Chapter 86: I'll Be Whatever I Want
Saturday, February 6, 2016
Michael entered his studio at eleven in the morning. The air in the room was stale. It smelled of three-day-old coffee, last night's pizza grease, and the ozone of electronic equipment that had barely rested.
He collapsed into his chair. His bones creaked.
He was exhausted.
"Factory Week" had been brutal.
Monday: The suicidal mania of 'XO TOUR Llif3'. Wednesday: The compassion of 'Hope'. Thursday: The toxic confession of 'Save That Shit'. Friday: The viral lobotomy of 'Gucci Gang'.
Four hits in five days. His brain felt fried. His ears rang with phantom frequencies.
He looked at the calendar. One day left. One final slot on the to-do list.
'I'm Gonna Be'.
He summoned the System interface and opened the guide.
PRODUCTION GUIDE: 'I'm Gonna Be' Atmosphere: Bright, expansive, "stadium-like". Instrumentation: Crisp piano, processed acoustic guitar (dreamy). Rhythm: Constant. A slow military march. Emotional Imprint: Exhausted determination.
Michael smiled weakly. "Exhausted determination". The System knew him well. That was exactly how he felt.
He opened a new project. Im_Gonna_Be_v1.
This time, he didn't look for dark synths or distorted basses. He wanted light.
He loaded a virtual grand piano. He played the chords. They were major, bright, almost triumphant, but with an undertone of melancholy.
Cling... cling-cling...
Then, he grabbed his acoustic guitar (one he had bought recently for variety). He recorded a simple strum.
In the mix, he drowned that guitar in effects. A wide chorus to give it stereo width and a long reverb to make it sound like he was playing in a dream. The guitar stopped sounding like wood and started sounding like a cloud.
Finally, the rhythm.
He didn't program fast hi-hats or complex trap patterns. He programmed a marching rhythm. A heavy kick on the one. A giant snare, with lots of reverb, on the two. Boom... Pjah... Boom... Pjah...
It was constant. Unstoppable. It was the sound of someone walking toward the horizon without looking back.
He hit play on the full instrumental.
It sounded massive. It sounded like the end of a movie. It didn't have the darkness of his other songs; it had a blinding clarity.
Michael rubbed his tired eyes.
He didn't need to act for this song. The lyrics were about going to the limit ("going hard until I'm gone"). It was about success and the price paid for it.
His current physical state —dark circles, back pain, caffeine in his veins— was the perfect fuel.
He stood up, stretching his back.
"Last round," he muttered.
He entered the booth. He was ready to declare his independence.
Saturday, February 6, 2016 (Noon)
Michael positioned himself in front of the Neumann microphone. His body felt heavy, anchored to the floor by the gravity of a week without rest, but when the military march beat began to play in his headphones, his posture changed.
He straightened up. This wasn't a song to slouch to. It wasn't a song to look at the floor.
The bright piano marked the start. Michael leaned into the pop filter. His voice was a bit raspy, worn by cigarettes and effort, but that gave it a texture of authority it didn't have before.
'Can you feel it? Can you feel it?'
'Can you feel it? Can you feel it?'
He sang the intro with his eyes closed. He was asking himself. Did he feel it? Did he feel the change? A year ago he was a ghost. Now he was a force.
'Pop the top, fill my cup up, yeah'
'Keep 'em pourin' 'til I'm fucked up, oh, yeah'
Escapism. The need to numb the Ethereum anxiety, the pressure of the shows. He sang the line with weary familiarity.
'Diamond simon with my shirt tucked, yeah'
'Mink was 80k, that's fucked up, oh, yeah (wow)'
He smiled singing about the 80 thousand dollar mink coat. He didn't have one. He was wearing a cheap cotton t-shirt. But he knew that in his digital wallet, the money already existed. He could buy it tomorrow if he wanted. He sang the line not as a lie, but as a premonition.
'I'll rock the shit, but not for long'
'Then I'll go cop another one'
'Some people think I'm livin' wrong'
'We live this life, but not for long, so...'
The fragility of life. He remembered his parents' car accident. He remembered his own death in 2025. "Not for long". There was no time to waste.
And then, the chorus. The manifesto.
Michael opened his eyes and looked at the padded wall of the studio as if he were looking his destiny in the face.
