Chapter 61: The Backstage and the King
Saturday, December 26, 2015 – 5:00 PM
The afternoon sun in Santa Ana began to lower, casting long shadows over the gravel parking lot behind the building. A black Chevrolet Suburban, rented that very morning with the company credit card, pulled up with a crunch of tires.
The engine turned off. There was a moment of silence inside the vehicle.
"We're here," Karl said from the driver's seat. His voice tried to project the confidence of a seasoned manager, but Michael noticed the slight tremble in his hands as he removed the keys.
Michael, sitting in the passenger seat, adjusted his sunglasses. He was wearing his battle uniform: the black "GRAY" hoodie (a prototype he had had made), dark jeans, and his sneakers.
"Let's go," said Michael.
They got out. The air smelled of hot asphalt and distant smoke.
From the back seat emerged Leo, Sam, and Nate. They looked... out of place. With their backpacks full of camera lenses, their video game brand hoodies, and their hunched posture, they looked like a group of students on a school field trip who had gotten lost in the wrong neighborhood.
Only T-Roc, who got out of the third row carrying his flight case, seemed to belong there. He adjusted his cap, spat on the ground, and looked at the black-painted brick building with indifference.
"Welcome to the sausage factory," grunted T-Roc.
They walked toward the rusted metal door marked "ARTIST ENTRY". A security guard the size of a refrigerator stopped them, crossing his arms over a vest that said STAFF.
"Names," he barked.
Karl stepped forward, taking out his phone. "Michael Demiurge. We're on the main bill. Plus technical and media team."
The guard looked at his list, then looked at Michael. He scanned him up and down. A dark-skinned, skinny kid with sunglasses at sunset. He didn't look like a rapper. He looked like a hacker.
"Passes," the guard said, handing them laminated stickers. "Dressing Room B. Hallway to the left. Don't block the hallways."
They entered.
The change in atmosphere was instant. The fresh California air disappeared, replaced by a dense, stale smell. It smelled of beer spilled years ago, industrial cleaning products, cheap marijuana, and nervous sweat.
The Observatory backstage wasn't glamorous. It was a maze of narrow concrete hallways, painted black and covered in stickers of bands that had played there a decade ago. Cables taped to the floor snaked everywhere like black veins.
Michael walked in the center, his team flanking him. He felt the stares of the sound technicians passing by carrying boxes.
He felt like an intruder. A virus in the system.
They arrived at Dressing Room B. Karl opened the door. It was a small room, with a faux leather sofa that had seen better days, a mirror with lights (two of which were burnt out), and a plastic table with a tray of fruit that looked sad.
"Luxury," joked Sam, setting his backpack down carefully in a corner.
"It's a base," said Michael, putting down his own backpack. "T-Roc, how much time do we have for line-check?"
"Twenty minutes before doors open," said the DJ, checking his watch.
Michael nodded. He looked at himself in the dirty mirror. He looked calm. His glasses hid his eyes. But inside, his stomach was in knots.
He was in the territory of "real artists".
And he could feel the building itself was judging him.
Saturday, December 26, 2015 – 6:30 PM
Dressing Room B was too small to contain the nervous energy of six people. The air became stale quickly.
"I need air," said Michael, adjusting his hood. "And water. They have catering in the main hallway."
They left the relative safety of the dressing room and immersed themselves back into the backstage ecosystem.
If at five in the afternoon it was quiet, now it was a zoo. The hallway was full of people: technicians running with cables, groupies with VIP passes trying to look important, and most intimidating: the other artists.
Michael and his team walked toward the catering table. As they did, they felt the shift in atmosphere. Conversations stopped in their wake. Stares fixed on them.
They weren't looks of admiration. They were looks of evaluation. And of disdain.
There was a group of local rappers leaning against a brick wall, partially blocking the way. They were the openers for the secondary stage, guys who had been "grinding" in the L.A. scene for years, selling mixtapes in parking lots and playing empty bars to earn respect.
They wore gold chains (some real, others dubious), designer t-shirts with giant logos, and face tattoos. They exuded a rehearsed toughness.
When Michael passed, one of them, a bulky guy with braids and gold teeth, laughed under his breath and nudged his friend.
"Look," he said, loud enough for Michael to hear. "There goes the internet sad boy."
