Chapter 71: The Sweet Poison
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
Michael uploaded the file from the tranquility of his studio. There was no chaos like with 'Look At Me!', nor the cryptic announcement of 'Drugs'.
This time, the process was clean and professional.
He uploaded 'Betrayed' to all platforms. The cover art was a distorted and colorful piece of pop art, showing a bottle of syrup spilling over a neon pink background. It was flashy. It was commercial.
Michael closed the laptop. He knew what he had. This wasn't a song to scare people; it was a song to seduce them.
Atlantic Records Offices, Los Angeles (11:00 AM)
Marcus, an A&R executive in his thirties, sat in his office overlooking the city, rubbing his temples. He was tired of listening to mediocre demos from kids trying to sound like Drake.
His assistant had sent him a link that morning. "You have to check out this kid, Demiurge. The numbers are weird."
Marcus had heard the name. The kid from the viral Christmas video. The mosh pit one.
'Great,' thought Marcus skeptically, opening the link on his iMac. 'Another SoundCloud screamer who's going to disappear in two months. Probably pure noise and shock value.'
He clicked on the most recent song: 'Betrayed'.
He leaned back in his leather chair, expecting a wall of distortion.
Instead, he heard... bells.
'Huh, aye...'
'What? Yeah, aye, aye...'
The intro was soft, atmospheric, with a high-fidelity sheen he didn't expect. And then, the voice.
'Pop the trunk I open up I sold my soul for a good price...'
'Outta' sight, and my hoe got talent right...'
'Whole squad ran through that shit yikes...'
Marcus sat up a little straighter. The flow was... liquid. It was relaxed, almost lazy, but it was perfectly on time. There was no screaming. There was melody.
'Ay, I’m a business man, I did my business, damn...'
'But I'ma bend it down and I'ma lick her up, then dick her down...'
'Okay,' thought Marcus. 'The kid has rhythm.'
'She gon' turn around then I'ma kick her out...'
'She gon' talk that shi, but say...'
And then, the pre-chorus and chorus hit.
'Xans don't make you...'
'Xans gon' take you...'
'Xans gon' fake you...'
'Xans gon' betray you...'
The melody was irresistible. It was simple, repetitive, hypnotic. It was the kind of melody that sticks in your brain after a single listen.
Marcus realized he was bobbing his head.
He stopped. He looked at the numbers on the screen. The song had been up for a few hours and already had solid traction, but the important thing wasn't the views. It was the retention.
He leaned back again, with an expression of disbelief.
"Shit," he muttered to himself.
This wasn't a noisy niche artist. This wasn't a "punk".
"This is a radio hit," he said aloud to the empty office. "The melody is pure pop. It's sweet poison."
He realized the industry was underestimating Michael Demiurge. They thought he was a passing internet fad. Marcus had just realized that Michael was a real threat, capable of changing lanes and competing with the big guys at their own game.
He grabbed the phone from his desk. He had to call his boss.
Wednesday, January 6, 2016 (Morning)
It was a bright and cold morning in California. Traffic toward Northgate High School was a slow line of parent sedans and student cars.
In the middle of the line, a white Jeep Wrangler stood out, top down despite the morning chill, heater blasting. Inside were four students. They weren't the outcasts, nor the goths, nor the gamers. They were the school royalty. The football team and the cheerleaders.
Brad, the driver, a guy wearing his varsity jacket, plugged his phone into the aux cord.
"Hey," he said, looking in the rearview mirror at his friends. "Did you hear the new stuff from Zombie?"
In the back seat, a girl named Ashley rolled her eyes. "You mean Michael? Ugh. His last song almost made me deaf. It's just screaming."
"No, this one is different," insisted Brad. "Seriously. It came out yesterday. Listen."
He pressed play.
There was no distortion. There was no screaming.
The sound of the "Dream Bells" filled the Jeep. A synthetic, bright, almost magical sound that bounced from one speaker to another.
Ashley stopped looking at her phone. "That's him?"
The trap beat dropped, smooth and round, making the Jeep's subwoofers vibrate pleasantly. And then, the voice.
'How you make it up? How you fake a love? Holy son, I was the chosen one...'
