Chapter 56: The Manager of Chaos
Saturday, December 19, 2015
Michael walked into his studio with a cup of coffee in his hand. The morning sun streamed through the window, illuminating the dust floating over his equipment.
The previous day had been a storm of arrogance. He had created 'Boss', an anthem of power. But today, the mood was different. He wanted something... softer. Catchier.
He sat in front of his MacBook Pro and opened the System interface. He looked at his "GO List".
His eyes stopped on 'Betrayed'.
He remembered the guide. It wasn't an aggressive song. It wasn't an acoustic lament. It was a perfect hybrid: an almost childish and playful melody, hiding lyrics about betrayal and addiction. It was "Sad Trap", but designed for the radio.
'No order today. Today I just want to make a hit,' he thought.
He opened a new project in Ableton. betrayed_beat_v1.
He started with the melody. The guide called for a "bells" sound or a soft, plucky synth. Michael browsed his VST library until he found a preset called "Dream Bells".
He played a few notes on his MIDI keyboard. The sound was bright, clean, hypnotic.
He programmed the main loop. It was simple, repetitive, the kind of melody that sticks in your brain and won't let go. It didn't have the darkness of 'Paris' or the complexity of 'Drugs'. It was pure pop wrapped in trap.
Then, the rhythm.
He looked for a short, crisp snare. He programmed the hi-hats. This time he didn't want chaos; he wanted bounce. He made the hi-hats jump from side to side, creating a rhythm that forced you to bob your head.
Finally, the 808.
For 'Look At Me!', he had destroyed the bass. For 'Boss', he had made it heavy. But for 'Betrayed', he needed the bass to be... round.
He chose a smooth 808. He tuned it to follow the bells' melody. He didn't distort anything. He kept everything clean, polished.
He hit play.
The instrumental filled the room. It was incredibly addictive. It had a "toxic lullaby" quality that he loved.
He leaned back in his chair, listening to the endless loop. He wouldn't record the lyrics yet. He wanted to enjoy the simple perfection of the base a little longer.
He saved the project. The canvas was ready. He got up to stretch his legs, satisfied.
The loop of 'Betrayed' stopped. The sudden silence in the studio seemed to amplify the buzzing of his phone on the desk.
Michael rubbed his face, feeling the creative euphoria fade to give way to mundane reality. He grabbed the iPhone. The screen was full of notifications, an endless list scrolling down.
He sighed. It had become a chore he dreaded more than washing dishes at the Burger Barn.
He unlocked the phone and opened Instagram. His DM (Direct Message) inbox was a war zone.
There were hundreds of new messages.
"Hey bro! I'm a producer, check my beats."
"Do you do features? I pay $50." "You're a god. Marry me." "Fake."
It was noise. Digital white noise. He tried to filter, looking for blue checkmarks or names that looked serious, but it was impossible. If there was a golden opportunity there, it was buried under tons of trash.
He closed Instagram and opened his email. He had put a "professional" contact address in his social media bios a week ago.
It was a mistake.
The inbox was overflowing.
First, he saw the fake copyright claims. YouTube sending him automated emails saying someone had claimed the melody of 'Sodium'. He knew it was fake, he knew he could dispute it, but it required time. Time he didn't have.
Then, he saw the "opportunity" emails. Unknown clothing brands wanting to send him free t-shirts in exchange for promotion. Small blogs asking for exclusive interviews.
But among the trash, he saw something that made him pause. An email with a serious subject line: "Booking Offer - Local Festival - California".
He opened it. It was from a real promoter. They were organizing an emerging hip-hop festival in Santa Ana for the spring. They wanted to know his availability and his fee.
Michael stared at the screen.
'A show. A real festival.'
His heart raced. He wanted to do it. He wanted to get back on stage, feel that energy he had tasted at the fraternity party, but on a real scale.
But then, doubt paralyzed him.
How much should he charge? A thousand dollars? Five thousand? Ten thousand? What about transportation? Equipment? The contract?
If he responded asking for too little, he would look like an amateur and leave money on the table. If he asked for too much, they would laugh at him.
He realized his situation. He had the talent. He had the capital. He had the hype. But he lacked the infrastructure.
He didn't really have a manager.
Harris was a brilliant corporate lawyer. He could create offshore companies and dodge international taxes in his sleep. But Harris knew nothing about concert "riders", or how to negotiate with a nightclub promoter, or how to filter groupies from business partners.
Michael was losing money. He was losing opportunities. And worst of all, he was losing studio time because he had to be his own secretary.
He needed a shield. He needed someone who enjoyed the chaos as much as he enjoyed the silence.
Just when he was about to close the email, frustrated by his own inability to respond, his phone rang again. A real call.
He looked at the screen. Harris.
Michael answered instantly. "Harris?"
"Michael," said the lawyer's voice. He didn't sound bored this time. He sounded... satisfied. Like a cat that just caught a mouse. "I hope I'm not interrupting your creative process."
"I was about to throw my phone out the window, so you're just in time," said Michael. "My email is a disaster."
Harris let out a small chuckle. "I imagine. That's why I'm calling. Remember I told you I'd look for someone? Someone to handle the... daily 'circus'?"
