Chapter 72: Tours and Dumbbells
Thursday, January 7, 2016 (Morning)
Michael woke up to the sound of an email notification, not an alarm. The morning light streamed through the blinds of his room in the canyon house.
He stretched, feeling the familiar stiffness in his quadriceps. The previous day's leg workout with Amy had been brutal, but the pain no longer bothered him. It felt like progress.
He grabbed his phone from the nightstand.
It wasn't just any email. It was from Karl. The subject line read: "WEEKEND LOCKED - DETAILS".
Michael opened the message. Karl didn't waste time. While Michael slept, his manager had been negotiating.
Immediately after, his phone rang. It was Karl, calling to make sure his artist was awake.
"Good morning, star," said Karl, his voice fast and charged with caffeine. "Did you see the email?"
"I'm reading it now," said Michael, sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes.
"I got you two dates for next week. Two completely different audiences. It's a litmus test for your range."
Michael read the details on the screen while Karl spoke.
"First, Friday the 15th," said Karl. "The Echo in Echo Park. It's an iconic venue, but it's... grungy. It's for the indie crowd, the alternative kids, the skaters. That's where your 'Ghost Boy' base lives."
"Good," said Michael. "I like The Echo."
"And then, Saturday the 16th," continued Karl, with a more excited tone. "Create Nightclub in Hollywood."
Michael raised an eyebrow. Create was a different monster. It was the home of EDM, of champagne bottles with sparklers, and of people who went to see and be seen.
"Create?" asked Michael. "Isn't that too... commercial?"
"Exactly," said Karl. "They have a Funktion-One sound system that will make your 808 sound like an earthquake. And with 'Betrayed' climbing the charts, we need to hit that market. It's more of a club theme. Less feelings, more party."
Michael understood the strategy. Karl was diversifying his portfolio in real-time.
"Okay. Two nights. Two worlds. Let's do it."
"I already sent you the flyers," said Karl. "Post them. The promoters are ready to open sales as soon as you give the signal."
Michael hung up. He opened the image gallery. The designs were elegant, minimalist, following the aesthetic of his "GRAY" brand.
He opened Instagram and Twitter.
He didn't need to write a long paragraph. The image spoke for itself. He uploaded the two posters side by side.
He wrote the caption, simple and direct:
"Two nights. Two vibes. Friday at The Echo. Saturday at Create. Tickets in bio."
He pressed "Post".
He stared at the screen for a few seconds. The reaction was instant. The comments started flowing.
But what caught his attention the most was the speed of clicks on the link in his bio. Tickets were moving fast.
He realized that 'Betrayed' was doing the heavy lifting. The song, with its catchy melody and polished production, was performing strongly on viral Spotify playlists. It was attracting people who would have never listened to 'Paris'.
Michael put the phone down. The machinery was in motion. He had two shows to prepare, and he knew he couldn't play the same setlist for the Echo Park hipsters as for the Hollywood partiers.
He had work to do. But first, he had a date with the iron.
Monday 4 – Wednesday 6 of January, 2016
The week leading up to the show announcement wasn't a blur of parties and excess. It was a masterclass in time management. Michael had stopped being a teenager improvising his life. He had become a machine of efficiency.
His days turned into a rigid grid, a series of time blocks assigned to the different facets of his growing empire.
Monday: The Price of Legitimacy
On Monday afternoon, Michael's living room, which was normally the domain of Sam's PS4, became a makeshift boardroom.
Harris arrived promptly at 3:00 PM. But this time he didn't come alone. He brought a short, bald man with wire-rimmed glasses and a worn leather briefcase.
"Michael," said Harris, "this is Mr. Perkins. He's the firm's accountant. We need to talk about taxes."
Michael sat on the floor (he still hadn't bought furniture, a conscious decision to maintain his "war" mentality). They spent the next three hours reviewing spreadsheets.
It was the most boring afternoon of his life, but also the most necessary.
"Gray Matter, LLC" was no longer an empty shell. It had income from the house sale, massive equipment expenses, YouTube and SoundCloud earnings, and payments to contractors (Karl, T-Roc, Cole).
"You have to declare this as a deductible expense," Perkins explained, pointing to the Neumann microphone invoice. "And this, the $500 to your friends... technically it's informal labor, but we can pass it as 'event production expenses' under the reporting threshold."
Michael listened, nodded, and signed where he was told.
While Perkins talked about IRS withholdings for the next quarter, Michael sneakily took out his phone under the table.
He opened his wallet. ETH: $0.96.
The price remained stable. His secret fortune was safe. He returned to the meeting, feeling the strange duality of his existence: worrying about deducting a $700 dollar microphone while holding almost a million in hidden cryptocurrency.
Tuesday: Seeds of the Future
Tuesday was for art. But not for immediate art.
Michael knew he had to maintain the hype with 'Betrayed' and the live shows, but his strategist mind was already in 2017.
