Chapter 103: Mile High
Tuesday, March 1, 2016 (10:30 AM)
The cold of Denver hit Michael the moment he stepped out of the hotel. It wasn't the dry cold of the desert night he had experienced in Arizona; it was a wet, cutting cold that crept beneath his hoodie and raised goosebumps on his arms. The temperature was barely four degrees Celsius, and the sky was covered by a uniform layer of gray clouds threatening snow.
Michael pulled up his hood and walked toward the Prevost, which was parked in the alley behind the hotel. Big Rob followed two steps behind, scanning the perimeter with the professional paranoia of someone who had worked in security for over a decade.
"The venue is fifteen minutes away," Big Rob informed him as he opened the bus door. "Karl is already there with the local crew. He says the sound system is a Meyer Sound, so you shouldn't have any problems with the bass."
Michael nodded and climbed the steps. The Prevost's interior was a refuge of artificial warmth after the cold outside. T-Roc was sitting on the couch, reviewing the setlist transitions on his laptop.
"Ready for the altitude?" T-Roc asked without looking up.
"I guess we'll find out," Michael replied, pouring himself a glass of water. Four liters a day. Amy would kill him if he didn't comply.
The bus started up and began navigating Denver's streets. Michael observed the city through the tinted windows: red brick buildings mixed with glass skyscrapers, hipster cafés on every corner, people walking in heavy coats and wool beanies. It was a different city from Los Angeles—more compact, colder, with an energy that felt more underground.
'This city is hungry for something new', Michael thought as the bus turned toward the venue district. 'I can feel it.'
---
Tuesday, March 1, 2016 (11:15 AM)
The Ogden Theatre was a historic building from the twenties, with a beige stucco facade and an illuminated marquee announcing: "MICHAEL DEMIURGE - SOLD OUT." Michael stared at the sign for a few seconds before entering through the service door.
The interior was impressive. High ceilings with ornate moldings, a balcony that curved around the main hall, and a dark wood stage that rose almost a meter above the floor. The capacity was approximately sixteen hundred people—double Tucson but half of some of the venues that would come later.
Karl was in the center of the hall, talking to a bald man wearing a vest full of cables and tools. When he saw Michael, he raised his hand in greeting.
"Mike, this is Dave, the venue's sound engineer," Karl introduced. "He says the Meyer Sound is calibrated for rock, but he can adjust it for lower frequencies."
Michael walked toward them, his Jordan 4s echoing on the empty concrete floor. He extended his hand to Dave.
"How many subs do you have?" Michael asked directly.
Dave seemed surprised by the technical question coming from a teenager. "Twelve. Six per side. Meyer 900-LFC."
"Good. I'm going to need you to boost the gain in the 40 to 60 Hz range for the first three songs. After that, cut it back a bit and give more presence to the mids. My vocals have a lot of autotune processing, and I need them to cut through the bass without competing."
Dave exchanged a look with Karl, clearly impressed. "Understood. Anything else?"
"Yes. The left floor monitor needs more volume than the right. I move a lot toward that side and lose my reference if it's not balanced."
Michael climbed onto the stage and walked from one end to the other, feeling the boards beneath his feet. The space was different from Phoenix and Tucson; it had more resonant acoustics due to the high ceilings and old plaster walls. Every sound would bounce differently here.
"T-Roc, come up," Michael ordered. "Let's test 'Witchblades' first. I want to see how the bass sounds in this space."
---
Tuesday, March 1, 2016 (11:45 AM)
The first chords of "Witchblades" filled the Ogden Theatre like a toxic fog. The distorted bass was so dense that Michael felt the vibration in his sternum before hearing it with his ears. The Meyer subs were doing their job; each 808 hit was a physical punch that made the ceiling moldings tremble.
Michael grabbed the microphone and started delivering the first verses. His voice, processed with his characteristic autotune, rose above the instrumentation like a digital ghost. But something felt different.
He stopped mid-second verse.
"Cut," he said into the mic.
T-Roc paused the track immediately. The silence that followed was almost painful after the sonic pressure.
