Chapter 54: The Sonic Slap
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
Michael woke up with a clarity he hadn't felt in days. The call to Harris the day before had been a success. The legal gears were in motion. Harris and his new contact in New York were chasing Sting's lawyers, a battle Michael knew would take months.
He couldn't wait.
He sat in his professional studio. The morning sun streamed through the window, but the atmosphere in the room was dark. He knew he couldn't release 'Lucid Dreams'. He couldn't release 'Jocelyn Flores'.
But he had to release something. The hype for 'Drugs You Should Try It' was at its peak. Disappearing now would be professional suicide.
He looked at his "GO List", the songs without problematic samples. 'Gucci Gang'. 'XO TOUR Llif3'. They were strong, but they weren't the right move.
He needed a bridge. A song that had a sample, but one that was easy to get, to prove to Harris (and himself) that the process could work.
And he needed a song that was a slap in the face.
Critics had called him an "atmospheric production genius" for "Drugs". The 'White Iverson' fans loved his laid-back vibe.
It was time to burn that image to the ground.
He opened his "Problem List" and looked at the easiest option. 'Look At Me!' (Sample: 'Changes' by Mala).
It was perfect. It was the opposite of "Drugs". It was ugly, loud, and stupid in the most brilliant way possible.
He made the first call.
"Harris," said Michael, without saying hello. "Your friend in New York. I have another one, this one is easy. 'Changes' by Mala. He's a dubstep producer. Get me the rights. Pay whatever he asks. I need this for this week."
Harris, who was still dealing with the shock of the Sting call, let out a sigh. "Mala... Okay. That sounds cheaper. I'll put it on the list."
Michael hung up. He wasn't going to wait for confirmation. He opened a new project in Ableton.
look_at_me_v1.
He opened the System guide. It was brutally simple.
PRODUCTION GUIDE: 'Look At Me!'
Sample: 'Changes' - Mala (Pitch-down).
Main Element: Massive and distorted 808.
Energy: Pure chaos.
That was it. There was no melody. There were no chords. The song was the bass.
Michael created the beat. He started with the centerpiece: the 808.
He loaded a simple 808 sample into the Ableton sampler. On its own, it was a deep, clean "boom".
Then, he opened his distortion plugins folder. He found one called "Saturator" and dragged it onto the 808 track.
He started turning the "Drive" knob.
The clean "boom" turned into a brrr.
He turned the gain up more.
The brrr turned into a GRRR. He kept turning it up, ignoring the red warning lights on the volume meter.
The sound broke. It stopped being a musical note and became a seismic noise, an industrial growl that physically vibrated his desk. It was horrible.
"Perfect," he muttered.
He programmed the simple and repetitive bass line. Then, he went to YouTube, ripped the audio from 'Changes' by Mala, and dragged it into Ableton. Following the guide, he pitched down the sample until it sounded dark and demonic.
He added a simple kick to hit along with the 808, giving it even more force.
There were no hi-hats. There were no snares. There was nothing else.
He finished the beat in less than an hour.
He hit play. The room shook. It was abrasive, impossible to ignore, and strangely catchy. It was the sound of a riot.
It was time to record the lyrics.
Thursday, December 17, 2015
Michael sat in his studio, the 'Look At Me!' beat pounding the Yamaha monitors in an aggressive loop. The distorted 808 bass vibrated the coffee cup on his desk.
Now came the real challenge: the vocals.
He looked at his Neumann microphone, the TLM 102, resting on its stand. It was a precision tool. It was perfect for capturing the vulnerability of 'Star Shopping' or the atmosphere of 'Drugs You Should Try It'.
But for this song, it was the wrong tool.
'Look At Me!' wasn't a high-fidelity song. It was a war cry. It was noise. Recording these lyrics on a thousand-dollar microphone would be like painting graffiti with a fine brush. It would miss the point.
Michael smiled. He got up and went to his equipment closet. He rummaged through a cardboard box he had labeled "TRASH".
He pulled out his old second-hand microphone: the Audio-Technica AT2020. The one he had used for 'Ghost Boy' and 'Star Shopping'.
He plugged it into his Apollo interface. But this time, he did something no sound engineer would ever do.
He turned the "gain" knob to the right. Not just a little. He turned it until the small indicator light on the interface stopped being green and turned a solid, intense red.
He was "clipping" intentionally. He was forcing the signal to distort before it even reached the computer. He wanted the audio to sound "broken".
