Chapter 97: The Phoenix Inferno
Saturday, February 27, 2016
9:00 PM
The interior of the venue was a pressure cooker. The humidity generated by fifteen hundred people in an enclosed space had reached a critical point; the brick walls seemed to exude sweat and the air was so dense it was hard to fill the lungs. The smell was a raw mixture of tobacco, cheap perfumes, and the metallic adrenaline of a crowd about to explode.
Suddenly, all the lights went out.
The roar that emerged from the darkness was something physical, a shockwave that Michael felt in his chest as he waited on the side of the stage, hidden by the shadows. Exactly thirty seconds of tactical silence passed, just as he had ordered. Then, the first hit of distorted bass from “Look At Me!” detonated through the JBL speakers with a violence that made even the bottles at the bar vibrate.
Michael jumped to the center of the platform just as a blinding white strobe began to flash with a frantic frequency, transforming the stage into a sequence of violent frames.
“PHOENIX, I WANT TO SEE THAT FUCKING MOSHPIT RIGHT NOW!” Michael screamed into the microphone, with a voice that cut through the music like a knife.
The crowd responded by becoming a turbulent mass of bodies crashing into each other. Michael didn’t start rapping calmly; he threw himself to the very edge of the stage, with the hood of his black hoodie up, moving with an aggressiveness no one expected from his usual appearance.
“Can’t keep my dick in my pants, ay!” Michael roared, and the crowd completed the line with a scream that shook the building’s foundations.
‘This is pure energy,’ Michael thought as he felt the vibration of the stage beneath his Jordan 4s. ‘This is what money can’t buy.’
Michael moved like an electric animal, jumping and covering every meter of the stage to point at the different sections of the club. It wasn’t just a performance; it was a directed discharge of fury. Sweat began to soak the cotton of his hoodie almost immediately, but he didn’t decrease the intensity. He was there to burn the city down, and Phoenix was more than willing to burn with him. Every time the bass dropped, the venue floor seemed to give way a few inches under the weight of a thousand people jumping in unison.
9:15 PM
Without letting the crowd catch their breath after the chaos of the first song, T-Roc dropped the first dirty, industrial chords of “Paris.” The change in rhythm was like an injection of adrenaline straight to the heart of the crowd. The bass of the track was so dense that the air seemed to physically vibrate, making breathing even more difficult in that human furnace.
Michael abandoned the safety distance and crouched at the edge of the stage, ending up just inches from the desperate hands rising from the front row.
“Don’t stop! I want to see this place destroyed!” Michael shouted, his voice tearing from the effort but maintaining a power that dominated the roar.
He began rapping the verses with a speed and rage that made his chest rise and fall violently. Sweat no longer just beaded on his forehead; his black hoodie was changing color, becoming darker and heavier as it absorbed the liquid. He felt the heat of the spotlights on his back and the heat of a thousand bodies in front of him, creating a suffocating microclimate.
‘I feel like the air is burning in my lungs, but this is what we came here to do,’ Michael thought as he closed his eyes for a second, letting the sweat sting before launching into the next verse.
As soon as “Paris” ended, the atmosphere became ethereal for a moment before the minimalist bass of “Sodium” hit the speakers. It was the instruction manual for the lo-fi genre that Michael had perfected. The crowd recognized the Bones track immediately and the club transformed into a sea of arms moving to the slow but powerful rhythm of the beat.
“Sesh…” Michael murmured into the microphone, a nod to the roots of the genre that his most devoted fans caught instantly, triggering a new explosion of screams.
Michael walked from one end of the stage to the other, panting but without losing control. His Jordan 4s were soaked from the splashes of water and sweat covering the wood, but his balance was perfect. The intensity was such that oxygen in the front rows was beginning to run out, but Michael didn’t care. He was in a trance of pure execution, feeding off the exhaustion and euphoria of Phoenix.
“Phoenix, louder! Let them hear me in Los Angeles!” Michael roared, causing the moshpit to reactivate with renewed force as the bass of “Sodium” made the brick walls rumble.
9:30 PM
The chaos of the moshpits stopped dead when T-Roc filtered out the low frequencies and let the crystalline, spatial synthesizers of “White Iverson” flood the venue. The aggressive atmosphere transformed in a matter of seconds into a hypnotic atmosphere. The stage lighting went from white strobes to an icy blue that bounced off the crowd’s sweat, giving the room an almost underwater appearance.