"What's wrong?" Karl asked from the hall.
Michael brought his hand to his chest. His breathing was faster than normal, and he felt a slight pressure in his temples that he hadn't experienced in the previous shows.
"The altitude," he murmured to himself.
T-Roc was right. Denver was over sixteen hundred meters above sea level, which meant less oxygen in each breath. For someone who jumped and screamed for ninety minutes straight, that difference could be critical.
"Dave, do you have supplemental oxygen here?" Michael asked the engineer.
"We can get some tanks for the backstage," Dave replied. "It's common for artists coming from low-altitude cities."
"Do it. And I want a water bottle at each corner of the stage, not just on the DJ table."
Michael took the microphone again. This time, he adjusted his breathing technique, taking deeper inhalations and holding notes a little less time. It was a compromise, but a necessary one.
"T-Roc, again. From the top."
The music filled the space once more. Michael sang the first verses with the new technique, feeling his body gradually adapt to the conditions. It wasn't perfect, but it would work.
'Every city is a new battlefield', he thought as the chorus arrived. 'And every battle requires a different strategy.'
---
Tuesday, March 1, 2016 (2:30 PM)
The soundcheck had lasted almost three hours. Michael had tested every song on the setlist, adjusting levels, modifying transitions, and memorizing the acoustic peculiarities of the Ogden Theatre. Now he was in the dressing room, a small space with exposed brick walls and a worn leather couch that had seen better decades.
On the coffee table were three water bottles, a fruit tray that Karl had ordered, and Michael's iPhone showing the real-time statistics for "Save That Shit." The song had surpassed five million plays on Spotify in less than a week, and it kept climbing.
Michael ignored the metrics and opened his notes app. He needed to review the plan for tonight:
DENVER SETLIST (03/01/2016):
1. Look At Me! (opening with blackout)
2. Paris (maintain high energy)
3. Ghost Boy (lower intensity)
4. Star Shopping (intimate moment, phone lights)
5. Betrayed (drug warning)
6. WITCHBLADES (PREMIERE - total darkness)
7. Lucid Dreams (anthem, crowd sings)
8. XO TOUR Llif3 (emotional climax)
9. Save That Shit (recent, gauge reaction)
10. crybaby (melancholic closing)
It was a setlist designed as an emotional roller coaster. Start with fury, descend into intimacy, rise into darkness with the premiere, explode with the known anthems, and end in a valley of melancholy that would leave the audience processing their emotions for days.
The dressing room door opened and Karl entered with his tablet in hand.
"Social media is blowing up," Karl said, sitting on the arm of the couch. "People who were at Tucson are posting that it was the best experience of their lives. There are clips of the moment you went down into the crowd with over a hundred thousand views."
Michael nodded without showing surprise. "How many people confirmed for tonight?"
"Complete sellout. Sixteen hundred tickets. The promoter says he could have sold double if the venue were bigger."
"Good. Next time we come to Denver, I want a bigger place."
Karl smiled and took note. "Anything you need before the show?"
"Silence," Michael replied. "I need an hour without interruptions. I have to prepare mentally."
Karl nodded and left the dressing room, closing the door behind him.
Michael lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. He wasn't nervous; nerves were for artists who doubted their material. He knew exactly what was going to happen tonight. The only variable was how Denver's audience would react to hearing "Witchblades" for the first time.
'They're going to feel like they're descending into hell', he thought with a slight smile. 'And they're going to love it.'
---
Tuesday, March 1, 2016 (7:45 PM)
The murmur of sixteen hundred people filtered through the dressing room walls like the distant roar of an ocean. Michael stood in front of the mirror, observing his reflection. He wore an oversized black hoodie, cargo pants of the same color, and his immaculate Jordan 4s. No jewelry, no flashy accessories. Tonight wasn't about the visual spectacle; it was about the sound.
T-Roc poked his head through the door. "Five minutes, Mike."
Michael nodded without turning. He took one last deep breath, filling his lungs with Denver's thin air, and exhaled slowly. He could feel his pulse quickening—not from fear but from anticipation. It was the same instinct predators must feel before the hunt.