"The ghost," mocked another, exhaling vape smoke in his direction. "Is that the one who went viral screaming in a kitchen?"
Michael kept his gaze forward, his face impassive behind the sunglasses. But his hands, shoved in his hoodie pockets, clenched into fists.
"Hey, kid," shouted the one with the braids. "Where's your jewelry? Did your label not give you a budget for a chain?"
The group burst into laughter.
Jake, who was walking behind Michael, stopped. His defense instinct activated. He turned toward the rappers, chest puffed out.
"You got a problem, bro?"
Michael grabbed Jake by the arm before he could do something stupid. "No, Jake. Leave it. They're not worth it."
"Yeah, listen to your boyfriend," shouted one of the rappers. "Go back to the suburbs. This isn't a kid's game. This is real. You guys aren't from the streets."
That was the constant criticism. Michael wasn't street. He wasn't real. For them, authenticity was measured in scars, criminal records, and dangerous zip codes. Michael, with his silence, his minimalist black clothes, and his lyrics about feelings, was an offense to everything they represented. They saw him as a tourist. As "soft".
Leo, Sam, and Nate walked close to Michael, feeling small. Their cameras and backpacks looked ridiculous here.
Michael guided them to the drinks table, away from the hostile group. He grabbed a bottle of water, his hands trembling slightly, not from fear, but from a cold rage.
"Idiots," muttered Sam.
"They're scared," said T-Roc, appearing behind them. The DJ didn't seem intimidated in the slightest. "They've been trying to land a hit for ten years and you did it in ten months from your bedroom. They smell your success and it stinks of their own failure."
Michael drank water. He knew T-Roc was right, but that didn't make the environment any less oppressive. He felt surrounded. Cornered.
The entire backstage seemed to be waiting for him to fail. They wanted to see him go on stage and freeze. They wanted to see that the viral phenomenon was just smoke.
"Let's go back to the dressing room," said Michael.
They turned around to go back, having to pass through the gauntlet of local sharks again. The rappers were still there, ready for round two of mockery.
But then, the security door at the end of the hallway opened with a metallic clang.
The noise in the hallway cut off abruptly.
A real security team entered. Huge men in black suits and earpieces. They pushed people out of the way with brutal efficiency.
And behind them, walking with a calm that contrasted with the chaos, entered The Weeknd.
Saturday, December 26, 2015 – 6:45 PM
The hallway went silent. An absolute, reverential silence that made the hum of the amplifiers seem deafening.
The security guards, men who looked like mountains in black suits, moved the local rappers aside as if they were furniture.
"Back. Make way."
And then, he entered.
The Weeknd. Abel Tesfaye.
In 2015, Abel wasn't just a singer. He was the King of Dark Pop. His album Beauty Behind the Madness was dominating the world. His hair, with that iconic and sculptural style of the era, was unmistakable even against the light.
He walked with a languid calm, head down, ignoring the chaos around him.
Michael stayed pressed against the wall, feeling the air in the room change. It was like seeing royalty walking among peasants.
Abel passed in front of the group of rappers who had mocked Michael minutes before. They, who looked so tough, now looked like scared children, mumbling greetings that Abel didn't even register.
Abel kept walking toward his private dressing room, the venue's presidential suite. But just as he passed in front of Michael, he stopped.
His eyes, dark and tired, rested on the kid in the black hoodie and sunglasses.
There was a second of pause. Michael's heart hammered against his ribs.
Abel turned completely. The security guards stopped instantly.
"You're Demiurge, right?" said Abel. His voice was soft, almost a melodic whisper.
The entire hallway held its breath.
Michael took off his sunglasses, a gesture of instinctive respect. "Yeah. That's me."
Abel nodded slowly, as if confirming a fact.
"I heard 'Drugs You Should Try It'," said Abel. "That production... is a trip. I liked the atmosphere. Sounds like 4 in the morning."
The local rappers, the ones who had laughed at Michael's lack of gold chains, were left open-mouthed. The biggest artist on the planet had just praised the "internet sad boy".
Michael felt his knees shaking, but forced himself to maintain composure. He was somewhat nervous, but he pulled himself together. He couldn't act like a hysterical fan. He had to act like an equal.
"Thanks. Means a lot coming from you," said Michael, managing to make his voice sound steady. "Your album Beauty Behind the Madness is incredible. The production on 'The Hills'... is a masterpiece. That distorted bass changed the game."
