Chapter 107: The King of the Imitators
Saturday, March 5, 2016 (9:30 AM)
Michael woke up with his body aching and his throat raw. Chicago's light came through the hotel curtains, projecting golden rectangles onto the rumpled sheets. For a moment, he didn't remember where he was or what day it was.
Then the memories of the night before hit him like a tide.
The show. The tears. The half-confession in front of Karl.
He sat up in bed and checked his phone. The notifications were a chaos of mentions, videos, and articles. The Chicago show was already being catalogued as "historic" by those who had been there. The clips of "The Way I See Things" and "crybaby" were accumulating millions of combined views.
A message from Karl stood out among all the others:
"Complex wants the interview today at 11. It's now or never. Are you ready?"
Michael looked at the time. He had just over an hour to get ready.
He responded with a simple: "I'm ready."
He got out of bed and walked to the bathroom. The mirror returned the image of a teenager with pronounced dark circles, chapped lips, and hair flattened against one side of his head. It wasn't exactly the image of a pop star.
But maybe that was exactly what he needed to show.
---
The interview would take place in a hotel suite, temporarily converted into an improvised set. When Michael arrived, the Complex crew had already installed lights, cameras, and a pair of leather armchairs positioned facing each other.
The interviewer was a man in his thirties, with a trimmed beard and a vintage Wu-Tang Clan t-shirt. He introduced himself as Derek, senior editor of the music section. His handshake was firm but not aggressive.
"Michael, thanks for doing this," Derek said as they settled into the armchairs. "I know last night was intense."
"Every night is intense," Michael replied, adjusting in his seat. He wore a simple black hoodie and dark jeans. No jewelry, no accessories. "But yes, Chicago was special."
The cameras started recording. Derek briefly consulted his notes before beginning.
"Let's start with the obvious. You're sixteen years old, you've been in the industry for less than a year, and you already have a number one on Billboard, a sold-out national tour, and collaborations with directors like Cole Bennett. How do you process all of this?"
Michael considered the question before answering.
"I don't process it," he said honestly. "I don't have time to process it. Every day there's something new to do, something new to create. If I stopped to think about how absurd all of this is, I'd probably be paralyzed."
"Absurd?"
"A year ago I was just any kid. Now I'm here, talking to you, while millions of people listen to my music. That's objectively absurd."
Derek smiled. "Most artists in your position would talk about destiny, hard work, deserving success."
"Hard work is real," Michael conceded. "But deserving success... I don't know. There are thousands of artists working just as hard as me who are never going to have this opportunity. What makes me special? Maybe nothing. Maybe I just got lucky."
It was an unusually humble response for a rapper, and Derek seemed to notice.
---
The interview had flowed for twenty minutes, covering topics like his creative process, his decision to stay independent, and the impact of the Kansas City live. Derek had been respectful but incisive, seeking depth without crossing lines.
Then came the question Michael had been expecting.
"There's something I want to ask you," Derek said, leaning slightly forward. "Since you appeared on the scene, a wave of new artists has emerged who sound... very similar to you. The same autotune style, the same themes of melancholy and drugs, even the same visual aesthetic. Some critics say you're creating an army of imitators."
Michael didn't respond immediately. He let the silence extend for a few seconds.
"And what's the question?" he finally said.
"Does it bother you? Does it frustrate you to see so many people copying what you created?"
Michael leaned back in the armchair, a small smile forming on his lips.
"No," he said. "It doesn't bother me at all."
Derek seemed surprised. "No?"
"In fact, I'd be worried if nobody wanted to copy me."
"Explain that to me."
Michael leaned forward, his eyes meeting the camera directly.
"When you copy, you don't copy the second best. You don't copy the third. When you copy, you make sure to copy the best."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"And right now... I'm the best."
The silence in the room was palpable. Derek blinked, processing the statement.
"That's... quite bold."
"It's the truth," Michael responded without a hint of arrogance in his voice. It was a statement of fact, not of ego. "Look at the numbers. Look at the influence. Look at how the sound of the industry has changed since I appeared. I'm not saying this to brag. I'm saying this because it's the objective reality of the moment."
Derek nodded slowly, taking mental notes.
"So you see the imitators as validation?"
"I see them as a sign that I'm doing something right," Michael replied. "The day nobody wants to sound like me, that will be the day I should worry. Because it will mean I stopped being relevant."
---
Derek took a moment to consult his notes before continuing. Michael's statement about being "the best" had clearly caught him off guard, and he needed to recalibrate his approach.
"Okay," he finally said, "you just said you're the best. But let me ask you something: what does being number one really mean? You have the streaming, you have the numbers, but does that make you... important?"
Michael nodded, as if he had been expecting exactly that question.
"That's what's interesting," he replied, his tone becoming more reflective. "Being number one in streams, having millions of plays... it doesn't actually mean as much as people think."
Derek frowned. "It doesn't? You just said you're the best."
"I'm the best right now, in this specific space. But that's not the same as having real influence." Michael adjusted in the armchair, searching for the right words. "Look, there's a difference between being popular and being important. I have numbers. I have streams. I have a sold-out tour. But you know what I don't have?"
"What?"
"The ability to announce a forty-thousand-person concert and sell out in minutes."
Derek seemed confused. "But your shows sell out..."
"My shows sell out in venues of one thousand, two thousand people. That's incredible—I'm not minimizing it. But it's not the same." Michael paused. "Think about Snoop Dogg. Michael Jackson. Eminem. The Weeknd. Those are artists with real influence. They can fill stadiums in any country in the world just by announcing they're coming. That's power. That's legacy."
"And you aspire to that?"
"I aspire to that," Michael confirmed. "I'm not satisfied with being the viral kid of the moment. I don't want to be a trend that people forget in two years. I want to build something that lasts. Something that matters."