He left the dressing room and walked down the hallway toward the side of the stage. The Ogden Theatre vibrated with the accumulated energy of an audience that had waited hours for this moment. Through the black curtains, Michael could see phone lights illuminating the darkness like electric fireflies.
Big Rob was positioned beside the stage stairs, his massive figure blocking any unauthorized access. When he saw Michael, he gave him a silent nod.
"Denver is ready for you, boss," Rob said in his deep voice.
Michael didn't respond. He was entering the mental state he needed for the show: a mix of absolute focus and controlled abandon. It was a contradiction that only made sense when you were on stage.
The venue lights went out completely.
The roar of the crowd was deafening.
T-Roc released the first seconds of tense silence, and then the distorted bass of "Look At Me!" exploded through the speakers with a force that made the floor tremble.
Michael climbed the steps and jumped to center stage.
The hunt had begun.
---
Tuesday, March 1, 2016 (8:15 PM)
The Ogden Theatre was a cauldron of controlled chaos. The first thirty minutes had been an explosion of energy that had left Michael drenched in sweat despite the cold outside. The altitude was making itself felt; each breath required more effort, and his lungs worked twice as hard to keep up the pace. But he wasn't going to stop. He couldn't.
"Denver, are you ready for something you've never heard?" Michael shouted into the microphone after the last echoes of "Betrayed" faded.
The roar of affirmation shook the ceiling moldings.
Michael signaled to T-Roc. The lights went out completely, plunging the venue into total darkness. The silence that followed was almost unbearable, charged with anticipation.
Then, the first chords of "Witchblades" emerged from nowhere.
The bass was different from anything the audience had heard before. It was darker, denser, with a distortion that sounded like it came from the depths of some digital abyss. The synthesizers crawled over the low frequency like smoke serpents, creating an atmosphere that felt genuinely threatening.
Michael began to sing with a voice he barely recognized as his own. The autotune was configured more aggressively than in his other songs, giving his voice an inhuman, almost demonic quality.
'Switchblades, cocaine, GothBoiClique make a hoe shake'
'Black fur, black coat, GothBoiClique in the back, hoe'
The crowd absorbed the words like sweet poison. Michael moved across the stage like a specter, his silhouette barely visible under the red strobe lights that flickered sporadically.
'Switchblades, cocaine, GothBoiClique till my soul take'
'Black jeans, half black hoes, GothBoiClique in the castle'
The energy shifted when the first verse arrived. Michael lowered his voice, making it more intimate, more confessional.
'In high school, I was a loner'
'I was a reject, I was a poser'
'Multiple personalities, I'm bipolar'
'I swear, I mean well, I'm still goin' to hell'
The words resonated with a brutal honesty that cut through the distorted bass. He could see faces in the front row—kids who had probably felt exactly that way in their own schools. Rejected, misunderstood, alone.
'Witchcraft, love chants'
'Whisper in my ear, put me in a trance'
'Cocaine all night long'
'When I die, bury me with all my ice on'
The chorus hit with a hypnotic melancholy. Michael closed his eyes, letting the words come out like a dark prayer.
'When I die, bury me with all my ice on'
'When I die, bury me without the lights on'
'Lights off, nightlights'
'Clothes off, baby, I got good white'
The bridge arrived as a moment of unexpected vulnerability amid the chaos.
'Clothes off, baby, I got good white'
'Tell me a secret and I'll tell one of mines'
'I just wanna talk, I don't wanna fight'
'Ask me if I'm alright, do you want me to lie?'
That last line hung in the air for a second. It was a question Michael asked himself every day since he had awakened in this world. Was he okay? Did he want to be lied to?
The song returned to the final chorus with renewed intensity, the bass hitting like a jackhammer while Michael screamed the last lines.
The crowd didn't know how to react at first. It was so different from "Lucid Dreams" or "Star Shopping" that some seemed confused. But as the song progressed, Michael saw the energy change. Heads started moving. Bodies began to sway. And when the chorus hit, the mosh pit that formed in the center of the hall was the most violent he had seen on the entire tour.
