Chapter 58: The General Rehearsal
Sunday, December 20, 2015
Michael woke up at six in the morning. The sun hadn't fully risen yet, but his internal clock, driven by adrenaline and stage fright, was already running.
Six days left.
Next Saturday, at this time, he would be waking up with the hangover of his first real concert, or with the shame of having publicly failed in front of a thousand people.
He got up, washed his face with cold water, and dressed in his "stage uniform": the black hoodie, dark cargo pants, and worn-out sneakers. He needed to rehearse in the most real conditions possible.
He went down to the living room. He had moved the few pieces of furniture he had against the walls the night before, creating an open space of about four by four meters. It was his imaginary stage.
On a folding table in the corner, he had set up his live configuration: his MacBook Pro open with the Ableton Live session, his Apollo Twin interface, and a small MIDI controller, an Akai APC Key 25 he had bought to trigger clips.
He connected his Yamaha monitors and turned the volume up to the limit of what was reasonable for a Sunday morning.
"Okay," he muttered to himself, stretching his neck. "Let's run the full set. No stops. As if it were real."
He stood in the center of the room, microphone in hand. He closed his eyes and imagined the darkness of The Observatory, the heat of the spotlights, the roar of the crowd.
He went to the table, pressed the spacebar.
The intro to 'Star Shopping' began to play.
Michael ran back to the center of the room. He got into character. He started singing.
'Wait right here, I'll be back in the mornin'...'
It felt good. His voice was warm. He moved slowly, feeling the emotion of the song. He finished the track. The last guitar note faded.
And then, the problem became evident.
There was silence.
Michael had to break his posture, walk back to the table, search with the mouse for the next clip in Ableton —'Ghost Girl'— and click "Play".
That little three-second walk killed the atmosphere instantly.
He went back to the center. Sang 'Ghost Girl'. Finished.
Silence. Walked to the table. Click. Back to the center.
By the time he reached the fourth song, 'Paris', he was frustrated.
The song required explosive energy. He started jumping, screaming the lyrics, imagining the mosh pit.
'Suicide, night time, no, we don't fight crime, oh!'
He was in the zone. Adrenaline was flowing. But then, he wanted to do an effect. In his head, he heard how the song should stop right before the drop to build tension and then explode again.
He ran to the table to press the "Stop" button on the controller.
He was late. The drop hit while he was halfway there. He missed the timing. He tripped over a cable.
The music kept playing, mocking him, while he stood by the table, panting and furious.
"Shit!" he shouted, hitting the spacebar to silence the chaos.
The silence that followed was heavy.
He ran his hands through his hair, breathing heavily. He realized the reality of his situation.
He was trying to be two people at once. He was trying to be the artist, the shaman controlling the crowd's energy, losing himself in the music, jumping and screaming. And at the same time, he was trying to be the technical engineer, the guy worrying about levels, transitions, and mouse clicks.
It wasn't working.
If he focused on the performance, the music sounded flat, a glorified Spotify playlist with no live transitions or effects. If he focused on the equipment, his performance suffered; he stayed static behind the table, looking at a screen, becoming a boring DJ instead of a performer.
He remembered the concerts he had seen in his other life. Travis Scott. Kanye. Playboi Carti.
None of them touched their own computer. None of them ran to a table to play the next song.
They had someone. They had a DJ. A sonic architect in the shadows who handled the machinery, who read the crowd, who knew exactly when to cut the beat so the artist could finish the phrase a cappella, when to drop the siren, when to rewind the track (wheel up) if the energy was right.
Michael looked at his MacBook as if it were an enemy.
'I can't do it alone,' he thought with cold clarity. 'If I try to do this on Saturday, I'm going to make a fool of myself. I'm going to look like an amateur with expensive karaoke.'
He needed someone. And it couldn't be Sam or Leo. He needed someone who understood timing, who knew how to use a Pioneer controller, who had stage instinct.
He needed a professional.
He looked at the clock. It was 8:30 AM. Karl was probably sleeping off the hangover from some Saturday party.
He didn't care. He grabbed his phone and dialed.
Karl answered on the fifth ring, his voice a pasty growl. "What? Who died?"
"Nobody," said Michael, his voice tense, urgent. "But my show is dead if we don't fix this."
"What are you talking about, Mike? It's Sunday..." Karl complained.
"I just tried to run the set. It's a logistical disaster. I can't handle the music and perform at the same time. It breaks the flow. I look like an idiot running to the laptop."
He heard the sound of Karl sitting up in bed. The manager was waking up. "So what do you want to do?"
"I need a DJ," said Michael. "Not a guy playing songs at a wedding. I need a stage DJ. A technical hype man. Someone to handle the Ableton session or the CDJs while I'm out front."
"A DJ..." Karl repeated, his brain searching through his contacts. "Okay. Makes sense. Most rappers have one."
