Chapter 96: The Heat of the Border
Saturday, February 27, 2016
10:30 AM
The private studio of the Prevost was a temperature-controlled bunker that ignored the reality of the desert outside. While the trailer cut through the dense air of Interstate 10 at 70 miles per hour, Michael was immersed in an artificial silence, broken only by the surgical frequencies emanating from the Focal monitors. The walls lined with acoustic panels absorbed any vibration from the diesel engine, leaving a pure workspace.
Michael sat with his back straight, the black hoodie with the hood up to cover his ears from any environmental distraction, and his Jordan 4s resting on the metal edge of the carbon fiber desk. He wore his heather gray athletic shorts, a practical choice for the hours of confinement he had spent processing data. The only strong light in the room was the electric blue glow of the Apollo interface and the glare of his laptop screen, which projected angular shadows on his serious face.
His fingers moved quickly over the trackpad, adjusting virtual faders and cleaning the tracks the System had downloaded to him in the early morning. He wasn’t recording vocals; he was in a phase of pure sonic architecture.
First he focused on the instrumental for “Gym Class.” ‘The System delivered a perfect atmosphere, but I need the 808 bass to be more elastic,’ he thought as he applied an equalization filter to make the synthesizers sound more ethereal, as if they were floating. He knew that for the internet audience, the “lo-fi” sound was key, but for a live show, he needed the foundation to have real physical impact.
After saving the changes, he opened the “Falling Down” project. He concentrated on the tone of the acoustic guitar. ‘It’s too clean. It needs a bit of analog saturation to sound like a farewell, like something worn.’ He adjusted the harmonic distortion plugins until the arpeggio had the melancholic weight he was looking for.
Finally, he moved to the “Lo Que Siento” track. It was a complex piece of engineering: synthesizers with a Dream Pop brightness that had to coexist with a trap rhythmic base. Michael spent almost an hour calibrating the kick drum compression. ‘This song can’t be released just any way. The instrumentation has to envelop the listener before I even drop the first rhyme in Spanish,’ he reflected internally, watching how the sound waves moved across the screen.
Michael didn’t feel time passing. For him, manipulating these frequencies was like assembling the pieces of a high-tech puzzle. He was preparing the ground for the future, polishing weapons he wasn’t going to fire yet. He closed the production software and saved the projects in an encrypted folder, making sure the mixes were ready for the moment he decided to enter the recording booth.
He removed his professional headphones and left them on the table. The sudden silence was interrupted by the vibration of the bus’s wood beneath his feet. Phoenix was getting closer, and the studio’s air conditioning was beginning to struggle against the extreme heat hitting the Prevost’s metal from outside.
12:15 PM
A dry, rhythmic knock on the wooden sliding door broke Michael’s bubble of concentration. The sound of the Focal monitors faded instantly when he pressed a mental command, leaving the suite in sepulchral silence.
“Michael, we’re fifteen minutes from the venue,” Karl’s voice came through clearly through the wood. “Big Rob says traffic in downtown Phoenix is heavy, but the police have already cleared access to the back alley.”
Michael removed his headphones and left them on the controller. He stood up from the leather chair, stretching his arms. His black hoodie felt heavy, but it was his combat uniform. He adjusted the laces of his Jordan 4s and slid the door open to exit to the common area of the trailer.
The change in atmosphere was immediate. Although the bus’s air conditioning was working at maximum power, the glare coming through the enormous front windshield was blinding. The Arizona landscape was no longer a blur of motion; now it was low-rise buildings, exhausted palm trees, and asphalt that seemed to emit waves of vapor.
Michael walked toward the front, passing T-Roc, who was seated on one of the leather sofas checking his DJ backpack. He had several cables intertwined around his neck and was testing the reliability of his USB drives.
“It’s crazy hot outside, Mike,” T-Roc said, looking up and pointing at the digital panel above the driver’s seat. “Look at that.”
Michael fixed his gaze on the Prevost’s diagnostic screen. The exterior thermometer read 106°F (41°C).
‘It’s an oven,’ Michael thought as he walked toward the small stainless steel refrigerator. ‘At this temperature, oxygen feels scarce. The crowd is going to be at their limit before the first song even starts.’
He opened the fridge and took out a glass bottle of mineral water. The cold of the container contrasted with the temperature that was beginning to seep through the metal walls of the bus. He drank half the bottle in one gulp, feeling how the liquid went down his throat.
Karl was standing next to the co-pilot seat, with a tablet in his hand and a frown on his face. He was responding to emails from Harris about security logistics and tax payments that needed to be processed that week. Karl looked impeccable in a light linen shirt, but he already had some drops of sweat on his forehead just from being near the window area.
“The promoter says the line of fans goes around the building,” Karl commented without looking away from the screen. “Many have been there since eight in the morning. With this heat, we’re going to have people passing out before we even open the doors.”
