Chapter 22: The Sound of the Hiss
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Michael woke up in his bed, but this time, the silence of the house didn't feel oppressive. It felt... expectant.
He got up and went down to the living room. The mess from the previous afternoon was still there: empty pizza boxes on the table, soda cans on the floor, and the faint smell of weed and junk food. It was the mess of a normal life. Of friends.
Leo, Sam, and Nate's visit had changed everything.
Not only had they listened to his music, but they had understood it. Sam had marveled at the production. Leo, the cynic, had called it "genuine". They had heard his only two songs and, instead of making fun, they had asked for more.
And now, he had a deadline. He had promised his new team that <u>Sodium</u> would be ready to shoot the video next weekend.
He was more motivated than ever.
Sure, he didn't have a real film crew, just a ten-dollar VHS camera. And he didn't have a massive audience, just a handful of listeners on SoundCloud. But for the first time, he wasn't alone. He was creating with people.
He went to his makeshift studio, an instant coffee in his hand. The room felt different. He turned on his MacBook and opened the <u>Sodium</u> project. The hypnotic and narcotic beat he had shown them the day before filled his headphones.
The beat was ready. It was time for the vocals.
He opened the text file from the System guide. The lyrics for <u>Sodium</u> appeared on the screen. And the confidence he felt evaporated a little.
This wasn't <u>Ghost Boy</u> or <u>Star Shopping</u>. Those songs were pure pain, easy to channel. These lyrics were... strange.
"This is not a wig, it's fucking real..."
"I dyed it black, you like my shirt?..."
It wasn't sad. It was an erratic, arrogant, almost nonsensical monologue. He didn't know how to perform it.
He stood in front of his AT2020 microphone. He pressed record.
"This is not a wig, it's fucking real..."
He tried it with a melodic voice, like in <u>Star Shopping</u>. It sounded terrible, as if he were singing a ballad about a wig.
He deleted the take. He tried again, this time with more energy, more aggressive, like radio rap. It clashed completely with the narcotic beat. He sounded like a drunk screaming in a library.
He recorded it several times, and each attempt was worse than the last. At first, he wasn't convinced by anything he was doing.
Frustrated, he leaned back in the chair. 'What's the trick? What am I missing?'
He closed his eyes and thought about the original artist. About Bones. He remembered his videos, his voice. He wasn't aggressive. He wasn't melodic. He was... apathetic.
Bones' voice sounded like someone who was so high or so tired that they just didn't care about anything. It was total indifference. He wasn't rapping to impress anyone. He was talking to himself, mumbling his thoughts over the beat.
'That's the mood', thought Michael. 'It's not sadness. It's apathy.'
He realized he couldn't "act" that level of detachment. He had to feel it.
He looked at the small jar of weed he had on his desk. It was the same one he had shared with his friends the day before.
He knew what he had to do. He went out to the back porch, sat on the step, and smoked a whole joint, alone, in the silence of the Sunday morning.
He let the weed cloud his mind, slow down his thoughts, wrap him in that same apathetic fog that the song required.
He went back to his studio, his movements were slower, heavier. He sat in front of the microphone. He was no longer anxious. He was barely there.
He pressed record. And this time, he didn't try to sing. He didn't try to rap.
He simply spoke.
He leaned into the microphone. He wasn't nervous anymore. He didn't care.
He pressed the space bar to record. The music started.
He leaned toward the microphone and, with total apathy, started speaking, his voice was a monotone mumble that barely rose above the beat.
"This is not a wig, it's fucking real..."
"If it was a wig, it would fucking come off right about now (yeah)..."
The words came out effortlessly. He wasn't a rapper; he was a guy in his room, talking to himself.
"I dyed it black, you like my shirt?"
"It says Mount Vernon 'cause that's where..."
"'Cause that's where I actually live (hometown)..."
He laughed quietly, a dry sound that the microphone picked up. The lyrics were a stream of nonsensical consciousness, and now he was on the same wavelength.
"How in the fuck are you 'bout to say..."
"The way that we do it is not the way?"