"Get me one," ordered Michael. "A good one. Someone with experience in festivals or big clubs. Someone who won't get scared when they see a thousand people."
"Mike, it's Christmas week," said Karl, sighing. "Good DJs are booked months in advance for New Year's parties. And the ones who aren't are probably bad."
"I don't care," said Michael. "They have a price. Everyone has a price. Find someone who is a mercenary. Someone who needs the money more than the Christmas party."
He paused, looking at his silent equipment.
"The show is Saturday. I need him here today. At my house. We have to rehearse all week. We're going to build this show from scratch, transition by transition."
Karl was silent for a moment. Michael could hear him typing on his own phone, probably searching contacts.
"Okay," said Karl finally. "I know a couple of guys in the L.A. underground scene. Guys who play illegal raves. They're technical, they're fast, and they're always broke. Let me make a couple of calls."
"Fast," said Michael. "I have the money ready."
He hung up.
He stood in the middle of his empty living room, looking at the imaginary stage. The technical problem was identified. The solution was on its way. But the clock kept ticking, and the anxiety that everything had to be perfect was turning into a physical knot in his stomach.
He sat on the floor, in front of his laptop, and began reorganizing the Ableton session. If a DJ was coming, he had to have the files ready. He separated the vocals from the instrumentals. Created "backing vocals" tracks for the choruses. Prepared the effects.
He was building the ammunition. Now he just needed the gunner.
Sunday, December 20, 2015 (Noon)
Two hours after Michael's panic call, a car pulled up on the dirt road in front of the house. It wasn't Karl's car. It was an old, beaten-up sedan with a dented trunk.
Michael opened the door. Karl got out of the passenger seat, coffee in hand and looking much more awake than on the phone.
"Problem solved," announced Karl, pointing at the car with his thumb.
From the driver's side, a man got out. He was older than them, maybe in his early thirties. He wore a black baseball cap pulled down to his eyes, a faded Death Row Records t-shirt, and baggy pants. He had a scruffy beard and the expression of someone who had seen the sunrise too many times from a DJ booth.
His name was Tyrone, but he introduced himself as T-Roc.
He opened the trunk and pulled out a heavy black flight case covered in club stickers and audio equipment brands.
"This is the talent," said Karl as they walked into the room. "T-Roc has played at 'Low End Theory', at illegal warehouses downtown, and was the tour DJ for a Soundcloud rapper who had a hit two years ago and then disappeared. He knows what he's doing."
T-Roc entered the living room, ignoring Michael at first. His eyes scanned the room: the cleared space, the Yamaha monitors on the folding table, the MacBook Pro.
He set the case on the floor with a dry thud. Then, he looked at Michael.
"So you're the viral kid," said T-Roc. His voice was deep and raspy. "I heard 'Drugs'. The beat is solid."
"Thanks," said Michael. "I need it to sound the same live. Or better."
"Karl told me you need an operator. Someone to trigger clips, handle effects, and make sure you don't look like a fool with silence between songs," said T-Roc, crossing his arms.
"Exactly," replied Michael. "I handle the mic and the people. You handle the flow. I need smooth transitions. I need you to cut the beat when I tell you so people can sing. I need sirens in the hype moments."
T-Roc nodded slowly. "Standard. I can do it in my sleep."
He approached the table and opened his case. Revealed a Pioneer DDJ controller and a Launchpad. Battle gear. He connected his own laptop, a dented MacBook, to Michael's system.
"Now, let's talk business," said T-Roc, without looking up from his cables.
Karl stepped forward, ready to negotiate, but T-Roc cut him off.
"It's Christmas week, kid," said T-Roc, looking at Michael. "I had a gig at a Hollywood club for Christmas Eve that paid well, but it got canceled because the owner is an idiot. That's why I'm here. But my time isn't cheap."
"How much?" asked Michael.
"To rehearse every day this week, Monday to Friday, and the show on Saturday..." T-Roc paused, calculating how much he could squeeze out of these rich kids. "Fifteen hundred dollars."
Karl opened his mouth to protest. "$1,500 is..."
"It's fair," interrupted Michael.
Karl looked at Michael, surprised. $1,500 was a big chunk of the $5,000 fee they were being paid.
"It's fair if you're good," clarified Michael, looking T-Roc in the eyes. "I don't have time for mistakes. If you miss a transition on Saturday, you don't get the second half. Deal?"
T-Roc smiled, showing a gold tooth. He liked the attitude. Not a scared kid; a client.
"Deal. Half now, half when you get off stage."
Michael took out his phone. "Give me your account. I'll transfer the $750 right now."
The transfer was done in silence. T-Roc looked at his phone, saw the bank notification, and nodded. His posture changed instantly. He wasn't the skeptical guy anymore. Now he was an employee.