'They got it', Michael thought as he screamed the last lines of the chorus. 'They understood that this isn't just music. It's a descent.'
The song ended with a distortion feedback that lasted ten seconds, leaving the audience in a state of collective shock. When the lights came back on, Michael was standing in the center of the stage, panting, with his arms extended like a preacher after an apocalyptic sermon.
"That's called 'Witchblades,'" he said into the microphone, his voice hoarse from the effort. "And it's just the beginning."
The roar that followed was deafening.
Denver had been baptized.
---
Tuesday, March 1, 2016 (9:30 PM)
The show ended with "crybaby," as planned. Michael had let the audience sing most of the song, conserving what remained of his voice for the most emotional lines. When the last note faded, there was no dramatic farewell. Just a silent nod and a walk toward the darkness of the backstage.
The dressing room felt like a decompression chamber. Michael collapsed onto the couch, his chest rising and falling violently as his lungs fought to recover the lost oxygen. Someone placed a cold towel on his neck and a water bottle in his hand. He drank half of it in one gulp.
Karl entered a few minutes later, with an expression that mixed astonishment and concern.
"Mike, that was... intense," he said, sitting in a chair across from him. "The reaction to 'Witchblades' was brutal. People are uploading clips to Twitter saying it was the darkest thing they've ever experienced at a concert."
Michael nodded, still too breathless to speak.
"The promoter wants to know if we can do an additional date in Denver before we leave," Karl continued. "He says he has another venue available for Thursday."
Michael shook his head. "No. Chicago is waiting for us. We can't slow the momentum."
"Understood. How do you feel?"
Michael finally recovered enough air to form a complete sentence. "Like I ran a marathon at the top of a mountain. But it worked. The altitude didn't defeat me."
Karl smiled. "Tucson called you 'intimate.' Phoenix called you 'explosive.' What do you think Denver will call you?"
Michael wiped the sweat from his face with the towel and looked up at the dressing room ceiling.
"Dark," he finally replied. "Denver is going to say I'm dark."
And he was perfectly fine with that.
---
Tuesday, March 1, 2016 (11:45 PM)
The Prevost rolled through the night, leaving Denver's lights behind as it headed east. The next destination was Kansas City, a rest stop before reaching Chicago. Michael was in his suite, laptop open and headphones on, reviewing the amateur recording of "Witchblades" that was already circulating on Twitter.
The quality was horrible—recorded with an iPhone from somewhere in the middle of the mosh pit—but it captured the essence of the moment. The audio was distorted by the crowd's screams, and the image shook with every bass hit. It was exactly what Michael wanted: a raw, visceral document that would generate hunger for the official version.
The comments beneath the video confirmed his strategy:
"WTF DID I JUST WATCH"
"This is the darkest shit I've ever heard live"
"WHEN IS THIS DROPPING I NEED IT"
"Demiurge is not human I swear"
Michael closed Twitter and opened the "Awful Things" project in Ableton. He still had work to do. The song was at eighty percent, but he still needed to record the main vocals and adjust the final mix. He wanted it ready before reaching Chicago.
His phone vibrated with a message from Karl:
"Just talked to Cole Bennett. He says he can meet with us in Chicago on Saturday. Wants to discuss the video for 'Witchblades.' Says he has a 'cinematic' vision."
Michael smiled. Cole always had cinematic visions. That's what made him invaluable.
He responded with a simple: "Perfect. Confirm the meeting."
He put his phone away and returned to the Ableton screen. The waveforms glowed in the darkness of the suite, waiting to be shaped. Outside, Colorado's mountains disappeared into the distance, replaced by the infinite plains stretching toward the heart of the country.
Denver had been a test. The altitude, the cold, the premiere of new material. He had overcome every obstacle and come out stronger.
'One city down', he thought as he adjusted the guitar's equalizer. 'Twenty-six to go.'
The bus continued advancing east while Michael built the next piece of his empire, note by note, in the solitude of his rolling studio.