He stepped into the recording booth. He put on his headphones and turned the volume of the beat up to a painful level.
He needed to channel the energy. He wasn't sad. He wasn't melancholic. He was angry.
He thought of the "old guard" haters on Twitter. He thought of the jock who called him a "fag". He thought of all the critics who said "emo rap" was for "losers".
This song was for them.
He hit the spacebar. The beat entered. And Michael, instead of singing, screamed.
'Ayy, ayy, ayy!'
His voice came through the headphones, distorted, raspy, almost unrecognizable. It was perfect.
'I'm like: Bitch, who is your mans? (Ayy)'
'Can't keep my dick in my pants (ayy)'
He spat the words with a raw, youthful arrogance. It was a character. It was the monster everyone said he was.
'My bitch don't love me no mo' (ayy)'
'She kick me out, I'm like: Vro (ayy)'
'That bitch don't wanna be friends (ayy)'
'I gave her dick, she amen (ayy)'
He wasn't relating to the lyrics on a deep level. He was using the words as a rhythmic weapon, a hammer against the beat.
'She put her tongue on my dick (ayy)'
'Look at my wrist, about ten (ayy)'
The energy was manic. He was having fun.
'Just got a pound of the boof (ayy)'
'Brought that shit straight to the booth (ayy)'
'Tommy my Hilfiger voots (ayy)'
'She said: Wan' fuck? Bitch, I do (ayy)'
It was pure bragging, a character so far from his reality as an analytical engineer that it was liberating to play it.
'You put a gun on my mans (ayy)'
'I put a hole in your parents (ayy)'
He shouted the line with a cartoonish violence that even surprised him. It was a direct "fuck you" to censorship, to expectations.
And then, the chorus. The hypnotic chant.
'Fuck on me, look at me, ayy'
'Fuck on me, yah, look at me, ayy'
'Look at me, look at me, yah'
'Fuck on me, yah'
He recorded it over and over, stacking his distorted voice, creating a chaotic one-man choir.
He didn't stop. He went straight to the second verse.
'I took a white bitch to Starbucks...'
'That little bitch got her throat fucked...'
It was the most offensive lyric he had ever recorded. He knew people would be scandalized. Good. That was the point.
'I like to rock out like I'm Misfit...'
'My emo bitch like her wrist slit...'
The line was dark, but he said it with the same arrogant indifference. He was breaking every taboo he could.
'Curly hair bitch like I'm Corbin...'
A reference to himself. To his own hair, which was now longer, curlier, and wilder.
'Got like three bitches, I'm Mormon...'
'Skeet on your main bitch's forehead...'
'Don't want your pussy, just want head...'
He returned to the chorus, screaming it with the last strength he had left.
'Look at me, fuck on me...'
'Look at me, fuck on me...'
'Look at me, fuck on me...'
'Look at me, yah!'
The last line was a pure scream.
He finished it in a day. In a single explosive one-hour session.
He stepped out of the booth, sweating, throat burning. He collapsed into his chair. It was the most intense and physically exhausting recording session of his life.
He drank a whole bottle of water. And then, with a trembling click, he played back the take.
It was horrible. It was a technical disaster. The voice was completely "in the red", distorted, saturated. You could barely understand the words.
It was exactly what he wanted.
It was a masterpiece of pure energy. The song was ready.
Michael leaned back in his chair. The song was finished.
look_at_me_final_master.mp3.
It was a brick of abrasive, distorted, and perfect sound.
But he didn't upload it.
The temptation was there. He wanted to drop that bomb of raw energy on the world right now. But he held back.
'Drugs You Should Try It' had taught him the power of anticipation.
'Look At Me!' wasn't just any song; it was the first single of his "Era 2". It was his first song on mainstream platforms. He had to do it right.
He decided to wait. He would upload it next week.
This gave him time for two things:
That Harris and his new music lawyer in New York would legally clear the Mala sample.
Generate hype.
He opened Twitter. It was time to light the fuse.
He posted just one thing to generate hype.
It wasn't a photo of him. It was a screenshot of the Ableton project, showing the waveform of the song: a solid, red, saturated, and aggressive brick.
And the text:
"They told me it was too soft. They are wrong. Next week. 12.25."
He closed the laptop. The tweet exploded instantly.
In that week, while the hype grew, Michael wasn't going to wait. He turned to his desk, summoned the System, and looked at the "GO List".
He would start working on the other songs. He opened a new blank project. Boss_v1. The game had begun.
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