Chapter 60: Black Christmas
Friday, December 25, 2015 (Morning)
The world woke up wrapped in a cloud of torn wrapping paper, the smell of pine and cinnamon, and the soft sound of classic carols playing in living rooms. It was a morning of mandatory peace.
But in thousands of pockets, a vibration broke the calm.
Bored teenagers, hiding in bathrooms or lying in their beds while their parents prepared breakfast, saw the notification.
Michael Demiurge has uploaded a new track: 'Look At Me!'
There was no artistic cover. Just a grainy, overexposed black and white photo of a boy screaming.
In a bedroom in Chicago, a kid named Alex put on his new noise-canceling headphones. He wanted to block out the sound of his cousins screaming in the living room. He pressed play.
There was no warning. There was no melancholic guitar intro.
The silence was annihilated by a bass so saturated and distorted that Alex thought, for a second, that his new headphones were broken.
'Yeah, ayy, yeah, ayy, ya, yeah, ya, ayy...'
'Ayy, ayy, ayy...'
It was a chant. A ritual. And then, Michael's voice came in. He wasn't singing. He was screaming, his voice breaking from the microphone saturation.
'I'm like: Bitch, who is your mans? (Ayy)'
'Can't keep my dick in my pants (ayy)'
Alex felt a rush of pure adrenaline at the base of his spine. It wasn't pretty music. It wasn't "Christmas". It was dirty. It was ugly. It was real.
'My bitch don't love me no mo' (ayy)'
'She kick me out, I'm like: Vro (ayy)'
In thousands of bedrooms across the country, heads started moving to the aggressive rhythm. The contrast between the sonic violence in their ears and the domestic scene outside their doors was intoxicating.
It was the shared secret of a generation that was sick of faking smiles at the dinner table. They felt powerful. They felt dangerous.
Downstairs, their mothers were calling them to open gifts. But they already had theirs. A brick of red, distorted noise that told them it was okay to want to break things.
Friday, December 25, 2015 (Noon)
The midday sun streamed through the windows of the American suburbs. The smell of roast turkey, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce filled the air. Tables were set, grandparents were sitting in the best armchairs, and uncles were making bad jokes.
It was the picture of normality. The fragile peace maintained by forced smiles and early alcohol.
But in the Miller house, in an affluent neighborhood of Atlanta, that peace was about to be annihilated.
Kevin, fifteen years old, was sitting on the living room rug. He had just opened his "big" gift. A JBL Xtreme Bluetooth speaker, a heavy black cylinder that promised "bass you could feel".
His father, a man wearing an ironic Christmas sweater, patted him on the shoulder.
"Well, champ, try it out," he said, wine glass in hand. "Put on some music. Something Grandma likes. Maybe a little Michael Bublé."
Kevin looked at the speaker. Then he looked at his older cousins, who were sitting on the sofa, bored, checking their phones. They looked back at him. One of them nodded slightly, challenging him.
Kevin took out his phone. Connected the Bluetooth. The pairing sound rang out loud and clear.
He opened Spotify. He saw the song he had just discovered that morning, the one that had made him feel like he could run through a wall. The grainy cover of Michael Demiurge screaming at him.
'Bublé?' thought Kevin. 'No. Not today.'
He turned the volume to the max. And pressed play.
There was no gentle crescendo.
The Mala sample played for a second, a distorted warning. And then, the 808 hit.
It wasn't a sound. It was a seismic event.
The saturated and distorted bass hit the living room with the force of a bomb. The windows vibrated in their frames. The porcelain figures on the mantelpiece began to shake.
Grandma jumped in her armchair, spilling some tea on her lap.
'Yeah, I came in with the sauce, ooh...'
Michael's voice, screaming through the distortion, filled the room, drowning out any attempt at conversation.
Kevin's father frowned, confused. "What the hell is that? Is it broken?"
But the song didn't wait for him to answer. It went into the verse.
'That bitch don't wanna be friends (ayy)! '
'I gave her dick, she amen (ayy)! '
The word "dick" resonated clear and loud, amplified by JBL technology.
Uncle Bob choked on his appetizer. Kevin's mother came out of the kitchen, wooden spoon in hand. "Kevin!"
But Kevin didn't hear her. Or pretended not to. He was looking at his cousins, who were covering their mouths so as not to burst out laughing.
'She put her tongue on my dick (ayy)! '
'Look at my wrist, about ten (ayy)! '
The vulgarity was absolute. It was so raw, so offensive in that setting of Christmas sweaters and soft music, that it was hilarious.
Kevin's mother ran toward the speaker. "Turn that off! Turn it off right now!"
But the sonic chaos continued, relentless.
'Just got a pound of the boof (ayy)! '
'Brought that shit straight to the booth (ayy)! '
"Boof". Drugs. On Christmas. In front of grandma.
Kevin's father was trying to find the off button on the speaker, but his clumsy fingers couldn't find it amidst the vibration of the bass.
'Tommy my Hilfiger voots (ayy)! '
'She said: Wan' fuck? Bitch, I do (ayy)! '
"WANNA FUCK!" screamed the speaker, Michael's voice distorted to madness.
Finally, Kevin's father found the power button and held it down. The music died with a descending electronic groan.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Grandma had her hand on her chest. Kevin's mother was red with fury. Uncle Bob looked at Kevin as if he were a terrorist.
"To your room!" shouted his father, pointing to the stairs. "Right now! And give me that phone!"
Kevin stood up. He handed the phone to his father, but he didn't lower his head. He walked toward the stairs.
As he went up, he met the gaze of his older cousin. The cousin gave him a subtle hand gesture, a fist bump in the air.
Kevin went up to his room and slammed the door.