Michael stood in the center of the stage, panting heavily. The air was so hot and humid that he felt like he was breathing steam. His black hoodie was no longer a garment; it was a soaked cotton armor that weighed twice as much and stuck to his skin like a second layer of lead.
“Saucin’, saucin’, I’m saucin’ on you…” Michael began to sing. His voice, processed with a light, atmospheric autotune, floated over the audience.
The crowd, exhausted from the initial fury, began to sway rhythmically. Michael closed his eyes, letting the melody guide him as he walked slowly toward the edge of the platform. His Jordan 4s were covered with a thin layer of condensation. When the second verse arrived, the heat reached an unbearable point. He felt his heart beating in his throat and the fabric of the hoodie prevented his lungs from expanding properly.
“Phoenix, it’s hot as shit in here,” Michael said into the microphone between lines, provoking a massive roar of approval.
Without stopping his singing, Michael released the microphone for a second, passed it to his left hand, and with his right hand violently pulled at the hood. In a fluid movement charged with energy, he removed the oversized hoodie and the tank top he wore underneath, throwing them toward the crowd that fought desperately to catch them.
Michael stood with his torso completely bare under the nitrogen spotlights. His skin, free of tattoos and gleaming from accumulated sweat, stood out under the blue lights. He looked more imposing, more real; the image of the mysterious internet kid was breaking to give way to that of an artist who was physically leaving everything on stage.
“Sing with me!” Michael roared, picking up the chorus with renewed power.
Without the weight of the clothes, he felt light, almost electric. The mass of people roared with an intensity that almost drowned out the sound system upon seeing his transformation. Michael raised his arm, pointing at the ceiling as the autotune of “White Iverson” faded into an infinite echo. The block of rage had ended, but the real connection with Phoenix had just begun.
9:40 PM
The silence that followed the end of “White Iverson” was brief but charged with electric tension. Michael remained in the center of the stage, his chest rising and falling heavily, while sweat slid down his torso and fell to the wooden floor. He didn’t need to say anything; his mere presence shirtless, under the overhead light, projected an image of vulnerability and power that had the audience hypnotized.
Suddenly, the first melancholic guitar chords of “Lucid Dreams” resonated through the venue. The recognition was instant. An explosion of deafening screams shook the walls, and Michael saw hundreds of phones rise in unison to record the moment.
“Phoenix, if you know this one, I want you to sing it so loud I can’t hear myself!” Michael shouted into the microphone, his voice hoarse from the effort but full of authority.
He walked to the left end of the stage, leaning toward the crowd. The heat was so dense he could feel the breath of the fans in the front row. When the chorus arrived, Michael didn’t just sing; he screamed the words with raw emotion, letting the rage and sadness of the lyrics mix with the suffocating atmosphere.
“I still see your shadows in my room… Can’t take back the love that I gave you…” Michael sang, and the fifteen hundred people in the club followed him with a force that made the air vibrate.
‘This is the moment when I stop being an artist and become a reflection of what they feel,’ Michael thought as he closed his eyes, letting the sweat run down his face. ‘It’s not music, it’s a purge.’
Michael moved with renewed energy, jumping when the bass dropped and pointing to the audience to complete the phrases. The connection was total. In the pauses between verses, he pushed his hair back, gleaming under the red and purple spotlights. The sweat made his skin look like glass, reflecting every flash of the stage lights.
“Louder!” Michael demanded, holding the microphone toward the crowd.
The response was a collective roar that completely drowned out the backing track. Michael smiled for the first time all night, a quick and fierce smile. He was dominating Phoenix, and he was doing it on his own terms, turning a hot club in Arizona into the epicenter of a movement that was just beginning to understand its magnitude.
9:50 PM
Michael didn’t let the energy drop. As soon as the echo of “Lucid Dreams” began to fade, T-Roc dropped the sequence of gothic, dark synthesizers that announced the biggest hit of the moment: “XO Tour Llif3.” The crowd, already on the verge of physical collapse from the heat and effort, seemed to find a hidden reserve of adrenaline. A primal scream filled the venue, a sound that vibrated in Michael’s chest.
“Phoenix, if you’re ready to die tonight, I want you to scream!” Michael roared, his voice resonating with an almost messianic authority.
Michael began jumping in the center of the stage to the rhythm of the heavy bass. His bare torso, now completely bathed in sweat, gleamed intensely under the red strobe lights bathing the room. With each jump, drops of sweat flew off his body, shining like crystals before disappearing into the darkness. The movement of his Jordan 4s was constant, marking the pulse of a crowd that imitated his every gesture.