Michael leaned against the kitchen bar, watching as the bus slowed down upon entering the downtown streets. He saw people on the sidewalks walking quickly, seeking shade.
‘Desperation is good energy for a show, if you know how to channel it,’ he reflected internally. ‘If they’re suffering under the sun to see me, I have to give them something that makes them forget they can’t breathe.’
“Make sure there’s enough water on stage, Karl,” Michael said in a flat voice. “And tell Rob I don’t want anyone from the staff getting in the way during soundcheck. I want to get in, test, and get out.”
Michael finished the water and left the bottle in the sink. He returned to his suite for a moment to grab his backpack and his dark sunglasses. The contrast between the technological peace of his studio and the thermal hostility of Phoenix was total, but he was ready for the collision.
12:30 PM
The Prevost performed a heavy and precise maneuver to enter the back alley of the venue. The sound of the air brakes resonated against the brick walls of the adjacent buildings, marking the end of the journey. Through the tinted glass of the cabin, Michael observed the exterior scene. Despite the 106 degrees Fahrenheit, hundreds of teenagers crowded against the metal security barriers the local police had installed to keep the loading zone clear.
Michael noticed a detail that made him frown: many of those kids were wearing thick black cotton hoodies, imitating his own attire. Their faces were reddened by the sun and sweat soaked their hair, but they kept their phones held high, waiting to capture any movement.
“It’s time. Rob, open the door,” Michael ordered with a firm voice.
Big Rob stood up from his front seat. His massive figure blocked almost the entire exit as he activated the opening mechanism.
As soon as the trailer door slid to the side, the cold, filtered air from inside was replaced by a blast of dry, suffocating heat that entered the cabin violently. It wasn’t a breeze; it was a mass of static air that burned the nostrils when breathing.
Rob descended the steps first, occupying the space necessary so that no one could get too close. Michael adjusted the hood of his black hoodie, making sure it covered most of his face, and put on his dark sunglasses with thick frames.
Michael descended the three steps of the bus. As soon as his Jordan 4s touched the asphalt, he felt the temperature of the ground radiating through the rubber soles. The heat came not only from the sun but bounced off the brick walls and black pavement, creating a sensation of thermal enclosure. The air was so dry he felt the moisture from his skin evaporating in seconds.
The screams erupted with deafening intensity as soon as the fans recognized his silhouette. Cell phones waved in the air and the pressure against the barriers increased, forcing the police officers to put their weight against the metal.
‘They’re willing to suffer heat stroke just to see a black hoodie,’ Michael thought as he walked with quick, steady steps. ‘That’s the kind of fanaticism that sustains an empire.’
Michael didn’t stop to sign autographs or look at the cameras. He kept his gaze forward, walking directly toward the steel door of the loading zone. His gray shorts revealed his legs, which felt hot from the air circulating at ground level.
Beside him, Karl was almost jogging to keep up the pace, holding his tablet against his chest and trying not to gasp from the physical effort under that temperature.
The journey from the bus to the venue entrance lasted no more than fifteen seconds, but the impact of the climate was enough for sweat to begin beading on his forehead under the hood. As soon as he crossed the threshold of the loading door and entered the club’s service hallway, the noise of the fans was muffled and the building’s industrial air conditioning welcomed him with a flow of loud but necessary air.
Michael stopped for a second to remove his sunglasses and lower his hood. His lungs appreciated the denser interior air. He looked at Rob, who was already closing the steel door behind them, blocking the heat and chaos of Phoenix.
“Nobody enters the stage until I say so,” Michael said to Karl while wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “I want to see the sound equipment right now.”
1:00 PM
The interior of the venue was a dark abyss compared to the glare of Phoenix. The air smelled of a stale mixture of industrial disinfectant, dry beer, and the residual smoke from the fog machines from the night before. The stage was a black wooden platform, wide enough to give him freedom of movement, backed by an imposing wall of JBL speakers that promised massive sound pressure.
Michael climbed the side steps of the stage with a firm stride. His Jordan 4s squeaked slightly on the polished wood surface. He stopped in the center, under the dim light of the work lamps. In the back, in the control booth, a local sound engineer—a man in his fifties with a t-shirt from an old rock band and an unfriendly expression—watched him with evident skepticism. To him, Michael was just another internet kid playing at being a star.
“T-Roc, plug in. I want to start with the output levels,” Michael ordered, projecting his voice without needing a microphone.
T-Roc was already in the DJ booth, opening his file folders. Michael picked up the wireless microphone resting on a stand. He felt the weight of the cold metal in his hand and turned it on. A green light blinked at the base of the device.
“Testing, one, two. Bring up the return on the floor monitors, they’re dead,” Michael said into the microphone. His voice echoed in the empty venue with surgical clarity.