He locked himself in his studio from 10:00 AM to 6:00 PM. He didn't open his social media. He didn't answer Karl.
He opened a folder on his hard drive called "FUTURE PROJECTS".
Inside, he created a new Ableton session: jocelyn_flores_pre_prod.
He knew he couldn't release that song yet. It was too raw, too painful for his current "hype" moment. But he wanted to have the foundation ready.
He spent the day cleaning the Shiloh Dynasty sample. The original recording was noisy, full of artifacts. Michael used audio restoration tools to isolate the voice and guitar, removing unwanted hiss but keeping the emotional texture.
It was surgical work. He didn't record anything new. He just prepared the ground. It was like an architect drawing the blueprints for a building that wouldn't be built for another year.
At the end of the day, he listened to the clean loop of Shiloh singing "I know you so well...".
He smiled. The song was dormant, waiting for the moment when the world (and he himself) was broken enough to need it.
Wednesday: The Show Update
On Wednesday, the noise returned to the house.
T-Roc arrived at noon. The mercenary DJ walked in with his usual cap and a coffee in hand.
"I heard the new song," said T-Roc, referring to 'Betrayed'. "It's pop. I like it. The girls are gonna love it."
"We need to put it in the set," said Michael.
They spent the afternoon reconfiguring the live show. The original Observatory setlist had worked perfectly, but now they had a powerful new piece.
"Don't put it at the end," suggested T-Roc, his fingers flying over the Pioneer controller as they tested transitions. "Put it after 'White Iverson'. You keep the melodic energy high before dropping them into the 'Paris' pit."
They tested the transition.
The end of 'White Iverson' ("Ooh, ooh...") faded out. And then, T-Roc dropped the bells of 'Betrayed'.
Ding... ding-ding...
The blend was perfect. The key matched. Michael practiced his entries, making sure his Auto-Tuned voice was in the right key for the new song.
"That's money," said T-Roc, nodding to the beat. "That transition is going to make people pull out their phones instantly."
The General Routine: The Anchor
Through these days, there was a constant that kept Michael sane: discipline. Amy, his accidental trainer, had gotten into his head.
Michael had thrown the junk food out of his fridge. Now, his meals were boring and functional: grilled chicken, brown rice, broccoli. He ate not for pleasure, but for fuel.
He slept a fixed six hours. He went to bed at 1 AM and got up at 7 AM.
This strict routine —taxes, production, rehearsal, diet— had an unexpected side effect.
The Ethereum anxiety diminished.
It didn't disappear. The tic of checking the price was still there. But it no longer paralyzed him. He was too busy building his current life to obsess every second over his future life.
Work had become his therapy. And it was working.
When Thursday morning arrived, the day of the announcement, Michael didn't feel like a lucky kid. He felt like a professional who had done his homework.
He was ready.
Thursday, January 7, 2016 (Afternoon)
After sending the final confirmation emails and letting Karl fight with the Create lighting designers, Michael closed his laptop. His mind was exhausted from logistics, but his body was restless.
He changed clothes, putting on his gym uniform: gray sweatpants, a simple black t-shirt, and the inevitable hoodie.
He drove his Corolla to "24 Hour Fitness".
Upon entering, he noticed that Amy's prediction was coming true. The gym was still full, but it was no longer the zoo of January 4th. Some of the New Year's "tourists" had already given up.
There was room to breathe.
He headed to the free weights area.
Amy was there, like clockwork. She was finishing a set of deadlifts, lifting a bar loaded with 45-pound plates with an ease that was both intimidating and admirable.
She dropped the bar with a thud and dried her hands with chalk. She saw Michael approaching.
"Right on time," she said, without greeting formally. She offered a closed fist.
Michael bumped her fist. "Discipline, right?"
"Exactly. Today is leg day, Mike. I hope you don't have plans to dance tonight."
Michael smiled. "Just sitting."
They started warming up. While they stretched, the conversation flowed easily. They didn't talk about music, or virality, or Ethereum.
Michael discovered that Amy was about 20 years old. She was in her third year of college, studying Kinesiology.
"I want to dedicate myself to sports rehabilitation," she explained as they loaded the leg press. "Work with real athletes. Not just yell at middle-aged people to lose weight."
"Is that why you work here?" asked Michael.
"It pays the bills and gives me free access to the machines. It's a fair trade." She looked at him. "And you? You've never told me what you do. Aside from coming here to suffer."
Michael hesitated for a second. He could tell her: "I'm Michael Demiurge. I have 20 million plays and I'm playing two clubs this weekend."
But he looked at Amy's face. There was no recognition in her eyes. No hidden interest. To her, he was just Mike, the skinny kid trying to improve.
He liked that. It was the only place in his life where he wasn't a brand.
"I work with sound," said Michael, vaguely. "Editing, technical stuff. I spend a lot of time sitting in front of a computer."