'I'm gonna be what I want, what I want, what I want, yeah (yeah)'
'I'm gonna do what I want, when I want, when I want, yeah (yeah)'
He sang this with total freedom. He was no longer the Burger Barn employee. He was no longer the minor under Harris's guardianship. He was his own boss. He was the owner of his time.
'I'm goin' hard 'til I'm gone, 'til I'm gone, 'til I'm gone, yeah ('til I'm gone, 'til I'm gone)'
His voice rose, filling the booth. He was going to go to the limit until he burned out.
'Can you feel it? Can you feel it?'
'I'm gonna be what I want, what I want, what I want, yeah (I wanna be)'
'I'm gonna do what I want, when I want, when I want, yeah (I wanna be)'
'I'm goin' hard 'til I'm gone, 'til I'm gone, 'til I'm gone, yeah ('til I'm gone, 'til I'm gone)'
'Can you feel it? Can you feel it?'
The rhythm continued, constant, unstoppable. Michael entered the second verse. Here, he addressed the critics, those who said he wasn't "real".
'Hey, why you so mad? (why you so mad?)'
'Never look back (never look back)'
'Can't let up the gas, we movin' so fast, yeah, let's make it last'
The speed of his ascent. The fear that everything would fall apart.
'Yeah I'm on to you, mm-mm'
'You're too comfortable, ayy-ayy'
'Who you talkin' to, mm-mm'
'Ain't no time for you, ayy-ayy (ooh)'
And then, the success lines.
'I do what I want, tom ford on the yacht, ooh'
'Richard mille my watch, thousand dollar crocs, ooh'
And the line that made him truly smile, the secret line for himself.
'They tryna tell me that it's luck'
'You probably think I made it up'
He laughed softly in the middle of the take. 'Yes, it is luck,' he thought. The luck of waking up in the past. The luck of knowing which stocks to buy. 'They probably think I made it up.' And in a way, he did. He invented "Michael Demiurge".
'I got it all it ain't enough'
'But I'm still gonna run it up, so...'
The truth about his ambition. The Ethereum millions weren't enough. He wanted more. He wanted the legacy.
He returned to the chorus, singing it with more force, his raspy voice breaking perfectly on the high notes.
'I'm gonna be what I want, what I want, what I want, yeah'
'I'm gonna do what I want, when I want, when I want, yeah'
'I'm goin' hard 'til I'm gone, 'til I'm gone, 'til I'm gone, yeah'
'Can you feel it? Can you feel it?'
'I'm gonna be what I want, what I want, what I want, yeah'
'I'm gonna do what I want, when I want, when I want, yeah'
'I'm goin' hard 'til I'm gone, 'til I'm gone, 'til I'm gone, yeah'
'Can you feel it? Can you feel it?'
The final bridge.
'Ever since I got a taste I've been goin' (goin')'
'Every chip out on the table, bitch, I'm all in (ayy)'
"I'm all in". All in with Ethereum. All in with music. There was no plan B.
'I'm gonna be I, I'm gonna be (bitch, I'm gonna be)'
'I'm gonna be what I want, what I want, what I want, yeah'
'I'm gonna do what I want, when I want, when I want, yeah'
'I'm goin' hard 'til I'm gone, 'til I'm gone, 'til I'm gone, yeah'
'Can you feel it? Can you feel it?'
'Can you feel it? Can you feel it?'
The song ended. Michael stood still as the last echo faded.
He didn't feel sad like with 'Jocelyn Flores'. He didn't feel angry like with 'Look At Me!'.
He felt powerful.
He had declared his independence. It didn't matter what the lawyers, the critics, or the system said. He was going to be whatever he wanted.
He stepped out of the booth. Factory week had ended with a victory.
Saturday, February 6, 2016 (Afternoon)
Michael stepped out of the booth. He felt light, as if he had left a physical burden in front of the microphone. 'I'm Gonna Be' wasn't a sad song; it was a song of liberation.
He sat at the console for the final mix.
Unlike 'Look At Me!', where he sought sonic destruction, or 'Hope', where he sought intimacy, here he sought greatness.
He used compression on the piano to make it sound bright and percussive. He opened up the stereo field of the guitars to envelop the listener. And he put the voice right in the center, crisp and processed, sounding as if he were singing from the top of a mountain.
It was a "stadium" sound. It was clean. It was expensive.
He exported the file: Im_Gonna_Be_Final_Master.mp3.
