Chapter 40: The Ghost Tour
Early November 2015
Michael was in his studio. The success of the impromptu 'White Iverson' party video had been a surprise. The local fame was strange, but the avalanche of new followers was undeniable.
He felt on a roll. He had just released five songs that covered a huge emotional spectrum, from the loneliness of 'Ghost Boy' to the cynicism of 'Life Is Beautiful' and the commercial vibe of 'White Iverson'.
It was time to take the next step. It was time to show them his true power.
He opened his "Founder's Pack" in the System interface. His gaze settled on the song that represented the next level of aggression: 'Paris' by $uicideboy$.
He remembered the beat. It was oppressive, dark, almost industrial. It was the sound of a doomsday alarm. It was the polar opposite of the laid-back melody of 'White Iverson'.
He loved the contrast.
He prepared the base. He spent an entire afternoon looking for dark and distorted samples. He programmed the 808 to hit with brutal aggression, distorting it until it sounded broken and menacing.
The beat was ready. It sounded powerful.
He got into the recording booth. He put on the headphones. The beat started.
'Triple six, five, nine...'
He opened his mouth to let out the first line with the raw, screamed energy it required. And what came out was a pathetic croak.
He coughed, a dry, rasping cough that scratched his throat. He cleared it. He tried again.
'Triple six...'
His voice cracked. It had no strength. He felt weak, congested. A sudden chill ran down his spine, even though the room was warm.
He stopped.
He touched his forehead. He was burning up.
'It can't be,' he thought with frustration.
He didn't feel quite right.
The routine of the last few weeks had finally caught up with him. The stress of the house sale. The sleepless nights working on music. The parties with Jake. The constant anxiety about Ethereum. His body, the body of a 16-year-old kid, was protesting.
He felt sick.
He knew there was no way he could record the aggressive energy 'Paris' needed. Not when he could barely speak without his voice cracking.
Frustrated, he stepped out of the booth. He saved the 'Paris' project. He couldn't force it.
He turned off the Neumann, turned off the monitors. He decided to rest.
The problem was that he hated resting. He hated silence. He hated not being productive.
Michael got up from his studio chair. The frustration of not being able to record 'Paris' mixed with the physical malaise of his illness. He felt congested, weak, and above all, incredibly bored.
He slumped onto the mattress in his room, the only piece of furniture in there. He looked at the ceiling. The house was silent.
Before, silence was his refuge. Now, without the energy to work, it was a cage.
He grabbed his phone out of habit. Checked the price of Ethereum. Up two cents. He closed the app.
He opened Twitter. Saw people discussing his 'Sodium' video. Saw fans asking for new music.
He spent time on social media, scrolling aimlessly. He saw the avalanche of comments and questions from his new 15k Instagram followers. People asking about his gear, his guitar, about him.
He felt completely disconnected from that person, "Michael Demiurge", that they were creating.
On an impulse, a mix of boredom and a strange need to connect, he opened Instagram. He saw the "Go Live" button.
'Why not?' he thought. 'I have nothing better to do.'
Without thinking much about it, he pressed the button.
He went live on Instagram.
He pointed the camera at his face. He looked terrible. He was pale under his tan skin, his eyes were red and puffy from the illness, and his hair was messy. He was in his bed, hoodie on.
Instantly, the numbers started to climb. 100 viewers. 500. 1,000.
The chat started moving at an unreadable speed.
"IT'S HIM!!!" "You're alive!" "Are you okay, dude? You look sick."
Michael let out a nasal, congested laugh. "Hi," he said, his voice raspy. "Yeah, I'm sick as a dog. And I'm bored. So... hi."
The people in the chat went crazy. The fact that he was sick, in his bed, being so normal, was the most unreal thing they had seen. Thousands of people had joined in less than a minute.
And then, the same question started repeating, over and over again.
"Show us your house!" "Crib tour!" "Where do you live?"
Michael read the requests. An ironic smile drew across his face. 'They want to see my house? My rockstar mansion?'
"You want a tour..." he said to the camera, his voice full of amusement. "Okay. Don't expect much. I'm warning you it's pretty... minimalist."
With a groan of effort, he got out of bed. The phone shook a little as he stood up. He flipped the camera.
"Well, this is my room," he said, his voice monotone. "As you can see, it really doesn't have much. It's... a bed."