A small smile, barely visible, appeared at the corner of Abel's lips. He appreciated that they talked about the production, not the fame.
"Thanks, brother," said Abel.
He gestured to leave, but Michael knew this was the moment. He wouldn't get it again.
"Hey, Abel," said Michael. "Do you mind if we take a picture?"
Abel stopped. He looked at Michael, then looked at the team behind him: the boys with the cameras. He understood the game.
"Sure. Let's make it quick."
Michael signaled Leo. Leo, hands steady despite the excitement, raised the Canon DSLR.
Michael stood next to The Weeknd. Abel flashed his classic peace sign, looking at the camera with that somber intensity. Michael kept his face serious, his "ghost" aesthetic.
Click. Click.
"Got it," said Leo.
"Good luck out there, Demiurge," said Abel. "Break the stage."
And with that, he retired to his private room, his guards closing formation around him. The door closed, and the King disappeared.
Michael remained in the hallway. The silence broke slowly, replaced by excited murmurs.
He turned.
The local rappers, the "sharks", were looking at him. But there was no longer mockery in their eyes. There was confusion. There was envy. And, for the first time, there was fear.
They had just realized that the kid in the hoodie wasn't alone. He had the King's blessing.
Michael put his sunglasses back on. He looked at Karl, who was grinning like a maniac.
"Let's go to the dressing room," said Michael. "We have a show to play."
Saturday, December 26, 2015 – 7:55 PM
Five minutes left.
Michael was standing in the "wings" of the stage, the dark and narrow space just behind the black velvet curtains. The air there was different. It was colder, charged with static electricity and the chemical smell of fog machines.
On the other side of the curtain, just a few meters away, were a thousand people.
The sound of the crowd wasn't a human noise. It was a vibration. A dull, constant roar, like an ocean trapped in a box, shaking the floorboards beneath his feet.
T-Roc adjusted his cap. "It's time, boss," he said, his voice calm and professional. "I'm going up. When you see the green signal on my table, I drop the intro."
Michael nodded. He didn't trust his voice to speak. T-Roc went up the steps to the elevated DJ booth, a dark silhouette cut against the blue work lights.
Karl, who was glued to his phone checking the last details with the promoter, approached. He gave Michael a firm pat on the shoulder.
"You earned this," said Karl. "They are here for you. Not for the headliner. For you. Go and collect your check."
Michael took a deep breath. He looked around.
His "media team" was deploying. Leo had already slipped into the photographer's pit, DSLR ready in his hands, looking for the perfect angle from below.
Sam, with the heavy Panasonic VHS camera on his shoulder, gave him a shaky thumbs up from the corner of the stage. He looked nervous, but determined. The red "REC" light was already on.
Nate and Jake were about to go down the side stairs to immerse themselves in the audience.
Jake stopped for a second. He grabbed Michael by the shoulders and shook him gently.
"Kill them, Zombie," Jake said, with a ferocious smile. "Make them regret not knowing you sooner."
Then, they disappeared into the darkness of the room.
Michael was left alone in the gloom. He closed his eyes.
He tried to remember the rehearsals in his living room. The movements. The breathing. But all that seemed distant. This was real. There was no safety net.
Suddenly, the background music playing in the venue (some generic pop hit) cut off abruptly.
The roar of the crowd doubled in volume. They knew what was coming.
The room lights, the "house lights", went out all at once. The Observatory plunged into absolute darkness.
The scream of a thousand throats was deafening. A wall of physical sound that hit Michael in the chest.
In the DJ booth, a small green light turned on.
T-Roc pressed the button.
The clean, melancholic, and slightly detuned sound of the 'Star Shopping' guitar began to play through the massive sound system.
The scream of the crowd changed tone. From anticipation to recognition. They knew the song.
Michael opened his eyes. He no longer felt fear. He felt a cold, absolute clarity.
He adjusted the microphone in his hand. He pulled up his hoodie, hiding his face in the shadow. He made sure his sunglasses were straight.
The "Glasses Boy" stayed behind, in the darkness of the wings.
Michael Demiurge took a step forward.
He stepped out of the shadow and entered the beam of pale blue light illuminating the center of the stage.
The world stopped. And then, Michael raised the microphone.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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