Unlike the image of a polished entertainment mogul Leon had in his head, Phil wasn't dripping in jewelry or wearing a bespoke suit. His hair was a mess, and he looked no different from any other old white guy scraping by in this neighborhood.
But the aura he gave off made it clear: this man had seen the world.
"Phil and I go way back to the 90s. We left our mark on every nightclub in Brooklyn."
"Don't blow this chance, kid. Phil is the guy who single-handedly launched Avril Lavigne into stardom!"
Leon nodded repeatedly. The Canadian pop-punk queen had been a massive deal in the early 2000s, at one point rivaling Britney Spears herself.
She had been nominated for eight Grammys but famously never won, making her one of the biggest snubs in the history of the awards.
T-Ray led Leon over to the mixing console. "I've already got the track ready. Pop music isn't exactly my forte, so I have to thank Phil for helping me out these past few days."
It turned out the three-day wait wasn't just for show; T-Ray had been hustling to get the instrumental track done.
The lyrics of a song determine its floor—if they touch people's hearts, you'll always find an audience. That's why cheesy heartbreak ballads are everywhere.
But what truly determines a song's ceiling is the arrangement. A great arrangement pulls the listener in the moment the intro hits.
"Haven't seen you work this hard in ages, man. You haven't even been chasing skirts these past few days," George, the Bloods leader, teased from the side.
Hard work?
Leon scoffed internally.
In T-Ray's eyes, Leon was just a goose laying a golden egg.
Of course he'd work hard to make sure that egg dropped safely.
"Listen to the track first. You wrote the song, so nobody knows it better than you."
T-Ray hit play, and the beautiful melody filled the studio.
The first half was incredibly restrained, building up tension until the chorus, where the emotion exploded.
Leon had to admit, these guys were pros. Relying only on their musical memory and his rough description, they had recreated an instrumental that was shockingly close to the original.
"I'm impressed... I think the final product is going to be amazing!"
Hearing the praise, T-Ray grinned smugly. "This is just the start. Arranging is way more complex than you think. There's still a ton of tweaking to do in post-production."
"But how high this song flies depends on how well you perform."
"Alright, let's get to work, Street Jesus!"
This was Leon's first time stepping into a recording booth, so he was understandably nervous.
He took three deep breaths to center himself, put on the headphones, and got ready to sing.
Behind the glass, George, T-Ray, and Phil held their breath. They were about to find out if Leon was the gold mine they'd been searching for in the slums, or just fool's gold.
Releasing a record isn't just about a flash of inspiration; it's an industrial process.
Arrangement, pitch correction, music video production, the artist's performance...
These are the key factors that determine a record's success.
Going viral online or killing it as a street performer doesn't mean you'll be a great recording artist—let alone a star capable of performing for thousands.
With over 20 years in the industry, T-Ray and Phil had seen plenty of rookies who were incredible on the street but completely flat in the studio.
My lover's got humor
She's the giggle at a funeral
In the opening verses, Leon tried his best to keep his emotions in check. Controlling his pitch while suppressing the emotion wasn't easy.
Fortunately, his grasp of the lower register was solid, and the first half went smoothly.
After the "Amen, amen" chant, he finally hit the high-energy, manic chorus.
Take me to church
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
The chorus was full of provocation against traditional religious doctrine, dripping with the desperate madness of someone at the end of their rope.
This was the core of why the song resonated with the downtrodden.
Life was already poverty-stricken, and the evils of capitalism were suffocating everyone...
The result of repression is resistance. And the ultimate form of resistance is madness.
Just as Leon was immersing himself in the chorus, T-Ray's expression soured.
"Cut! Stop right there!"
"What's wrong?"
"Fk, your high notes are worse than some of the rappers I've worked with!" T-Ray frowned, puffing on his cigar so hard it started to overheat and shrivel. "You cracked. Even with the best pitch correction in the world, we can't fix that flawlessly."
"Do it again!"
Leon nodded and immediately started the second take. The quality of the final product directly affected his paycheck, so he had no complaints about T-Ray's coaching.
He sang it over ten times in a row, and every single time, T-Ray stopped him at the chorus.
Leon hadn't realized recording was such physical labor. It was as exhausting as going a few rounds in bed with a lioness like Bonnie.
Even with the studio AC blasting, sweat beaded on his forehead.
"Looks like you need some vocal coaching..."
"Sht, that's going to eat up a lot of time!"
T-Ray was anxious. At this point, the cost of vocal lessons wasn't the issue—it was the time.
He glanced at the Big Homie, George. From the look on George's face, it was clear the boss didn't have much patience left.
"Maybe if I put a gun to the kid's head, he'll hit the notes?" George, who had been silent until now, suddenly joked—half-seriously.
"Don't joke like that, boss. The white boy would probably be so scared he'd sing the whole thing crying."
George cracked his neck and spread his hands. "I'm not joking. People can do anything when there's a gun to their head."
"You forget that asshole who caused trouble at my club last month? Tried to force himself on my cousin?"
"After I put a Glock to his temple, I made him jerk off on the DJ booth for an hour straight. Told him if he stopped, he'd eat a bullet."
T-Ray froze, not knowing what to say. He knew George was a violent man and that probably wasn't just a joke.
"I don't think vocal technique is the main issue," Phil said, toying with his glass.
"Buddy, I know that! Even Beyoncé uses pitch correction. But this kid's high notes are tragically bad..."
Phil stood up and waved his hand dismissively. "I've seen plenty of young people with excellent vocal chops. Some of them could rival Whitney Houston."
"But very few of them ever make it in this brutal industry."
"What are you getting at?" T-Ray scratched his head, looking confused.