The first reaction after putting on the in-ear monitor is honestly hard to describe. It feels a bit like… floating in space, faintly picking up scattered, fragmented signals that I can't quite make out. Then the weightless sensation throws off my limbs and balance, making everything feel kind of ridiculous.
Of course, this is a pretty personal experience. It might just be because I'm so sensitive to sound that everything gets amplified a few times over, turning it into something exaggerated.
Gulp, gulp.
I can't help but think back to my childhood, when I'd dunk my head in a basin of water to practice holding my breath. I could hear the bubbles moving above my ears, but I couldn't tell if the sounds were coming from outside the water or from me blowing bubbles like a goldfish.
The next second, a smooth, familiar drumbeat and chord progression bursts through the in-ear monitor, hitting my eardrums with no delay—BOOM! BOOM BOOM BOOM! It's like thunder rolling in, shaking the whole world along with it.
Buzz, buzz, buzz.
My hearing blanks out for a moment.
"Yee-yah! Yee-yah!"
I instinctively shout something, not even sure what I'm yelling, and rip off the in-ear monitor to save my buzzing head before my eardrums burst. Turning to Oli, I holler, "Yee-yah, yee-yah!"
Oli jumps, clearly startled too. He scratches at his head, yanks off his own in-ear monitor, and rubs his swollen, almost-exploding ears. His grimace is so over-the-top it's both annoying and hilarious. My anger fizzles out, and when I glance over, I see Maxim and Cliff fumbling just as much. Finally, I can't hold it in anymore and burst out laughing.
The ringing in my ears eventually stops, and Oli's voice—still shaky—finds its rhythm again. "God, I really thought my eardrums were going to shatter. What just happened?"
"Oli-Lov!"
Cliff roars like an angry lion, but then he notices the staff around us staring. He quickly glances around, reins in his temper, and grits out his "scolding" word by word.
"You know! How much! That costs!"
Pfft.
I freeze for half a second, then lose it and laugh out loud. Cliff whips his head around to glare at me. I wave my hands to signal my innocence, but the grin in my eyes gives me away. Eventually, I just give up pretending and let the laughter take over.
"Ronan…" Cliff sighs, exasperated. Then Maxim's laughter joins in from the other side, and Cliff's anger stalls completely.
Oli shrinks back a little and silently mouths "Sorry" to Cliff.
I step in to smooth things over. "Let's get into rehearsal for real. Looks like we've got a lot to get used to and practice."
Cliff gives me a look that says, "I see through your little plan," but I pretend not to notice. Turning toward the stage front, I call out to the sound engineer, "Could you adjust the in-ear volume?"
The sound engineer, Diego-Auston, is tweaking the audio setup. He looks up just in time to catch me shouting at him from the stage. He raises both hands, gesturing for me to "use the mic."
In a venue this big, yelling back and forth with just your voice isn't exactly practical—or smart. The staff use walkie-talkies to communicate, while we on stage can talk through the mics. Of course, in a pinch, raw shouting happens sometimes, but after screaming yourself hoarse, you still end up needing the walkie-talkie or mic to get the job done.
But—
"In-ear volume!" I project my voice with steady breath and power. It's not loud, but it cuts through clearly, delivering the message.
Diego pauses, looking at me on stage. A playful smirk tugs at his lips. He doesn't gesture anymore or say anything extra—just gives me an "OK" sign, adjusts the in-ear volume, and speaks into his own mic.
"How's this?"
I put the in-ear monitor back on and go back and forth with Diego a couple of times until we find the right level. "Ah, ahh," I call into the mic, and my voice slams straight into my head.
It feels so, so, so weird. Really!
It's nothing like I imagined. Normally, I can hear myself when I talk, and I've got a set idea of what my voice sounds like in my head. But this? It's like that's been flipped upside down. The sound hitting my eardrums is completely different—unfamiliar, like I don't even recognize it.
"Who's this?"
And the sound in the in-ear monitor doesn't feel like it's traveling any distance. It just smacks my eardrums directly—no echo, more like a live broadcast synced with my brain. I can feel the different resonances from my chest, nose, and head, like it's breaking down how the human voice works.
Words can't really describe it.
"Hold on, hold on."
I signal for a pause, but hearing that strange yet familiar voice again, I can't help it—I snicker. "This feels so bizarre."
It's not just me. The rest of the band feels it too. The way the sound travels to our ears changes the distance, and that throws off the rhythm and flow in subtle ways. We've got to readjust, or our performance is going to tank.
"Ah. Ahh." I refocus, trying to tune in. Because I'm so sensitive to sound, I need a moment to catch those tiny texture differences. I want to feel my voice before the band's accompaniment kicks in—like singing underwater in a lake, finding the rhythm and pitch.
"Ah. Ahh." I'm still exploring, but just making sounds isn't enough. So, I start singing off the cuff.
"When I see your face, it's flawless perfection, you're so beautiful, just stay the way you are…"
It's Bruno Mars' breakout hit, "Just the Way You Are," still his most popular and well-known song to date.
Unlike Bruno's slightly husky, magnetic tone, my voice has a clear, bright quality—like golden sunlight resting lightly in your palm. A warm spring breeze brushes by, and a smile creeps up without you even noticing. Plus, the way I handle phrasing and breathing has its own flair. Even acapella, the rhythm hides in there, and the clash of syllables flows naturally.
"When you smile, the whole world stops and stares for a while, girl, you're so stunning, just stay the way you are."