Derek was writing furiously in his notebook.
"So when you say you're the best..."
"I'm saying I'm the best right now, in this specific category," Michael clarified. "But the moment is fragile. Categories change. If I rest on my laurels thinking I've already arrived, someone will surpass me before I realize it."
"That's surprisingly humble coming from someone who just declared himself the best."
Michael smiled. "It's not humility. It's realism. I've seen too many artists believe they're invincible and disappear in a year. I'm not going to be one of them."
---
The conversation had taken a more philosophical tone than Derek probably expected. The interviewer seemed genuinely intrigued by Michael's answers, gradually abandoning his prepared questions to follow the natural flow of the dialogue.
"Let's talk about the haters," Derek said, changing topics. "Because you have a lot of them. For every devoted fan, there's someone on the internet saying your music is garbage, that you have no talent, that you're a manufactured product. How do you handle that?"
Michael laughed softly, a genuine laugh that lit up his face for the first time in the interview.
"Haters are strange," he said, shaking his head. "They're really strange if you think about it."
"Strange how?"
"Look, I have people who say they hate me. That my music is terrible. That I'm a fraud." Michael raised his hands in an exaggerated gesture of confusion. "But those same people... they're there. Always. They see every post I make. They listen to every song I release. They comment on every video. They know more about my life than some of my fans."
Derek nodded, seeing where this was going.
"Think about it," Michael continued. "If I hated an artist, I simply wouldn't listen to them. I wouldn't waste my time following their career, analyzing their lyrics, writing paragraphs about why they're terrible. I would ignore their existence and get on with my life."
"But haters don't do that."
"Exactly. Haters are so focused on my life, my work, every single thing I do... that they seem like my biggest fans." Michael leaned forward with a smile. "It's like they're obsessed with me but can't admit it, so they disguise it as hate."
Derek laughed. "That's an interesting way of looking at it."
"It's the only logical way to look at it," Michael replied. "Hate requires energy. It requires attention. It requires you to invest time from your life in another person. If you really didn't care about someone, you wouldn't spend a single second thinking about them."
"So haters validate you as much as imitators?"
"In a way, yes. Every hateful comment is someone who couldn't ignore me. Every article criticizing me is someone who had to talk about me. In a world where attention is the most valuable currency, haters are constantly investing in me."
Michael leaned back in the armchair, satisfied with his answer.
"Besides, hate is temporary. Music is permanent. In ten years, nobody's going to remember the negative comments. But the songs will still be there."
---
Derek checked his watch. The interview had lasted longer than scheduled, but neither of them seemed to want to end it.
"One last question," Derek said. "And it's about what happened two nights ago. The three AM live. You talked about your parents, about feeling alone, about wondering if your music helps anyone. It was... very different from the image you normally project."
Michael stayed silent for a moment, his expression becoming more serious.
"What's the question?"
"Do you regret doing it? Showing yourself so vulnerable publicly?"
Michael considered the question carefully before answering.
"No," he finally said. "I don't regret it."
"Why not?"
"Because it was the truth." Michael looked directly at the camera. "Look, I can sit here and talk about being the best, about the numbers, about strategy. And all of that is real. But it's also real that at three in the morning, in a hotel room, I feel as alone as any sixteen-year-old kid."
He paused.
"The difference is that I have a platform. And if I can use that platform to make someone else feel less alone, then it's worth showing the ugly parts."
Derek nodded slowly.
"After the live, you received thousands of messages from fans sharing their own stories," he said. "Some pretty dark ones. How do you handle that responsibility?"
"I don't know if I handle it well," Michael admitted. "I read every message I can. I try to respond when I have time. But the truth is I'm not a therapist. I'm not a counselor. I'm a kid who makes music."
"But your music is clearly helping people."
"I hope so." Michael's voice softened. "When I write about feeling empty, about wanting to disappear, about the pain of losing someone... I don't do it to be edgy or sell records. I do it because it's what I feel. And if someone hears that and thinks 'shit, I feel that way too,' then at least they know they're not alone."
He paused.
"That's the only thing I can offer. I don't have answers. I don't have solutions. I just have the honesty to say: I'm broken too. And somehow, we keep going."
---
The cameras stopped recording. Derek stood up from the armchair and extended his hand toward Michael.
"That was incredible," he said as they shook hands. "Seriously. I've interviewed artists with decades of experience who aren't as articulate as you."
"Thanks," Michael replied. "I just told the truth."
"That's exactly what makes it special." Derek smiled. "Most people in your position would be terrified of saying something controversial. You just declared yourself the best and talked about your darkest moments in the same conversation."
Michael shrugged. "What's the worst that can happen? Someone on the internet gets angry? I already have enough haters. A few more aren't going to change anything."
Derek laughed. "That attitude is going to take you far, Michael. Or it's going to destroy you. Probably both."
"Probably," Michael conceded with a smile.
Karl appeared at the suite door, indicating it was time to go. Michael said goodbye to the Complex crew and stepped out into the hotel hallway.
"How did it go?" Karl asked as they walked toward the elevator.
"Good," Michael replied. "I said some things that will probably cause a stir."
"Like what?"
"Like that I'm the best. And that haters are my biggest undercover fans."
Karl stopped dead. "You said that? On camera?"
"On camera. With good lighting and everything."
Karl ran his hand over his face, a mix of exasperation and admiration in his expression.
"Michael, one of these days you're going to give me a heart attack."
"But not today," Michael replied, stepping into the elevator. "Today we have a video to film."
The doors closed. Somewhere in the suite they had just left, the Complex crew was reviewing the footage, knowing they had gold in their hands.
The interview would be published on Sunday.
And the internet would never be the same.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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