kept rising.
'I can take you there, but baby, you won't make it back...'
That was the warning. He sang it with sudden darkness. He thought of his own journey. He had gone "there" —to this new universe, to this new life of fame and secrets— and knew there was no return ticket. Once you crossed the line into his world, normality died.
'Growing sick of this and I don't wanna make you sad...'
He felt the weight of the mask. He was sick of pretending to be a normal teenager in front of Harris. He was sick of hiding his true intelligence, his true plan. He didn't want to make anyone "sad", but his secret was an invisible barrier between him and everyone he knew.
'Do I make you scared? Baby, won't you take me back?...'
His voice broke intentionally on the word "scared". It was perfect emotional manipulation, the sound of someone asking for forgiveness without changing their behavior.
The beat opened up. The 808 calmed down, letting the synthetic guitar melody shine.
The bridge arrived. The most atmospheric part of the song.
Michael closed his eyes. He visualized his trajectory. He didn't see a stage, or money. He saw a long, dark, empty road stretching into the future.
'Down another lonely road, I go...'
His voice filled with echo and reverb in his headphones. He felt infinitely alone. He was the only time traveler. The only one with the map. No one could walk beside him because no one could understand the path.
'Just another lonely road, oh...'
He sang the "oh" like a sigh of exhaustion.
'I just wanna know, I just gotta know...'
'Do you wanna glow?...'
The question floated in the air. "Do you wanna glow?".
That was what he offered the world. The glow of fame, of diamonds, of success.
'Baby we could glow...'
He sang it with sad seduction. They could glow together, but it would be a cold, artificial light.
The bridge ended. The energy rose again for the last cycle.
He returned to the hypnotic repetition, stacking layers of vocals to create a wall of sound.
'Fuck my life, can't save that, girl...'
'Don't tell me you could save that shit...'
The final denial. He didn't want to be saved. He had already accepted his sentence.
'All she wants is payback...'
'For the way I always play that shit...'
'You ain't getting nothing, now I'm saying, don't tell me you is...'
'Nothin' like them other motherfuckers...'
He reaffirmed his superiority. He wasn't like the others.
'I can make you rich (I can make you rich)...'
The final phrase repeated, fading out.
'I can make you this, baby, I can make you that...'
'I can take you there, but baby, you won't make it back...'
'Growing sick of this and I don't wanna make you sad...'
'Do I make you scared? Baby, won't you take me back?...'
'Do I make you scared? Baby, won't you take me back?...'
The last plea hung in the silence of the booth.
Michael stood still. He was finished. The song was a honey trap: sweet, catchy, and completely poisonous. It was perfect.
Thursday, February 4, 2016 (Night)
Michael stepped out of the recording booth. The echo of the last plea "won't you take me back?" still floated in the air-conditioned studio air.
He sat at the console. He had the puzzle pieces. Now he had to glue them together.
The mix of 'Save That Shit' required a specific touch. Not the wall of sound of 'Look At Me!' nor the crystalline cleanliness of 'Betrayed'. It had to sound... full. Dense.
Michael stacked the vocal tracks. The main take in the center. Support takes (doubles) panned left and right, volume lower.
He added a generous amount of reverb to the ad-libs and background vocals, creating that feeling of being surrounded by the music, as if you were in the back seat of a car with the speakers loud.
He made sure the key line, "I can make you rich", stood out above everything else. He raised the volume of that phrase a decibel, gave it a bit more brightness with the EQ. He wanted that promise to stick in the listener's brain.
He listened to the full song.
It was a perfect contradiction. The rhythm made you bob your head, the bass hit your chest, but the lyrics left a void in your stomach. It was a song to celebrate being sad.
It was finished.
He exported the file: Save_That_Shit_Master.mp3.
He dragged it to the "FEBRUARY RELEASES" folder. The file icon aligned next to XO_TOUR_Llif3_Master.mp3 and Hope_Master.mp3.
Michael leaned back in his chair, exhaling a long breath.
He looked at the calendar on the wall. Crossed out Thursday.
It had been a brutal week.
On Monday, he had channeled nihilism and death with 'XO TOUR Llif3'. On Wednesday, he had offered a helping hand with 'Hope'.
On Thursday, he had confessed his materialist emptiness with 'Save That Shit'.
He had traversed the entire emotional spectrum. He had been the villain, the saint, and the broken lover.
But one piece was missing.
He looked at the Friday slot. The next song of "Factory Week".
'Gucci Gang'.
A slow, amused smile drew across his face.
After so much depth, so much pain and confession, the idea of recording that song seemed almost therapeutic.
Tomorrow he wouldn't have to think. Tomorrow he wouldn't have to feel. Tomorrow, he just had to be stupid. Ignorant. Viral.
The tone shift was going to be brutal, but necessary. If he wanted to dominate the world, he had to be able to make people laugh as much as he made them cry.
He turned off the monitors. The blue power light faded.
"Rest, brain," Michael muttered, leaving the studio. "Tomorrow I don't need you."
The factory was closing for today. But tomorrow, the assembly line would produce its cheapest and most addictive product.
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