The camera showed the almost empty room. A mattress on the floor in a corner. A single floor lamp. And a pile of black hoodies on a chair.
The chat filled with laughing and confused emojis. "Where are the platinum records?"
"Okay, moving on," Michael said, walking down the empty hallway.
He entered the living room. "Here is where... the magic happens, I guess."
He panned the camera to show an almost completely empty room. An old, worn-out sofa he probably found on Craigslist. And on the floor, in front of a 90s tube TV, was Sam's PS4 with a tangle of cables.
"Dude, you got the PS4!" "That TV is older than me!" "Where is your furniture?"
Michael laughed again. "Furniture is for people who have time to sit down."
He walked to the kitchen. It was just as depressing. "The kitchen. It has a fridge. And... that's it."
His fans were losing their minds. The mysterious Michael Demiurge, the guy singing about 'White Iverson' and "AMG Mercedes", lived like a broke college student. Almost everything was empty.
"You guys think I'm making millions," Michael said, his voice raspy. "And you're right. I'm making... dozens of dollars a month on YouTube." It was a joke, but his fans didn't know that.
"But seriously," he said, walking back down the hallway. "I'll show you where all the money is. Where everything is, is in the studio."
He opened the door to the second room.
The difference was immediate. The chat went silent for a second.
The room was impeccably organized. The walls covered in black acoustic panels. They saw the glow of his MacBook Pro, the red light of the Apollo Twin interface. They saw the large Yamaha HS8 monitors. And in the center, on its stand, they saw the iconic Neumann microphone.
"OMG, THAT GEAR!" "He has a Neumann!" "That is my dream studio!" "He spent all his money on the studio! What a legend!"
Michael smiled. They understood. He sat in his Herman Miller chair, feeling a little better.
"This is where I live," he said, his voice more serious now. "The house is empty because I don't care. This is the only thing I care about."
Michael sat in his Herman Miller chair. The Instagram live chat was going crazy. His fans were losing their minds seeing the level of his equipment, contrasted with his mattress on the floor.
"HE SPENT ALL HIS MONEY ON THE STUDIO! WHAT A LEGEND!" "That Neumann is my dream." "Dude, play something. Make a beat!"
Michael laughed, the sound still raspy. "I'm not gonna make a beat right now. I'm sick. But..." he hesitated for a second. The adrenaline of the attention, combined with his illness, made him feel impulsive.
"I was working on something before I got sick," he said, turning the phone camera toward his MacBook Pro screen. "It's not finished. It doesn't even have vocals. But... what the hell."
He opened the Ableton project: paris_v1_beat.
"Warning," he said to the camera. "It's nothing like 'White Iverson'."
He hit the spacebar.
A silence. And then, the 'Paris' beat hit.
The dark, distorted sample filled the live audio. The 808 bass, aggressive and sounding like a doomsday alarm, rumbled even through the phone speakers. The hi-hats were fast, manic.
It sounds very different from everything else he has released. It's scary. It's aggressive. It's the sound of an abandoned warehouse at 4 in the morning.
He let it play for thirty seconds, a loop of pure sonic aggression.
The reaction in the chat was instant and chaotic.
"WHAT IS THAT?" "SOUNDS LIKE SATAN!!!" "DROP THAT NOW!!" "OMG YES!!!" "It scared me, what's wrong with him?" "This is the hardest thing I've ever heard."
Michael smiled. He had created the anticipation. He stopped the music.
"Yeah, it's... intense," he said, turning the camera back to his face. "Soon. When I feel better."
He started reading the chat. He answered a few simple questions while coughing.
"Why do you live like that?"
"Because furniture is expensive and microphones are more important."
"When is your next show?"
"Soon. I'll announce it soon."
He felt tired. The brief rush of adrenaline was fading, replaced by the weight of his illness.
"Okay," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I feel like shit. I need to sleep. Thanks for stopping by. Take care."
He ended the live.
He stared at the black screen of his phone. He had achieved, unintentionally, three things.
He humanized himself to his fans, showing them he got sick and was poor like them.
He reinforced his image as an "authentic" artist, someone who literally spends all his money on his art.
And, most importantly, he had just created massive hype for his next, darker sound.
He turned off the phone and slumped onto the bed. The world was now hungry for 'Paris'.
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