Phil didn't look like the big-shot music mogul Leon had pictured. No iced-out chains, no tailored suits. His hair was a mess, and he could've passed for any broke-ass older white dude on the block.
But the energy rolling off him? You could tell the man had been in rooms with real power.
"Phil and I been tight since the '90s," T-Ray said. "Every after-hours spot in Brooklyn still talks about the nights we owned."
"Kid, pay attention. This is the guy who put Avril on the map."
Leon nodded like his neck was on a spring. That Canadian pop queen had gone head-to-head with Britney back in the early 2000s, snagged eight Grammy nominations and still walked away empty every single time — the biggest "what if" in award history.
T-Ray led Leon over to the mixing board. "I already cut the beat. I'm not a pop guy, so Phil's been carrying me these last three days."
That explained the three-day wait — he'd been grinding to get the track ready.
Lyrics set the floor of a song. Touch enough hearts and you'll always get an audience — look at every cheesy heartbreak track on the radio.
But the ceiling? That's all arrangement. A killer intro can drag listeners in before the first word even drops.
"Haven't seen your fat ass work this hard in years," Magnum George joked from the couch. "You ain't even looked at pussy."
Hard?
Leon almost laughed in his face.
In T-Ray's eyes he was a golden-egg goose. Of course the man was moving heaven and earth to squeeze that egg out fast.
"Listen to the track first," T-Ray said. "You wrote it — nobody knows it better than you."
He hit play. The melody filled the studio — restrained in the verses, then exploding in the chorus.
Leon had to admit it: pros were pros. They'd taken his half-drunk description and turned it into something damn near the original.
"I love it. I know the final version is gonna slap."
T-Ray grinned, proud as hell. "This is just the start, bro. Arrangement is way more complicated than it looks. We still got tons of tweaks in post."
"The ceiling depends on what you deliver in the booth."
"Alright, Street Jesus — let's get to work."
First time stepping into a real vocal booth, Leon felt his stomach twist.
He took three slow breaths, slipped on the headphones, and nodded he was ready.
Through the glass, George, T-Ray, and Phil went dead quiet. In the next few minutes they'd find out if the kid from the projects was actually the gold mine they'd been hunting.
Dropping a record isn't magic — it's a full-on factory process.
Arrangement, tuning, video shoots, the artist's actual performance — every piece decides whether the single lives or dies.
Killing it on the street or blowing up online doesn't mean shit in the studio. And it sure as hell doesn't mean you can stand in front of ten thousand screaming fans and still sound like a god.
After twenty-plus years in the game, T-Ray and Phil had watched plenty of kids who looked like legends on the corner turn into ghosts once the red light came on.
My lover's got humor
She's the giggle at a funeral
Leon kept his emotions locked down tight in the opening. Holding back while still hitting every note clean wasn't easy.
Luckily his low register was solid — first half felt good.
Then came the "Amen, amen" prayer part, and the song slammed into that wild, unhinged 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 pure blasphemy against old-school Christian bullshit, dripping with end-of-the-road madness.
That was exactly why it hit the bottom-feeders so hard.
Life had already kicked them in the teeth. Capitalist boot on their necks until they couldn't breathe.
When you're that crushed, the only way out is rebellion. And rebellion pushed far enough turns into straight insanity.
While Leon was lost in the chorus, T-Ray's face kept getting darker.
"Cut!"
"What's wrong?"
"Fuck, man — your high notes are worse than some of the rappers I've carried!" T-Ray frowned, chain-smoking. The cigar was already burning uneven from the heat. "You cracked on that last one, bro. Even with heavy auto-tune we can't hide that shit."
"Run it again!"
Leon nodded and jumped right back in. The final product directly affected his money, so he took every note from T-Ray without complaint.
They did it over and over — fifteen, twenty times. Every single stop came right at the chorus.
Turns out recording is physical as hell. Leon was sweating buckets even with the AC blasting full. His throat burned worse than three rounds with Bonnie on top.
"You're gonna need some vocal training," T-Ray muttered.
"Shit — that eats up time we don't have!"
T-Ray was stressing hard. Money for lessons wasn't the issue, but time was. He glanced at George. One look at the boss's face said patience was running on empty.
"Maybe put a gun to his head and see if he sings better?" George suddenly half-joked.
"Come on, boss, the white boy would probably cry the whole take."
George cracked his neck and shrugged. "I ain't joking. Point a Glock at somebody's skull and they'll do anything."
"You remember that fool last month who tried to rape my cousin in my own club?"
"So I had him jerk off on the DJ booth for a full hour in front of everybody. Stopped for even a second — bullet."
T-Ray froze, not sure what to say. He knew damn well George wasn't playing.
"I don't think vocal technique is the real problem," Phil said, swirling his drink.
"Of course I know that! Even Beyoncé needs tuning, but this kid's highs are straight trash."
Phil stood up and waved it off. "I've seen kids with technique that could hang with Whitney Houston."
"Doesn't mean shit. Most of them still disappear."
"So what are you saying?" T-Ray scratched his head, confused.