Chapter 64: Total Distortion
Saturday, December 26, 2015 – 8:20 PM
The chaos of 'Paris' ended with a shriek of feedback that left everyone's ears ringing.
Michael stood in the center of the stage, hands resting on his knees, chest heaving. He was soaked. His black hoodie weighed five kilos more from the sweat. The air in the Observatory was thick, humid, and hot, a mixture of adrenaline and collective breathing.
The crowd panted with him. The mosh pit had dissolved, leaving hundreds of kids hugging or gasping for air.
Michael straightened up, wiping his forearm across his forehead. He walked toward the DJ table, where T-Roc held out an open bottle of water.
"Santa Ana..." said Michael into the microphone, his voice raspy but amplified. "You guys are completely crazy."
The crowd roared, a sound of proud approval.
Michael drank half the bottle in one gulp and poured the rest over his own head, shaking his hair like a wet dog. The water glistened under the spotlights.
"I need a second," he said, smiling. "You almost killed me with that last one."
While he caught his breath, he gave a subtle signal to T-Roc.
The DJ slid a fader.
Gently, like a sonic sunrise, the watery and bright synthesizer of 'White Iverson' began to filter through the speakers.
The change in atmosphere was instant. The red emergency lights, which had accompanied the violence of 'Paris', went out. In their place, the stage was bathed in golden and white light, warm and triumphant.
People recognized the chord instantly. There was no pushing. There was a scream of pure joy. It was the song everyone knew.
Michael threw the empty bottle aside. He walked to the edge of the stage, no longer as a demon, but as a star.
"This song changed my life," he said, looking into people's eyes. "And I know it changed yours. Sing it with me."
The trap beat dropped, clean and crisp. Michael raised the microphone.
'Double OT... I'm a new three...'
His voice, now with melodic Auto-Tune activated, sounded perfect.
'Saucin', saucin', I'm saucin' on you...'
'I'm swaggin', I'm swaggin', I'm swaggin', oh-ooh (swaggin')...'
'I'm ballin', I'm ballin', Iverson on you (swish, ooh, ayy)...'
He wasn't alone. A thousand voices sang every word with him. It was a massive choir.
'Watch out, watch out, watch out, yeah...'
'That's my shot, that's my shot, that's my shot, yeah...'
'Spendin', I'm spendin' all my f- pay...'
Michael moved from side to side, high-fiving the people in the front row. He felt light.
'I got me some braids and I got me some -'
'Started rockin' the sleeve, I can't ball with no Joes (ball with no Joes)...'
'You know how I do it, Concords on my toes...'
'(This shit is hard) ooh...'
'I ain't rich yet, but you know I ain't broke, I...'
He sang that line with a knowing smile at Leo, who was in the pit. 'They have no idea.'
'So, if I see it, I like it, buy that from the store, I (store, I)...'
'I'm with some white girls and they lovin' the - (they lovin') like they OT...'
'Double OT like I'm KD, smokin' OG (smokin' OG)...'
The chorus arrived. Michael raised the microphone to the ceiling.
'White Iverson, when I started ballin', I was young...'
'You gon' think about me when I'm gone...'
And then, the magical moment.
Michael brought his hand down sharply. T-Roc, attentive, cut the track. Silence fell over the stage, but not over the room.
The crowd, without missing a beat, screamed the next line a cappella, a deafening roar from a thousand throats:
"I NEED THAT MONEY LIKE THE RING I NEVER WON, I WON!"
Michael closed his eyes, absorbing the sound. He felt infinite.
T-Roc dropped the beat again just in time.
'Saucin', saucin', I'm saucin' on you...'
'I'm swaggin', I'm swaggin', I'm swaggin', oh-ooh...'
'I'm ballin', I'm ballin', Iverson on you...'
The song continued. Michael rapped the second verse with ease, enjoying every second.
'Cigarettes and a headband...'
'Commas, commas in my head, man...'
'Slumped over like a dead man...'
'Red and black, 'bout my bread, man...'
'I'm the answer, never question...'
'Lace up, learn a lesson...'
'Bitch, I'm saucin' (wow), I do this often, don't do no talkin' (no)...'
The energy was celebratory. It was a victory party.