Michael sat up straight in his chair. "Did you find someone?"
"I made some calls," Harris said modestly. "I interviewed a couple of candidates in Los Angeles this week. Most were old sharks who wanted to rob you or kids who knew nothing."
He paused dramatically.
"But I found one. He's... different. He's young. Hungry. And he understands your world in a way I never will."
"Where is he?" asked Michael.
"He's with me, in the car," said Harris. "We just got off the freeway. We're ten minutes from your house. Are you visible?"
Michael looked around. His studio was tidy. He was wearing clean clothes.
"Yes," said Michael. "Bring him."
"Good. Make coffee, kid. I think you're going to like this guy."
Michael hung up. He looked at the festival email on his screen one last time.
'I hope this guy knows how much to charge,' he thought.
He got up and went down to the living room to wait. The cavalry was on its way.
"I'm going to test you," said Michael.
The air in the empty living room changed. The tension of the interview vanished, replaced by the electricity of a closed deal.
"Deal," said Karl, without losing his composure, although Michael could see the glint of triumph in his eyes. "Where do we start?"
Michael got up from the floor. He walked to the window, looking out at the dirt road that led to his secluded house. He needed to make the rules clear. He wasn't hiring a boss; he was hiring a general.
"If you're going to do this, Karl, you'll do it my way. I have rules."
Karl pulled a black Moleskine notebook from his jacket. "I'm all ears."
"First: Legal and Rights," said Michael, turning around. "My catalog is a disaster. I need you to register every song, every lyric, every beat. ASCAP, BMI, whatever is necessary. I want you to collect royalties from every corner of the internet. YouTube, Spotify, Apple Music. If someone uses five seconds of my song in a cat video, I want us to get paid."
Karl nodded, writing furiously. "Done. I have a legal administration team in mind. They are cheap but efficient. We'll clear the backlog in a month."
"Second: Harris handles the money," said Michael, pointing to the lawyer, who watched the scene with a mix of amusement and relief. "You negotiate the deals, you get the money, but the money goes straight to the 'Gray Matter, LLC' account. You bill your 15% to Harris. You never touch the principal capital."
"Understood," said Karl. "Separation of church and state. I like it. Keeps things clean."
"Third: The Image," continued Michael. "I control the vision. You hire the teams to make the videos, coordinate the photo shoots, manage the graphic designers. But I approve everything. If I say the video is shot with a ten-dollar camera, it's shot with a ten-dollar camera."
"Understood. You are the creative director. I am the executive producer," said Karl.
"And fourth... Booking," said Michael.
He took his phone out of his pocket. He searched for the email he had been looking at that morning, the one that had paralyzed him.
"I have this," he said, handing the phone to Karl.
Karl took the iPhone. He read the email from "The Observatory" festival in Santa Ana. His eyes moved quickly, scanning the details.
"They offered you a thousand dollars," said Karl, raising an eyebrow. "Typical. They're fishing."
"What are you going to do?" asked Michael.
Karl smiled. It wasn't a kind smile. It was the smile of someone about to enjoy a fight.
"I'm going to call them right now," said Karl. "I'm going to tell them Michael Demiurge just broke the internet with 'Drugs You Should Try It'. That we have offers from Coachella (lie). That a thousand dollars doesn't even cover your equipment transport."
He took out his own phone. "I'm going to ask for five thousand. Plus travel expenses. Plus a spot on the main lineup, before the headliner of the second stage. And I'm going to tell them they have an hour to accept or we're going to 'Beach Goth'."
Harris let out a short laugh. "God, I'm glad I don't have to do this."
"It's a game, Harris," said Karl, already dialing the number. "And I love winning."
Michael looked at Karl. He was exactly what he needed. An attack dog. A filter between him and the world.
"The job is yours," said Michael.
Karl nodded, putting the phone to his ear. He got up and started pacing the empty living room, entering "agent mode".
"Hello! Am I speaking with Dave? Dave, buddy, this is Karl... Yes, I'm Michael Demiurge's new representative. Look, we have a problem with your offer..."
Michael looked at Harris. The lawyer stood up, smoothing his suit.
"Well, Michael," said Harris. "Looks like you're in good hands. I'm taking off. I have to prepare the contracts to formalize Karl's position. I'll send them to you on Monday."
"Thanks, Harris," said Michael. "For bringing him."
"Don't thank me. Just keep making money so I can keep collecting my five percent," said Harris, and walked out the door.
Michael stood in the room for a moment. Karl was aggressively arguing about the location of the dressing room at the festival.
Michael felt a wave of relief so deep he almost fell over. He didn't have to worry about emails anymore. He didn't have to worry about contracts anymore. He didn't have to be his own secretary anymore.
He could go back to being the only thing he wanted to be.
He went up the stairs, leaving Karl downstairs managing the chaos. He entered his studio and closed the door. The silence of the soundproof room enveloped him.
He sat in front of his MacBook. He opened the 'Betrayed' project.
The clean, melancholic beat was waiting.
Now he had a lawyer. He had a manager.
The empire was growing. And he, finally, could go back to working solely on his music.