Brad started nodding his head instantly. The rhythm was contagious. You didn't have to be sad to feel it; you just had to have a pulse.
'I'm sippin' out the glass, she gon' kiss and tell She keep my wishes well, I don't need her, well...'
"He's got a good flow," admitted the passenger, another guy from the team. "It sounds... expensive."
The song continued, and the lyrics changed tone. It stopped being about generic heartbreak and became something these popular kids, surrounded by fake friends and expectations, could unexpectedly connect with.
'How my enemy a friend of me? Why y'all feed off of my energy? Like I ain't dead yet...'
Ashley sighed, leaning back in the seat. "God, that's so real. 'Why y'all feed off of my energy?'. I feel like everyone asks me for things all the time."
For a moment, Michael's song broke the social barrier. He was no longer the weird kid who ate lunch alone. He was the voice articulating their own feeling of being drained by popularity.
'Higher entity, foreign bitch that think she into me Whip the foreign very viciously...'
Brad hit the steering wheel to the rhythm. "Yeah! Whip the foreign!". They felt cool listening to it. It gave them a sense of status.
'Why these dudes wanna take pics with me?...'
Michael sang about fame, but they translated it to their own scale of school fame. The photos, the gossip, the attention.
The Jeep pulled into the school parking lot. Brad didn't turn down the volume. He turned it up.
He wanted the others to hear what they were listening to. He wanted them to see that they were ahead of the curve.
They rolled down the windows as Michael sang the bridge, his filtered and melodic voice floating over the asphalt.
'She said she gay, but still into me... Said she gay still into me...'
The guys laughed. It was a brazen lyric, the kind of thing they would repeat in the locker room.
'Said that she hates that I'm in the streets And I said that I hate that I'm in the streets'
'I wanna blow up and make history And she said that she hate my Insta feed...'
The car stopped in its assigned spot. The song was reaching the chorus.
Around them, other students were getting out of their cars, and many heads turned upon recognizing the melody.
It wasn't a cult song. It was the soundtrack of the moment.
Brad turned off the engine, but the bells melody kept playing in their heads.
"Okay," said Ashley, getting out of the Jeep and adjusting her backpack. "I admit it. Zombie has talent."
Wednesday, January 6, 2016 (Afternoon)
In a bedroom in the suburbs of Seattle, rain hit the window, creating a natural rhythm that competed with the music coming from the computer speakers.
Emily, 16, sat in front of her vanity. The mirror was surrounded by bright lights illuminating her pale and tired face. She was applying eyeliner, a sharp black line she used as armor.
Her phone was face up on the table, next to the makeup brushes. The screen was dark. She had been waiting three hours for a message she knew wouldn't come.
He had left her on "read". Again. After telling her she was "special". After everything.
She felt stupid. She felt used.
She needed noise to drown out her thoughts. She clicked on the YouTube notification she had ignored earlier. "Michael Demiurge - 'Betrayed'".
She liked Michael. 'Ghost Girl' had been her crying song for weeks. But the thumbnail for this video was colorful, bright. It looked different.
She hit play.
The "Dream Bells" rang out, sweet and playful.
'Too happy,' thought Emily, about to change it.
But then the lyrics kicked in. And she realized the happy melody was a trap. It was a Trojan horse.
Michael wasn't singing about how great his life was. He was singing about fake people.
'She said she gay, but still into me...'
'Said she gay still into me...'
Emily let out a short, bitter laugh, stopping the eyeliner halfway. She knew those mind games. The ambiguity. The "I don't want anything serious but I want you close".
'Said that she hates that I'm in the streets...'
'And I said that I hate that I'm in the streets...'
She heard the contradiction in Michael's voice. The feeling of being trapped in a lifestyle you hate, but can't leave. She felt the same with her social circle, with the parties she forced herself to go to just to see that guy.
And then, the line that hit her like a slap.
'I wanna blow up and make history...'
'And she said that she hate my Insta feed...'
Emily put down the eyeliner. She looked at her own phone.
Her Instagram "feed". That curated collection of happy moments that weren't real. The guy she liked was obsessed with his image, with likes, with looking cool. He hated when she posted things that were "too emotional" or "weird".