'My options right when I walk in, jump all them Jordans (ooh)...'
'I'm ballin', money jumpin' like I'm Davis from New Orleans...'
'Or -, I'm Harden, I don't miss nothin'...'
'Practice, this shit just happens, know y'all can't stand it (ayy)...'
'White Iverson...'
The final chorus was a collective ecstasy.
'I need that money like the ring I never won, I won...'
'Saucin', saucin', I'm saucin' on you...'
The song ended with the instrumental outro, the synthesizers fading slowly. Michael stood in the center, arms open, receiving the ovation.
The heat on stage was unbearable. His clothes were soaked. He felt heavy.
Without thinking, he grabbed the hem of his hoodie.
He took off his shirt.
He was bare-chested, shining with sweat, his chest rising and falling.
He was warming up for what was next.
He walked toward the DJ booth. He dried his face with a towel T-Roc handed him.
"That was the easy one," he told the DJ.
He turned to T-Roc, his eyes shining with a manic intensity.
"Now," said Michael. "Put the autotune on max. I want to sound like a fucking robot."
T-Roc nodded and turned the "Retune Speed" knob to zero.
Michael returned to the front. The golden lights went out. The stage was flooded with neon purple and dense smoke.
The sound of reverse reverb, the whoosh from another world, began to play.
'Drugs You Should Try It'.
The crowd recognized the sound immediately. It was the song that had defined the last week.
The beat entered. Slow. Heavy. Atmospheric.
Michael didn't stand still. Even though the song was a "trip", he performed it with visceral energy.
'I try it if it feels right... This feels nice...'
His voice, processed to the extreme by the live Auto-Tune, came out metallic, perfect, resonating off the walls of the Observatory. The robotic effect didn't take away emotion; it amplified it, making it sound like a transmission from another planet.
'I've been down and lost for days...'
'Glad I found you on the way...'
He started moving. He wasn't walking; he was bouncing. He jumped on every kick drum hit, his bare body glowing under the purple lights.
He sings it with everyone, but with a new intensity.
'When the day gets brighter, the night gets nighter...'
'I always feel this way...'
'Through the hills... I hear you callin', miles and miles away...'
The crowd was in an active trance. They jumped with him, hands in the air, lost in the sonic haze.
'We up all night, from dawn to dusk, it's always poppin'...'
Michael ran from one side of the stage to the other, screaming and jumping with high energy, contrasting the dreamy atmosphere of the song with a brutal physical performance.
'I fell in love, fell outta love, we both had options...'
'I played the drums, she rolled the drugs...'
'I rocked the club, we both throw up...'
'We was the band you never heard before...'
He approached the edge, crouched down, singing to the phone cameras that were inches from his face.
'You got that tat' above your crack...'
'And on your cat, you be right back...'
'Your mama never know...'
The song reached its climax.
'We were rollin', rollin', rollin', rollin' stones...'
'When I'm all alone I wish you had a clone...'
Michael turned and looked at the return monitors, the large black boxes at the front of the stage. Without hesitation, he put a foot on one. He pushed himself up.
He climbed onto the monitors, rising two meters above the crowd.
'I take that puff, you take that puff...'
'You know we never care to overdose...'
From his precarious pedestal, with violet smoke swirling at his feet, Michael looked like a pagan idol. He spread his arms, screaming the high notes of the final chorus, the Auto-Tune glitching and breaking beautifully under the pressure of his screams.
"I TRY IT IF IT FEELS RIGHT!"
The image was iconic. The skinny kid, shirtless, bathed in neon light, dominating a mass of a thousand people with the sound of the future.
The song ended in a long, sustained digital echo. Michael jumped off the monitors, landing with a thud on the stage, his knees flexing to absorb the impact.
The crowd chanted his name.
"DEMIURGE! DEMIURGE!"
Michael stood up, panting, hair stuck to his face. He felt electric.
He had conquered the room with sadness. He had conquered it with the vibe.
But he had two bullets left in the chamber. The most dangerous ones.
He looked at T-Roc. The DJ had a mischievous smile. He knew what was coming.
Michael approached the microphone one last time before the chaos.
"Okay," he said, his voice breathless. "We already flew. Now... I want to see you bleed."