"Good," said T-Roc, rubbing his hands together. "Pass me the Ableton session. Let's see what you've got under the hood."
Michael passed him the hard drive. T-Roc loaded the files. As the waveforms appeared on the screen, T-Roc whistled.
"Hey... this is clean," he said, surprised. "Tracks are separated. Lead vocals, backing vocals, ad-libs, instrumentals... everything tagged by BPM and key. You did this?"
"Yes," said Michael.
"Shit. Most rappers give me a YouTube MP3 and tell me 'play it loud'. This... we can really work with this."
T-Roc started configuring his controller, assigning faders and buttons to Michael's tracks.
"Okay, boss," said T-Roc, putting on his own headphones. "Let's do a test. Give me the first track."
Michael stood in the center of the room. T-Roc pressed a button. The intro to 'Star Shopping' played, but this time, T-Roc applied a low-pass filter, making the music sound like it was coming from another room, and then slowly opened it up, creating a dramatic entrance that Michael couldn't have done alone.
Michael smiled. It had been worth every penny. The mercenary was good.
Sunday, December 20, 2015 (Afternoon)
While T-Roc continued adjusting gain levels on his controller, Michael's phone vibrated with a series of rapid notifications in "The Island" group chat.
Jake: We're outside. Why is there a car that looks like it survived a shootout in your driveway? Sam: I brought Cheetos.
Michael smiled. "My team is here," he told T-Roc.
"Team?" grunted the DJ, without looking up from the screen. "Dancers? Hype men? Because if I have to teach them to count to four, I charge extra."
"No," said Michael, walking to the door. "None of that. They are... logistics."
He opened the door. The cold December air came in, immediately followed by the usual chaos.
Jake entered first, looking suspiciously at T-Roc's dented sedan parked next to the Corolla. Sam followed, hugging a giant bag of chips. Leo and Nate brought up the rear.
They entered the living room and stopped dead in their tracks.
The room had changed. The folding table with Michael's equipment had been moved. Now, the command center was T-Roc's table, with its flashing LED lights, the massive Pioneer controller, and a tangle of cables crisscrossing the floor like black snakes. And behind all that, T-Roc, with his cap pulled low and his unfriendly face, looked like the pilot of a pirate spaceship.
"Holy cow," whispered Sam. "Who is the final boss?"
"Guys, this is T-Roc," introduced Michael. "He's our DJ for Saturday."
T-Roc raised a lazy hand, flashed a two-finger peace sign, and went back to his screen. "Don't touch the cables."
"Cool," said Jake, recovering his bravado. He turned to Michael. "So, what's the plan, Mike? Do you need us to go on stage with you? I've been practicing my jump for the 'Look At Me!' drop. I can be your Flavor Flav."
"Yeah, I can do backing vocals," offered Sam. "I know all the lyrics."
Michael shook his head, serious. "No. No one goes on stage except T-Roc and me."
Jake's face fell. "Then why did you call us? Moral support?"
"No," said Michael. He went to his studio and returned with a plastic box and several cases. He put them on the sofa. "I called you because the show isn't just for the thousand people who will be at the Observatory. It's for the million people who will watch it on the internet the next day."
Michael opened the box. Inside was the Panasonic VHS camera, the one they had used for 'Sodium'. Next to it was a DSLR camera (a Canon he had rented/bought used for the occasion) and a couple of portable chargers.
"You are going to be my media team," announced Michael. "I want to document everything. From the moment we get in the van here until we get off stage covered in sweat. I want to create the craziest live video ever seen."
He started handing out the equipment as if they were weapons before a mission.
"Sam," he said, passing him the Panasonic. "You are the master of lo-fi. I want you to record with the VHS. Record the trip, backstage, the nerves. And during the show, I want you to record from the side of the stage. I want it to look dirty, old. Like a 90s documentary."
Sam took the camera, his eyes shining. "Understood. Blair Witch mode activated."
"Leo," continued Michael, handing him the DSLR. "You have the best eye. I want photos and video in HD. Get into the photographer's pit. I want close-ups. The sweat, the lights, the people's expressions. I want art."
Leo nodded, checking the camera lens. "I can do it. Black and white or color?"
"Whatever your instinct tells you."
Finally, he turned to Nate and Jake.
"You two," said Michael. "You are the infantry. You don't need big cameras. Use your phones. But I want you inside. I want you in the middle of the crowd."
"In the mosh pit?" asked Jake, smiling.
"Exactly. When 'Look At Me!' plays, I want to see the chaos from the inside. I want you to record people losing their minds. I want vertical shots for Snapchat and Instagram, and horizontal shots for YouTube. Nate, you're tall, get shots over heads. Jake, you get in the mess."
"I like that," said Jake, punching his fist into his palm. "Operation Chaos."
Michael looked at them. They weren't just his school friends anymore. They were his production team.
