Chapter 85: The Viral Lobotomy
Friday, February 5, 2016
Michael entered his studio at ten in the morning. It was the fifth consecutive day of "Factory Week", and his brain felt like a squeezed sponge.
He had spent Monday screaming about death with 'XO TOUR Llif3'. Wednesday, he had consoled the world with 'Hope'. Thursday, he had confessed his materialist emptiness with 'Save That Shit'.
He was mentally exhausted from channeling deep emotions. From searching for meaning. From being an "artist".
He sat in his chair and looked at the calendar.
Friday.
The day of 'Gucci Gang'.
Michael smiled. Today he wouldn't have to think. Today he wouldn't have to feel. Today was the day of mental rest.
He summoned the System interface and opened the guide. It was, by far, the shortest and most ridiculous of all.
PRODUCTION GUIDE: 'Gucci Gang' Melody: Two piano notes (Gnealz/Bighead). Repetitive. Hypnotic. Beat: Distorted but simple 808. Basic snare. Structure: Repetition until lobotomy.
Michael laughed out loud. After the sonic architecture of 'Drugs You Should Try It', where he had spent days designing reverse reverbs, doing this felt like assembling a three-piece Lego set for toddlers.
He opened a new project in Ableton. Gucci_Gang_v1.
He started with the piano.
He looked for a cheap digital piano sound. He didn't want a Steinway grand. He wanted something that sounded synthetic.
He played the two notes on his MIDI keyboard. Ding... ding...
He looped it. Ding... ding... Ding... ding...
It was stupid. It was offensively simple. And it was impossible to stop listening to it. It stuck in your brain like a nail.
Then, the beat.
He loaded an 808. He turned up the distortion, but not so it was white noise like in 'Look At Me!'. Just so it crunched a little.
He programmed the most basic drum pattern in the history of trap. A kick, a snare, a constant hi-hat.
He hit play.
The entire instrumental lasted barely two minutes. There were no chord changes. There were no complex bridges. It was an infinite loop of happy ignorance.
Michael leaned back in the chair, laughing while the beat played.
It had taken him fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes to create the foundation of what he knew would be one of his biggest viral hits. It was almost an insult to music. And it worked perfectly.
"Okay," he said, getting up to go to the booth. "Let's get stupid."
Friday, February 5, 2016 (Morning)
Michael adjusted his Sennheiser headphones. The ridiculously simple two-note piano beat played on a loop. Ding... ding...
He didn't need concentration. He didn't need to connect with his inner pain. He didn't need to think about his parents' death or the price of Ethereum.
He needed to turn off his brain. He needed a voluntary lobotomy.
He approached the microphone. Not to sing, but to make noises.
He pressed the record button on his remote controller.
'Yuh... ooh... brr... brr...'
He let out the ad-libs with a total lack of effort. They were guttural sounds, rhythmic punctuations.
'Gucci gang, ooh...'
'(That's it right there, Gnealz)'
'Yuh, Lil Pump, yuh...'
(Michael decided to keep the name "Lil Pump" in the lyrics as a reference to the fictional character he was playing, or maybe he changed it to an alter ego, but the essence was the same: pure ignorance).
'Gucci gang, ooh...'
'(Ooh, Bi-Bighead on the beat)'
'Yuh, brr...'
And then, the chorus. The intellectual black hole that would swallow the world.
Michael started repeating it. There was no melody. It was a rhythmic, percussive chant.
'Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang (Gucci gang)'
'Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang (Gucci gang)'
As he said it, he felt how absurd it was. He was repeating two words over and over again. But there was a rhythm in the repetition. A hypnotic cadence.
'Spend three racks on a new chain (Yuh)'
'My bitch love do cocaine, ooh (Ooh)'
He sang about cocaine with astonishing naturalness, knowing that the only substance in his system was caffeine and a little nicotine. He was selling a movie.
'I fuck a bitch, I forgot her name (Brr, yuh)'
'I can't buy a bitch no wedding ring (Ooh)'
'Rather go and buy Balmains (Brr)'
It was the antithesis of 'Star Shopping'. In 'Star Shopping', he gave her his heart. Here, he didn't even give her a ring; he preferred to buy expensive pants. It was materialist nihilism taken to the extreme.
He returned to the mantra.
'Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang (Gucci gang)'
'Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang...'
While recording, he realized the genius of the design. The song demanded nothing from the listener. You didn't have to think. You didn't have to feel. You just had to repeat. It was brainwashing. It was a virus designed to infect twelve-year-olds and drunk adults alike.
'Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang...'
He was having fun. He laughed between takes. It was the easiest and stupidest recording session of his life. And he knew, with terrifying certainty, that this stupidity was going to be more famous than any of his lyrical masterpieces.
The trap was set. It was perfect for parties. Perfect for memes. Perfect for not thinking.
The chorus loop ended and the beat opened up slightly for the song's only verse.
Michael adjusted his hoodie cap. He didn't take a break. He went straight into character.