“T-Roc, let’s go with ‘Look At Me!’ I want the gain level at maximum on the subs. Let’s see if this place can handle the distortion,” Michael indicated, adjusting his hood.
As soon as T-Roc dropped the beat, the air in the club changed. The distorted and aggressive bass exploded with a physical violence that made the empty bottles at the bar vibrate and shook the dust from the ceiling beams. Michael didn’t start rapping immediately; he stood motionless, closing his eyes and feeling the frequency of the hit in his chest.
“Cut!” Michael shouted. The silence that followed was almost painful. He looked toward the engineer’s booth. “Hey, cut at 250Hz. It’s rumbling too much in the corners and it’s muddying the brightness of the voice. And give more gate to the kick, I want it dry, hitting like a hammer.”
The local engineer raised an eyebrow, surprised by the kid’s technical precision, and began moving the faders on the digital console with a noticeably more cooperative attitude.
“Let’s go with ‘Lucid Dreams.’ I want to test the melodic range,” Michael requested.
The soft melody of the Sting sample filled the space. Michael walked across the stage from side to side, testing the speaker coverage. He sang the first verse, listening to how his voice processed with the atmospheric autotune the System had taught him to perfect blended with the track. The acoustics of the place were decent, but the heat from outside seemed to have expanded the materials, giving the sound an organic warmth.
“Sounds clean,” T-Roc commented from the booth.
“Almost,” Michael responded. “T, after ‘Lucid Dreams’ we’re going to chain into ‘Sodium’ and ‘Paris.’ I need the bass transition to be constant. Phoenix has to feel like the floor disappears when those tracks drop.”
Michael spent the next forty minutes adjusting every detail. He tested the treble levels on “Drugs You Should Try It” to make sure the psychedelic atmosphere wasn’t lost in the venue’s echo. He wasn’t there to have fun; he was calibrating a weapon. Every song in his already-released catalog was a bullet that had to impact with exact force.
When he finished, the local sound engineer gave him a thumbs up from the booth, this time with real respect in his gaze. Michael left the microphone on the stand and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“It’s ready, Karl,” Michael said, stepping down from the stage. “Tell the lighting guys I want total darkness for the first thirty seconds of ‘Look At Me!’ Only the strobe when the bass kicks in.”
2:00 PM
Michael descended the stage steps and walked directly toward the rear emergency exit, escorted by Big Rob. The venue’s air conditioning was a blessing, but he knew the ten-meter journey to the trailer would be like crossing a lava field. As soon as they opened the metal door, the roar of the fans who remained behind the barriers mixed with the heat wave of Phoenix’s 106°F.
Michael didn’t flinch. He pulled up the hood of his black hoodie, put on his sunglasses, and walked with mechanical steps to the Prevost’s stairs. Upon entering, the hermetic seal of the bus door blocked the noise and the suffocation, returning him to his sanctuary of 68 degrees Fahrenheit.
“Three hours until the doors open,” Karl said, entering behind him while consulting his tablet. “The promoter says the police are asking us to start on time. They don’t want five thousand dehydrated kids on the street any longer than necessary.”
Michael poured himself a glass of mineral water and walked toward his private suite. His Jordan 4s barely made a sound on the carpet.
“Tell them we’ll start at the exact time,” Michael replied without turning around. “T-Roc, make sure the opening set keeps the energy up, but don’t drop the heavy bass until I come on. I want the impact of ‘Look At Me!’ to be the first thing that blows their ears.”
“Got it, Mike,” T-Roc answered from the sofa, already focused on organizing his transitions on the laptop.
Michael entered his studio and closed the sliding door. He stood in the dimness, illuminated only by the LEDs of the audio equipment. He felt strangely calm. In his mind, the arsenal of the 11 new songs and the Diamonds project vibrated like an electric current, but he knew that tonight was about consolidating his base.
‘Tonight I give them what they know so that tomorrow they’ll accept what they can’t imagine,’ he reflected while removing the hoodie slightly damp with sweat and tossing it into a corner.
He lay down on the leather sofa of his suite, closing his eyes. He could feel the vibration of the bus’s generator and, in the distance, the rhythmic murmur of fans shouting his name outside the alley. For any other sixteen-year-old, the pressure would be suffocating. For Michael, it was simply the necessary fuel.
Karl knocked softly on the door two hours later.
“Michael, it’s time,” Karl said through the wood. “The venue is packed to the rafters. It feels like it’s about to explode.”
Michael got up, put on a clean black hoodie, adjusted the laces of his sneakers, and looked at himself in the mirror. His face showed no nerves, only cold, professional determination. He grabbed a water bottle, pulled up the hood, and stepped out into the bus hallway.
The first show of The Demiurge Tour was about to begin, and Phoenix was about to witness the birth of a hegemony.