He opened his "FEBRUARY RELEASES" folder on the desktop. Dragged the file inside.
He leaned back in his Herman Miller chair, crossing his hands behind his head, and looked at the list of files. The fruits of his "Factory Week".
XO_TOUR_Llif3_Master.mp3 (Monday) Hope_Master.mp3 (Wednesday) Save_That_Shit_Master.mp3 (Thursday) Gucci_Gang_Master.mp3 (Friday) Im_Gonna_Be_Final_Master.mp3 (Saturday)
Five songs. Five days.
It was madness. Most artists took months to make an EP of this quality. He had done it in a work week. And each of those songs had the potential to be a number one hit in its respective niche.
"XO" was the generational anthem. "Hope" was the message for his cult. "Save That Shit" was the melodic bridge. "Gucci Gang" was the internet virus. "I'm Gonna Be" was the statement of principles.
He had the complete arsenal. Now, the problem wasn't creation. It was distribution.
He started thinking about strategy.
He knew he couldn't drop them all at once on Monday. He would saturate the market. He needed a schedule.
'Hope' and 'Save That Shit' were perfect to be digital singles, midnight releases on Spotify to keep the fans fed. They didn't need big campaigns. The music spoke for itself.
But the big ones... 'XO TOUR Llif3' and 'Gucci Gang'... those were different beasts.
Those songs were visual events. He couldn't just upload the audio. They needed support. They needed images that would stick in people's retinas as much as the melodies in their ears.
He realized that his work in the studio was finished, but his work as a creative director had just begun.
He closed the folder. The arsenal was loaded. Now he had to decide where to aim the cannons.
Saturday, February 6, 2016 (Night)
Michael closed the "FEBRUARY RELEASES" folder on his desktop. The five MP3 files were there, safe. They were his insurance policy, his ammunition for the coming war.
But he knew audio wasn't enough. He lived in the age of the image. 'Sodium' and 'Lucid Dreams' had taught him that a good video was worth more than ten thousand radio plays.
He took out his physical notebook and turned to a clean page. He wrote: VISUAL STRATEGY.
He started scribbling ideas, his mind switching from "musician" mode to "creative director" mode.
'XO TOUR Llif3': It couldn't be a normal video. The song was too big, too dark. He wrote: Concept: VHS Horror. Arabic subtitles (Virgil style). Darkness. Cole Bennett. He knew he had to call Cole again. He needed that psychedelic editing, but this time he wanted it to be sinister. He wanted it to feel like a cursed tape found in the woods.
'Gucci Gang': He laughed thinking about this. He wrote: Concept: Colorful stupidity. A school. A tiger (if the budget allows). Primary colors. This video had to be a living meme. It had to be so bright and annoying that it was impossible to look away. It had to be the opposite of "XO".
He had the plan. He had the songs.
But then, his gaze drifted to his MacBook screen, where the System interface remained open in the background.
There was a guide shining with a different light. The only one he hadn't touched all week. The only one he had deliberately ignored.
'Diamonds'.
Michael opened the guide. The original artist's name flashed: Rihanna.
Conflict hit him again.
He didn't know what to do with that song.
It was a massive hit. He could hear the melody in his head, powerful, inspiring, a stadium anthem. But it wasn't for him.
Imagining himself singing 'Shine bright like a diamond' with his raspy voice and sad boy aesthetic was ridiculous. It would destroy his brand. It would confuse his fans.
But he couldn't just leave it there. It was a waste of a "Diamond" level resource.
He leaned back in the chair, biting the cap of his pen.
He remembered the System's warning. He remembered he was a "Catalyst", not just a singer.
He realized he had to change hats. He could no longer think only as the artist who goes on stage. He had to think like an executive. Like a producer.
If he couldn't sing it, he had to find the voice that could. The voice that deserved that song.
'I need to find my Rihanna,' he thought. Or maybe... he needed to find this universe's Rihanna.
It was a problem for another day. But the seed was planted. His empire wasn't going to be limited to his own voice. He was going to control the voices of others.
He closed the notebook and turned off the monitor.
"Factory Week" was over. He was exhausted, his whole body ached, and his mind was fried. But he had the full arsenal.
He got up and left the studio, leaving the darkness behind.
Tomorrow he would rest. But Monday... Monday the invasion would begin.
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