Michael understood. He understood the toxic superficiality of modern relationships. He wasn't bragging; he was complaining about how empty it all was.
The rhythm built up toward the chorus.
'Xans don't make you...'
'Xans gon' take you...'
Emily didn't take Xanax. But she understood the metaphor. The things you use to feel better —boys, alcohol, social media validation— don't "make" you. They "take" you. They take parts of yourself.
'Xans gon' fake you...'
'Xans gon' betray you...'
She closed her eyes and sang with him, her soft voice blending with Michael's on the speakers.
'Xans don't make you...'
'Xans gon' take you...'
'Xans gon' fake you...'
'Xans gon' betray you...'
She realized this wasn't a superficial pop song. It was an anti-betrayal anthem. It was a warning wrapped in candy.
She finished her makeup. She looked in the mirror. The eye line was perfect, sharp as a knife.
She felt a little less alone, and a little stronger.
The song ended and she hit "repeat".
She wasn't going to wait for that message. She was going out. And she wasn't going to let anything or anyone "betray" her tonight.
Wednesday, January 6, 2016 (Night)
Mark, a 30-year-old data analyst, was on the elliptical at a "24 Hour Fitness" in downtown Chicago. He hated cardio, he hated January, and he hated the music playing on the gym speakers.
His musical taste had stopped somewhere between 2000s alternative rock and festival EDM. He didn't understand trap. He didn't understand kids with face tattoos.
To survive the 30 minutes on the elliptical, he put on Spotify's "Global Viral 50" playlist in his headphones.
He wanted background noise, something with a beat so he wouldn't think.
A couple of generic pop songs passed. And then, a synthesized bell melody played. Ding... ding-ding...
Mark frowned. It sounded like a lullaby. But then the bass came in. Round, smooth, not aggressive at all.
He started moving his feet to the rhythm without realizing it. The melody was an instant earworm. He found himself humming the chorus of "Xans don't make you" before realizing what he was saying.
'It's catchy,' admitted Mark.
But then, the song entered the second verse. And Mark almost stumbled on the machine.
'And her pussy tastes like Skittles, what? Yeah, ay, and you can really taste the rainbow, what? (Hah, no)...'
Mark let out an incredulous laugh. 'What the hell did this kid just say? Skittles?'
It was the most absurd lyric he had heard in years.
'Yo' bitch just like a Crayola (what, ay) You can draw her on the table, flip her like some yola...'
'Crayola. Incredible.' In any other context, Mark would have changed the song. He would have found it stupid. Childish.
But the flow... the way the kid strung the words together, gliding over the beat with that processed, melodic voice... was hypnotic. It didn't matter what he said; it mattered how it sounded. It sounded good.
'Heart shaped kisses, I really miss my mistress 666, evil bitches want my mentions Heart shaped kisses, I really miss my mistress And it's 666, evil bitches want my mentions'
There was a subtle shift in energy. "666". "Evil bitches". Mark noticed an underlying darkness beneath the candy melody. He was curious.
The song returned to the hypnotic chorus and then faded into the repetitive outro.
'Xans don't make you Xans gon' take you Xans gon' fake you Xans gon' betray you Xans don't make you Xans gon' take you Xans gon' fake you Xans gon' betray you'
The repetition was like a mantra.
'Xans gon' fake you Xans gon' betray you Xans gon' take you Xans gon' betray you Xans gon' take you Xans gon' take you What, ay, what, ay Xans gon', Xans gon' take you Yeah, Xans gon' Xans' gon' take you Xans' gon' take you'
The song ended.
Mark stared at his phone screen. The colorful and distorted cover of 'Betrayed'. The artist's name: Michael Demiurge.
He shook his head, smiling. "Music for kids," he thought.
But his finger moved on its own.
He pressed the "Like" button (the green heart on Spotify) and added it to his "Gym" playlist.
He didn't care about the Skittles lyrics. The rhythm worked. Michael had achieved what seemed impossible: he had made a 30-year-old man in a suit listen to SoundCloud rap without irony.
The crossover was complete.