For 'Gucci Gang', the character wasn't the dangerous gangster of 'Look At Me!'. It was the rich, spoiled, and ignorant kid who had just won the lottery. It was a caricature of excess.
He started rapping. His flow was choppy, simple, designed so even a child could repeat it.
'My lean cost more than your rent, ooh (It do)'
'Your momma still live in a tent, yuh (Brr)'
Michael dropped the ad-libs ("It do", "Brr") with comic seriousness. The disrespect was so absurd it was hilarious. He was insulting an imaginary person for being poor, while he himself still lived in a half-empty rented house. But on the microphone, he sounded like a billionaire.
'Still slangin' dope in the 'jects, huh? (Yeah)'
'Me and my grandma take meds, ooh (Huh?)'
He had to bite his lip not to laugh in the middle of the take. "Me and my grandma take meds". It was the stupidest and coolest line he had ever recorded. It perfectly captured the normalization of recreational drug use, reducing it to an absurd family activity.
'None of this shit be new to me (Nope)'
'Fuckin' my teacher, call it tutory (Yuh)'
He channeled his hatred for school. The arrogance of saying he was sleeping with the teacher instead of learning. It was the ultimate teenage fantasy.
'Bought some red bottoms, cost hella G's (Huh?)'
'Fuck your airline, fuck your company (Fuck it!)'
He screamed the "Fuck it!" with gusto. He imagined buying his own private plane with the Ethereum profits.
'Bitch, your breath smell like some cigarettes (Cigarettes)'
The irony hit him again. He was the one who smoked. But the character in the song was a hypocrite with high standards.
'I'd rather fuck a bitch from the projects (Yuh)'
'They kicked me out the plane off a Percocet (Brr)'
And then, the self-proclamation line. Michael changed the original name to fit his brand, or perhaps, in his mind, "Lil Pump" was the name of this stupid alter ego.
'Now Michael flyin' private jet (Yuh)'
'Everybody scream, "Fuck WestJet" (Fuck 'em)'
'Michael still sell that meth (Yuh)'
'Hunnid on my wrist, sippin' on Tech (Brr)'
'Fuck a lil' bitch, make her pussy wet (What?)'
He finished the verse with a scream of "What?".
There was no lyrical complexity. There were no metaphors. It was direct, vulgar, and materialistic. And it flowed over the beat in a way that was pure dopamine.
Michael realized he wasn't thinking about rhyme structure or deep meaning. He was just surfing the wave of ignorance. He felt light. He felt free.
The beat returned to the hypnotic two-note piano.
Ding... ding...
Michael returned to the mantra, closing the circle of the lobotomy.
'Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang...'
He was grinning from ear to ear. He knew critics would hate this. He knew they would say it was the death of rap.
And he knew they were going to listen to it a million times.
Friday, February 5, 2016 (Noon)
Michael took off his headphones. The session had lasted less than an hour.
He sat in front of the screen to mix. There was no subtlety here. No reverse reverb or surgical EQ.
'Gucci Gang' needed to sound like an ice cream truck driven by a maniac.
He turned up the bass. Turned up the vocals. Put a limiter on the master channel to crush any dynamic range, making sure the song sounded loud even on the cheapest mobile phone speaker.
He listened to the result.
Ding... ding... Gucci gang, Gucci gang...
It was annoying. It was repetitive. It was a masterpiece of viral stupidity.
He exported the file: Gucci_Gang_Master.mp3.
He dragged it to the "FEBRUARY RELEASES" folder.
The file aligned next to the other three bombs he had created that week: XO_TOUR_Llif3, Hope, and Save_That_Shit.
Four songs. Four different styles. Four guaranteed hits.
Michael leaned back in his chair, exhaling a long sigh.
"Factory Week" was almost over. His brain, which had enjoyed the rest of ignorance with 'Gucci Gang', was starting to reactivate.
He looked at the calendar on the wall.
One day left. Saturday.
And there was one slot left on the list.
'I'm Gonna Be'.
Michael knew he couldn't end the week with 'Gucci Gang'. He didn't want his last session to be a joke. He needed to close with something real. Something that spoke about who he was now.
He remembered the guide for 'I'm Gonna Be'. It was the spiritual sequel to 'White Iverson'. It was introspective. It dealt with the pressure of fame, with the determination to keep going no matter what they said.
'I'm gonna be what I want, what I want, what I want, yeah...'
It was the perfect message to close this cycle of mass production.
He decided that tomorrow he would record 'I'm Gonna Be'. He wanted to do it with the tired voice of the end of the week, to give it that authenticity of exhaustion and triumph.
He turned off the equipment. The blue light of the monitors faded.
He felt light. A huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders.
The arsenal was almost complete.
He left the studio and went to the kitchen. Today there was no chicken and rice. Today there was no diet.
He took out his phone and ordered a large pepperoni pizza. He had earned it.
He threw himself on the living room sofa, turned on the old TV, and waited for the food to arrive, enjoying the silence before, tomorrow, he had to go back to being a prophet.