“I don’t really care if you cry… Look at her line, check her eyes!” Michael sang at the top of his lungs, pointing at the ceiling.
When the chorus arrived, the volume of the crowd was such that Michael stopped singing for a moment just to listen. Fifteen hundred voices screaming in unison: “All my friends are dead, push me to the edge.” It was a moment of absolute communion. In that instant, Michael wasn’t just a sixteen-year-old kid; he was the conductor of an orchestra of chaos, the leader of a generation that found beauty in its own pain.
“Sing it louder! Bring the roof down!” Michael shouted, retaking control of the microphone and jumping even higher.
The temperature in the club must have been around 120 degrees at that point. The air was heavy, loaded with humidity and carbon dioxide, but the euphoria was so potent that no one seemed worried about breathing. Michael went down to the edge of the platform again, letting the sweat of the fans mix with his own as they shared the chorus face to face. His eyes gleamed with a cold intensity; he was living the birth of his hegemony in real time.
“Phoenix, I’m never going to forget this fucking night!” Michael exclaimed as the beat of “XO Tour Llif3” came to an end with an explosion of bass that seemed to warp reality for a second.
He stood there, panting, with his arms extended and his chest heaving. He was exhausted, dehydrated, and at the limit of his physical strength, but he had never felt so alive. The Phoenix Inferno was real, and he had just proven he could walk through fire without getting burned.
10:05 PM
The atmosphere in the club changed drastically when the last echoes of fury died out. T-Roc, following Michael’s precise instructions, let the silence stretch for a few uncomfortable, tense seconds. Then, an electric guitar melody bathed in echo and reverb began to snake through the speakers. It was “Drugs You Should Try It.”
The red lights and violent strobes disappeared, replaced by a deep blue and electric purple that bathed the stage. The steam emanating from the crowd became visible under the spotlights, creating a dreamlike, thick atmosphere.
Michael stood motionless in the center of the platform. His bare torso gleamed as if coated in oil under the cold light, and sweat ran down his sides in constant streams. He raised his hand, asking for calm from a crowd that was still gasping from the previous effort.
“Phoenix… turn on your phone lights. I want to see stars in this inferno,” Michael said, his voice laden with melodic fatigue.
In a matter of seconds, fifteen hundred white lights came on, transforming the dark, hot club into an artificial cosmos. Michael closed his eyes and began to sing. His voice, filtered through the atmospheric autotune he had perfected on the bus, sounded ethereal, almost unreal.
“I try it if it feels right… This feels nice…” Michael sang, drawing out the notes and letting his body sway with the slow rhythm of the drums.
The connection at this point wasn’t one of fury, but of trance. The crowd sang with a vulnerability that contrasted with the moshpits from minutes before. Michael walked across the stage one last time, barefoot on the wet wood, feeling the energy of the lights pointing toward him. Every word he released seemed to weigh a ton of pure emotion.
‘This is what the System can’t teach me,’ he reflected internally as sweat got into his eyes, forcing him to blink hard. ‘The technique is theirs, but this connection is mine.’
As the song reached its end, the guitars became more intense, creating a wall of sound that enveloped everyone present. Michael approached the edge of the stage, stared at the crowd one last time and, without saying a single word, dropped the microphone. The impact of the device against the wood produced a dull thud that echoed throughout the venue.
Michael turned around and walked toward the side exit in silence, while the guitar loop continued playing. There was no goodbye, no “thank you,” no “I love you.” Just his silhouette disappearing into the darkness of the backstage.
He crossed the service hallway at a quick pace, escorted by Big Rob. Upon exiting through the loading door, the dry air of the Phoenix night hit him, but now it felt cool compared to the furnace inside. He climbed the steps of the Prevost and, as soon as the door sealed shut, the silence of the bus enveloped him.
Michael let himself collapse to the floor of the hallway, leaning his back against the bus wall, panting with his chest covered in sweat. Karl entered seconds later, closing the door behind him as the muffled screams of fans could be heard outside.
“Michael, that was… it was insane,” Karl said, visibly impressed, throwing him a clean towel. “You just set the bar in a place where no one else is going to reach on this tour.”
Michael didn’t respond. He simply closed his eyes, feeling the bus’s air conditioning cooling his skin. He had survived the first night of the tour, and he had done it by destroying Phoenix.