"No, don't you sweat it, you're not in the way..."
"Nothing you do can put an end to my day..."
His voice was a lazy growl, with no energy. It was the voice of someone who can't be bothered.
"Cashed as fuck, in my bed I lay..."
"Look at the ceiling and fade away..."
He sang this while looking at the ceiling of his own studio, covered in sheets. It was a literal description of his mental state. He wanted to simply dissolve.
"Stressin' and checkin' on me for a blessin'..."
"But I can't hear nothing, I'm gone for the day..."
He continued with the next lines, a vague boast about money that didn't fit his life, but did fit the apathy.
"Sure you can afford that? I get it..."
"Lookin' like a bum, only think I'm holdin' pennies..."
"Pull out your mortgage, just spend it in a minute..."
"Take it how you want it, get mad when you get it..."
Then, the lines he really felt.
"Blame everyone around you for the money you ain't gettin'..."
"Boy, man up to the life you ain't livin'..."
He thought about the people at school, trapped in their small lives, blaming everyone but themselves. He said the lines with an edge of contempt, the only emotion he allowed himself to show.
"Times get chillin, sometimes I forgive him..."
"My minds on a rhythm, so get the fuck up when I see you..."
His voice became darker, more threatening, but still lazy.
"Loose neck, cotton chains bangin' off my body soundin' like a dog walkin'..."
"Razor barkin' if you by me, let the scotch light blind 'em..."
"Let the switch restyle 'em..."
"I ain't never goin' back to what I did back in Howell..."
This line. 'I will never go back to what I did before.' For him, "Howell" wasn't a place. It was his other life. It was the Burger Barn. It was the boy who had nothing. He sang the line with a cold finality.
"Old Bones, new flow, still flickin' ash up on my clothes..."
"1-800-DEADBOY if they need to hit my phone..."
He was the "new flow". He was the dead boy. He laughed again, a sound that remained recorded on the track.
The song ended, his voice faded out with the beat.
"Estate sell opals on the finger make me hopeful..."
"We ain't never goin' back to nickel dimin' for some produce."
The last note of the synthesizer died out. Michael pressed the space bar.
Silence.
He stood there for a moment, the weed fog still in his brain. He rewound the track and listened to it.
It was perfect.
It wasn't technically good. It was mumbled. It was full of breath noise. At some points, he almost went off beat.
But it was... right. It was the voice of a ghost on a damaged tape. It was exactly the sound he needed. The apathy hadn't been an obstacle; it had been the key.
Michael took off his headphones and stared at the microphone. The take was there. It was raw, apathetic, and perfect. Now came the fun part: making it sound broken.
He added the new vocal track to the instrumental base he already had. He hit play. It sounded good, but the voice was too clean, too "on top" of the beat.
'No', he thought. 'It has to sound like it's inside the beat. Like it's coming out of an old TV in the same room as the drums.'
He got to work. This time, his goal wasn't clarity (like in <u>Star Shopping</u>). His goal was dirt.
He went to his folder of pirated plugins. He found one called "Bitcrusher". It was an effect designed to deliberately destroy audio quality, to make it sound like an old video game.
He applied it to the vocal track. He turned the knob. The clear voice of the AT2020 transformed. It became grainy, digitalized, losing all the highs.
'That's it. Now it sounds like I recorded it with a laptop microphone from 1998.'
But it wasn't enough. It was still too "dry". It needed more effects and ambience.
He remembered the sound of Bones' videos. It always sounded like he was in a cave.
He opened a reverb, but instead of "small room", he chose the "large plate" preset (Large Plate) and turned up the "wet" control (effect).
Now the mumbled voice bounced, creating a ghostly echo tail that blended with the synthesizer melody.
For the final touch, he did something most producers would consider a crime. He put a "Tape Saturation" effect (Tape Saturation) not only on the voice, but on the entire mix.
This "glued" all the tracks together, but also added a constant hiss, like that of a cassette. It made the kick drum sound a little more distorted, made the hi-hats feel rougher.
He leaned back in the creaky chair. He had been working for hours. The effect of the weed had faded, replaced by the hum of concentration.