"Ah, a tech nerd," joked Amy. "That explains the 'shrimp' posture you had the first day. We're going to fix that."
They started the workout. Squats.
Michael put the bar on his shoulders. The weight wasn't much, but the mechanics were difficult. He went down, controlling the movement. His quads burned.
"Deeper," ordered Amy. "Break parallel. Don't cheat."
Michael gritted his teeth and went lower. His legs shook on the way up.
"Good. That's it. Breathe."
They did four sets. Then they moved to the press. Then extensions.
Michael was soaked in sweat. The pain was intense, a lactic burn rising up his thighs. At any other time, he would have given up. He would have said "enough".
But Amy was there, observing every repetition with a clinical eye. She didn't let him give up, but she didn't let him get hurt either.
They finished with lunges walking down the gym aisle. Michael felt his legs were jelly.
"And... time," said Amy.
Michael leaned against a column, panting. Amy laughed, patting him on the back.
"Not bad, Mike. Seriously. You have better balance than I thought."
"I feel like I'm going to fall," admitted Michael.
"That's normal. But your form was solid," she said, nodding approvingly. "You no longer look like wet spaghetti when you squat. You look like someone who has a structure."
Michael laughed between gasps. "Thanks. I think."
"It's a compliment," she said, winking at him. "Keep it up and in three months you'll have to buy new pants."
They stood there for a moment, sharing the comfortable silence of post-workout.
For Michael, those forty minutes were sacred. There were no "haters". No price charts. Only gravity and effort. Amy was his anchor to physical reality, a friend who wanted nothing from him except for him to keep his back straight.
"See you tomorrow," said Michael, picking up his water bottle.
"Tomorrow is active recovery or cardio," warned Amy. "But yeah, see you. Go eat something."
Michael walked out of the gym, walking strangely, legs stiff. Everything hurt. But as he walked toward his car, he felt stronger than when he entered.
Thursday, January 7, 2016 (Night)
Michael returned home with an aching body but a sharp mind. The workout with Amy had given him a mental clarity that caffeine no longer provided.
He showered, ate his "clean" food (which tasted like cardboard) and went up to his studio.
The date was approaching. Next weekend he had two battles. And he knew he couldn't use the same strategy for both.
He sat in front of his MacBook. He opened two new notes on the screen.
THE ECHO (Friday) vs. CREATE (Saturday).
He knew the places.
The Echo in Echo Park was the home of hipsters, skaters, kids who listened to indie rock and sought "authenticity". They hated commercial. They hated polished.
Create Nightclub in Hollywood was the opposite. It was bottles with sparklers, high heels, men in expensive suits, and tourists looking for the party of their lives. They wanted bangers. They wanted bass that moved their internal organs.
'I can't play the same set,' thought Michael. 'If I play 'Star Shopping' at Create in the middle of the night, they're going to throw bottles at me. If I play 'Gucci Gang' (if I had it ready) at The Echo, they're going to boo me for selling out.'
He started typing, designing the experience.
List 1: The Echo (Friday 15) Focus: Atmosphere and Pain.
'Ghost Boy' (Intro)
'Star Shopping'
'Life Is Beautiful' (This was key here. The cynical lyrics would resonate with them).
'Sodium' (For the lo-fi aesthetic).
'Drugs You Should Try It' (The artistic climax).
'White Iverson' (The mandatory closing, the only allowed commercial hit).
He looked at the list. It was solid. It was emotional. It was "real".
Then, he moved to the second note.
List 2: Create Nightclub (Saturday 16) Focus: Energy and Bass.
'Look At Me!' (Start with violence to wake them up).
'Boss' (The flex anthem).
'Paris' (For the mosh pit, if people in heels could do one).
'Sodium' (For the narcotic break).
'White Iverson' (The club anthem).
He was missing a song for the Hollywood set. He looked at his "WEAPONS" folder.
There it was. 'Betrayed'.
He listened to it again. The catchy bells. The round 808. The lyrics about drugs and betrayal.
'Perfect,' he thought.
'Betrayed' was too pop for The Echo. But for Create... for a club full of people pretending to be rich and happy... it was the ideal soundtrack.
He added 'Betrayed' to the Create setlist, right before 'White Iverson'. It would be the melodic moment of the night.
With the lists defined, Michael prepared the sessions.
He connected an external hard drive. Created two separate folders for T-Roc: SET_ECHO and SET_CREATE.
He exported the live versions of each song, making sure the levels were perfect.
When he finished, he ejected the hard drive and put it in his backpack.
He leaned back in the chair. His legs throbbed from the squats, but he felt good.
The machinery was oiled. He had the body under construction, the legal team working on samples, the hidden money growing in Dubai, and the perfect strategy to conquer Los Angeles in a weekend.
He turned off the studio lights. He was ready.
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