"The goal," said Michael, "is to make a compilation. An aftermovie. If the show goes well, this video will be what gets us into the big festivals. It has to look epic."
T-Roc, who had been listening silently, let out a low laugh.
"This kid doesn't play," said the DJ, looking at Michael with a new hint of respect. "Most rookies just want to get drunk after the show. You're already thinking about the marketing for the next day."
"Marketing is part of the show," replied Michael.
"Good," said T-Roc, turning up the volume on the monitors. "So, camera crew, to your stations. Let's do a test. I want to see if you can record without tripping over my cables."
Michael stood in the center of the room, microphone in hand. Sam raised the VHS. Leo adjusted the DSLR focus. Jake and Nate took out their phones.
"First song," ordered Michael.
T-Roc pressed a button on his Pioneer controller. It wasn't a simple "play".
First, a low, filtered hum was heard, as if the music were coming from underwater or from the next room. It was a low-pass filter. Michael felt the vibration in the floor before hearing the melody.
Slowly, with surgical precision, T-Roc turned the filter knob. The sound opened up. The high frequencies of the 'Star Shopping' guitar emerged, clear and bright, filling the living room.
Michael didn't have to run to his laptop. He didn't have to look at a screen. He simply raised the microphone.
'Wait right here, I'll be back in the mornin'...'
The difference was abysmal.
By not having to worry about technology, Michael could worry about the performance. He closed his eyes. He moved through the limited space, feeling the microphone cable drag behind him. His voice sounded secure, supported by the perfect mix T-Roc was adjusting in real-time.
As Michael sang, his "media team" sprang into action.
Leo threw himself on the floor, literally. He lay on his back, the DSLR camera pointing up, capturing a low-angle shot of Michael with the white sheet ceiling in the background. Searching for the artistic angle, the tragic hero.
Sam, with the heavy Panasonic VHS camera on his shoulder, moved around Michael like a clumsy satellite. The hum of the tape motor was inaudible due to the music, but the red "REC" light shone. Sam zoomed in and out manually, capturing the grainy texture of the moment.
The song ended. T-Roc didn't let there be silence. He echoed Michael's last word, letting it float, and then, without missing a beat, dropped the 'Ghost Girl' beat.
The transition was perfect. It kept the energy, kept the atmosphere.
After the sad songs, came the moment of truth.
"Okay," said T-Roc, his voice cutting through his makeshift booth microphone. "Let's turn up the heat. 'Paris'. In three, two..."
He dropped an air raid siren effect, short and sharp. And then, the drop.
The distorted 808 bass of 'Paris' hit the Yamaha monitors with such force that the room windows vibrated.
Michael changed instantly. His posture hunched, became aggressive. He started jumping.
'Tell me what you know 'bout a motherfucker out the bottom!'
Nate and Jake, who had been passively recording with their phones, felt the energy. Jake started jumping too, phone in one hand and the other in the air, shouting the choruses off-mic. Nate recorded from a corner, capturing the chaos of the small room.
T-Roc was working hard. Cutting the beat at exact moments for Michael to shout a line a cappella, and then bringing it back with maximum impact. doing digital backspins, adding quick delays. He was playing the controller as if it were an instrument.
When they got to 'Look At Me!', the living room turned into a controlled war zone.
The saturated bass was deafening. Michael was sweating, screaming the lyrics with a fury that made Leo stop recording for a second just to watch.
'Fuck on me, look at me, ayy!'
Michael approached Sam's camera, screaming into the lens, fogging it with his breath. Sam didn't back down; he held the frame, smiling like a madman.
The rehearsal ended with 'Drugs You Should Try It'.
T-Roc bathed the room in spatial reverb, letting the psychedelic synths calm the adrenaline.
The last note faded.
There was a moment of absolute silence. Only Michael's heavy breathing and the hum of the equipment could be heard.
"Shit," said Jake, breaking the spell. "That was... intense."
Michael wiped his arm across his forehead, wiping away the sweat. He looked at T-Roc. The DJ adjusted his cap, crossed his arms, and nodded slowly.
"You don't suck, kid," said T-Roc. "You got lungs. And the setlist flows well."
Coming from a mercenary who was only there for the money, that was huge praise.
Michael looked at his friends. Leo was reviewing the photos on his camera screen, nodding to himself. Sam was patting the VHS camera. Nate and Jake were putting away their phones.
They no longer looked like a group of high school students playing in a living room. They looked like a team. They looked like a tour.
"We have a week," said Michael, his voice still a little hoarse from screaming. "We're going to do this every day. Until we can do it in our sleep."
"We're ready," said Leo, raising the camera.
Michael looked at his makeshift studio, his hired DJ, and his friends turned film crew. The anxiety of stage fright had disappeared, replaced by something much more useful: certainty.
On Saturday, they were going to destroy the Observatory.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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