He was ready. He took a deep breath and listened to the final mix.
It was horrible, from a technical point of view. The audio was crushed. It was distorted. It hissed.
And it was a fucking work of art.
It was exactly the sound he had in his head. It was the audio of the VHS camera. It was narcotic, distant, apathetic, and strangely beautiful. He finished the song.
He exported the file. Sodium_Final_Mix.mp3.
…..
Michael leaned back in the creaky chair. The muffled beat of <u>Sodium</u> kept playing on a loop.
Now he had all the pieces: the atmospheric instrumental and the perfectly apathetic vocal track. The next step was to make them live together.
He spent the rest of the afternoon in a production trance. He added the vocals to the base and started the meticulous process of editing it. His goal wasn't clarity; it was immersion.
He dragged the vocal track and placed it in the project. At first, it sounded too "clean", as if it were sitting on top of the beat.
'No', he thought. 'It has to sound like it's inside the beat. Like it's coming out of an old TV in the same room as the drums.'
He got to work. This time, his goal wasn't for it to sound "pretty". It was for it to sound "dirty".
He went to his folder of pirated plugins. He found one called "Bitcrusher". It was an effect designed to deliberately destroy audio quality, to make it sound like an old video game or a low-quality MP3 file from 1999.
He applied it to the vocal track. He turned the "bit depth" knob. The clear voice of the AT2020 transformed. It became grainy, digitalized, losing all the highs.
'That's it. Now it sounds like I recorded it with a laptop microphone from 1998.'
But it wasn't enough. It was still too "dry". It needed more effects and ambience.
He remembered the sound of Bones' videos. It always sounded like he was in a cave.
He opened a reverb, but instead of "small room", he chose the "large plate" preset (Large Plate) and turned up the "wet" control (effect).
Now the mumbled voice bounced, creating a ghostly echo tail that blended with the synthesizer melody.
For the final touch, he did something most producers would consider a crime. He put a "Tape Saturation" effect (Tape Saturation) not only on the voice, but on the entire mix.
This "glued" all the tracks together, but also added a constant hiss, like that of a cassette. It made the kick drum sound a little more distorted, made the hi-hats feel rougher.
He leaned back in the chair. He had been working for hours. The effect of the weed had faded long ago, replaced by the hum of concentration.
He was ready. He took a deep breath and listened to the final mix.
It was horrible, from a technical point of view. The audio was crushed. It was distorted. It hissed.
And it was a fucking work of art.
It was exactly the sound he had in his head. It was the audio of the VHS camera. It was narcotic, distant, apathetic, and strangely beautiful. He finished the song.
He exported the file. Sodium_Final_Mix.mp3.
He looked at the clock. It was almost eight in the evening. The sun had set. He grabbed his phone. It was time to call the team.
He dialed Leo's number.
"What's up, Zombie?" answered Leo on the other end.
"Hey," said Michael, his voice was calm, all business. "I'm ready. <u>Sodium</u> is ready."
"Really? You finished it already. That was fast," said Leo. Michael could hear the sound of a video game in the background. Sam was probably already at his house.
"I had the inspiration," said Michael. "So... are we still on to record the video next Saturday? At night?"
There was a pause. Michael heard Leo yell at someone. "Sam, shut up! I'm talking to Mike... Yeah, Saturday. At his house."
Leo came back to the phone. "Yeah, brother. We're in. Sam is bringing the PS4 again. What do you need us to do?"
"Nothing complicated," said Michael, looking at the VHS camera charging in the corner of his desk. "I just need you guys to be here. Nate can bring his car, I just want it parked so it looks good in the shot. And you guys... I don't know, just be there. Hold a light or something. Oh, and bring pizza. It's going to be a long night."
"Done. Dark clothes, ghost vibes. We got it," said Leo. "See you Saturday."
"Great. See you then."
Michael hung up. His weekend plan was set.
He looked at the camera. His first music video. His first collaborative project. Next weekend, Michael Demiurge would stop being just a voice on the internet. He was going to have a face.