He was grounded. They would probably take away the speaker.
But it was worth it. He threw himself on the bed and smiled. It had been the most exciting moment of the entire year.
And he wasn't the only one.
Across the country, the scene repeated itself.
In Chicago, twins played the song on their aunt's new car stereo while she drove to church, causing her to almost run off the road from the fright when the bass hit.
In Los Angeles, a group of friends hijacked the sound system of a backyard family party, turning a quiet barbecue into a two-minute mosh pit before being kicked out.
Videos of these moments started appearing on Vine and Snapchat.
Videos of horrified grandmothers. Videos of parents screaming while the chorus "Look at me! Fuck on me!" played in the background.
The song became an instant meme. It became the "Sonic Grinch".
Michael hadn't just released a song. He had released a tool for teenage chaos. He had given every bored kid at a family dinner a weapon to break the monotony.
And while families screamed and teenagers laughed, the play counter on Spotify and YouTube spun faster than a short-circuited light meter.
Friday, December 25, 2015 (Night)
The peace of the day was over. Now it was the night's turn. In a crowded nightclub in downtown Miami, the "Anti-Christmas" party was in full swing.
People were drunk, sweaty, and sick of carols. The air was stale with smoke and strobe lights cut through the darkness.
The DJ, a guy named Marcus who prided himself on breaking new songs before anyone else, looked at his laptop. He saw that 'Look At Me!' was climbing vertically on the SoundCloud viral charts.
He decided to take a risk.
He cut the pop hit that was playing. The sudden silence made the crowd stop, confused.
And then, he dropped the Mala sample.
The distorted bass hit the club's sound system, not as music, but as a physical threat. It didn't sound clean; it sounded like the speakers were about to explode.
The crowd reacted instinctively to the aggression. A circle opened in the center of the floor. A mosh pit.
'You put a gun on my mans (ayy)'
'I put a hole in your parents (ayy)'
The violence of the lyrics was the trigger. People started colliding. Bodies against bodies. Drinks flying through the air. It wasn't dancing; it was combat.
'I just got lean on my Ksubis (ayy)'
'I got a Uzi, no Uzi...'
The energy was tribal. Guys in button-down shirts and girls in party dresses pushed each other, releasing the accumulated tension of mandatory family dinners.
And then, the chorus.
'Fuck on me, look at me, ayy!'
'Fuck on me, yah, look at me, ayy!'
The whole club screamed the phrase "LOOK AT ME". It didn't matter that they didn't know the song five minutes ago. The manic repetition burned into their brains instantly.
'Look at me, look at me, yah!'
'Fuck on me, yah!'
The DJ watched the scene with disbelief from his booth. He had never seen such a reaction with an unknown song.
'Look at me, yah, fuck on me!'
'Look at me, fuck on me, yah!'
People weren't listening to it; they were surviving it. It was the sound of anarchy.
'Look at me, fuck on me!'
'Yah, ayy!'
When the DJ finally transitioned to the next song, the dance floor was destroyed. People were panting, laughing, helping each other up from the floor.
Marcus smiled. He knew he had just witnessed the changing of the guard. The noise had arrived.
Friday, December 25, 2015 (Early morning of the 26th)
Christmas night was dying. Family dinners were over, ugly sweaters had been put away. But in the streets, in fast food parking lots, and on empty highways, the song kept playing.
In a smoke-filled sedan on the outskirts of Detroit, a group of friends was heading home. They were tired, but the driver played the song once more.
They reached the second verse, the most chaotic, absurd, and offensive of all.
'I took a white bitch to Starbucks'
'That little bitch got her throat fucked'
The friends burst out laughing. The line was so stupid, so unnecessarily vulgar and specific, that it instantly became a meme. On Twitter, people were already uploading photos of Starbucks cups with the caption "Look At Me!".
'I like to rock out like I'm Misfit'
'My emo bitch like her wrist slit'
For the 'Paris' fans, this line was the final validation. Michael wasn't just making trap; he was channeling the energy of punk rock. He was appropriating the label "emo" and turning it into something dangerous.
'Curly hair bitch like I'm Corbin'
A direct reference to himself, to his dark curly hair that was now his trademark.
'Got like three bitches, I'm Mormon'
The audacity of the rhyme made people shake their heads. It was pure lyrical ignorance, delivered with godlike confidence.
'Skeet on your main bitch's forehead'
'Don't want your pussy, just want head'
The chorus returned one last time, a final explosion of distorted energy before the song ended abruptly.
'Look at me, fuck on me'
'Look at me, fuck on me'
'Look at me, fuck on me'
'Look at me, yah!'
The beat cut out. Leaving an electric hum in the ears of everyone who heard it.
Michael's House (2:00 AM)
Michael sat in the darkness of his living room. His phone illuminated his face.
'Look At Me!' was trending on Twitter.
There were viral videos of scared grandmothers. There were videos of mosh pits in clubs. There were Starbucks memes.
The song had done exactly what he wanted: it had polarized the world. Half the people said it was the worst song in history, pure talentless noise. The other half said it was the hardest song of the decade.
No one was indifferent.
He had ruined Christmas for thousands of parents and created the best Christmas for thousands of rebellious teenagers.
Michael stood up. His bags for the trip to Santa Ana were already by the door.
The digital world had been conquered. He had dropped the bomb.
But the real test was tomorrow. Tomorrow, at The Observatory, there would be no screens, no comment sections, no memes. Only a thousand people, sweat, and a sound system.
The world wanted to see if the kid from the viral videos was real. They wanted to see if he could replicate that energy live.
Michael turned off the living room light.
"They will see," he whispered.
He went to sleep. The stage was set.