Chapter 115: The Hangover of Glory
Tuesday, March 15, 2016 (11:00 AM)
Michael woke up in the Manhattan hotel suite with the feeling that he had been hit by a truck. His body ached in places he didn't know could ache. His throat, though not destroyed like after Detroit, had that familiar hoarseness that had become his constant companion.
But there was a smile on his face.
New York had been everything he expected and more. Clips from the show were already circulating online, accumulating millions of views. "XO TOUR Llif3" at Terminal 5 was being called "the moment of the year" by music blogs that normally ignored emerging artists.
He sat up in bed and checked his phone. The notifications were an endless tsunami.
A message from Karl stood out:
"Rolling Stone wants an interview. Billboard too. And we got a call from Interscope asking if you'd be interested in signing a distribution deal. Call me when you wake up."
Michael read the message three times.
Rolling Stone. Billboard. Interscope.
Six months ago he was a nameless kid in a world that wasn't his own. Now the most important magazines in the industry wanted to talk to him, and one of the biggest labels wanted to do business.
'This is real', he thought. 'This is really happening.'
---
(1:00 PM)
Karl arrived at the suite with his tablet and two coffees. He sat across from Michael and started laying out the data without preamble.
"Okay, the numbers from last night," he said. "The show was recorded by approximately 60% of the audience. The combined clips have more than twenty million views in less than twelve hours."
"Twenty million?"
"Twenty million. The 'XO TOUR Llif3' clip alone has eight. 'Betrayed' has four. And there's a video of you saying 'Thank you for believing in me when no one else did' that has three million and is making people cry in all the comments."
Michael took a sip of coffee, processing the information.
"And the songs on streaming?"
"'Hope' crossed ten million. 'XO TOUR Llif3' had a 40% spike after the show. 'Betrayed' went up 25%." Karl paused. "And there's something else."
"What?"
"'Lucid Dreams' is back at number one on Spotify. People who went to the show last night are listening to your complete catalog. It's like New York rebooted your career."
Michael set the coffee on the table and looked out the window at the Manhattan skyline.
"It didn't reboot anything," he said. "It just confirmed what we already knew. That this is real. That I'm not going anywhere."
---
(3:00 PM)
Michael's phone rang with the specific tone he had assigned to Harris. He answered immediately.
"Harris. What's up?"
"What's up? What's up?" Harris's voice sounded unusually animated. "I just saw the clips from last night! Michael, that was incredible. Absolutely incredible."
Michael smiled. Harris rarely showed enthusiasm for anything that wasn't numbers and contracts.
"Thanks. It was a good night."
"Good? It was historic." Harris paused. "But I'm not calling just to congratulate you. I have updates."
"I'm listening."
"First, Ethereum. It went up to $13.20 this morning. Your position is at $5.94 million."
Michael nodded. The ETH numbers kept climbing, exactly as he knew they would.
"Second, the Dubai structure is almost ready. The lawyers say we can do the initial transfer in April. That gives us a month to prepare everything."
"How much in the initial transfer?"
"They recommend starting with $500,000 to test the system. If everything works correctly, we move the rest in tranches over the following months."
"Good. Anything else?"
"Yes." Harris's voice became more serious. "Michael, the tour revenue is coming in. After expenses, you're generating approximately $40,000 per show. With the remaining shows, you're going to finish the tour with almost half a million more."
Michael did the mental math. Half a million from the tour, plus the almost six million in Ethereum, plus the streaming royalties that kept accumulating...
"What's my total net worth right now?"
"Counting everything, including projections of pending royalties..." Harris typed something. "You're approaching seven million dollars."
Seven million. At sixteen years old. In less than a year.
"Thanks, Harris. Keep me informed about Dubai."
"I will. And Michael... enjoy the moment. You've earned it."
The call ended. Michael sat looking at the phone in his hand.
Seven million was impressive. But it was just the beginning. He knew what was coming with Ethereum. He knew what was coming with his career. Today's seven million would be a fraction of what he'd have in a few years.
But that was the future. Today, he had to focus on the present.
---
(5:00 PM)
Karl returned to the suite with news.
"I talked to the Interscope executive," he said, sitting on the couch. "They're serious about the proposal."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "What do they have in mind?"
"A distribution deal. They don't want to sign you as a traditional artist—they know you value your independence. What they're proposing is that they handle physical distribution and radio promotion, while you maintain complete creative control and the majority of the royalties."
"What percentage?"
"They're offering 70-30 in your favor. It's unusually generous, but they say they understand you're a special case."
Michael considered the proposal. A distribution deal with Interscope was exactly the type of move that could catapult him to the next level without sacrificing his independence. He'd have access to the machinery of one of the biggest labels in the world, but without the typical restrictions of a traditional contract.
But it was also a commitment. Once he signed, he'd be tied to them for a set period.
"How many years do they want?"
"Three albums or five years, whichever comes first."
"Tell them I'm interested," he finally said. "But I want to see the full terms before committing to anything. And I want Harris to review everything with a fine-tooth comb."
Karl nodded. "I can get the draft contract by tomorrow."
"Do it. But make it clear: I'm not signing anything until the tour ends. I don't want distractions."
---
(11:00 PM)
Michael shouldn't have gone out. His voice needed rest, his body needed recovery, and he had Philadelphia in two days. But something in him needed to celebrate. New York had been a triumph, and he wanted to feel the city at night, not from a hotel window.
T-Roc knew a place in Brooklyn. A small club, discreet, where industry people went to relax without paparazzi harassing them. Michael put on a black hoodie with the hood pulled low, dark jeans, and went out with T-Roc and Big Rob as silent escort.
The club was called "The Velvet Room." Dim lights, lo-fi music playing from the speakers, and a mix of producers, underground artists, and executives drinking in private booths.
Michael settled into a corner with a glass of sparkling water (he wasn't going to risk his voice with alcohol) and observed the atmosphere. It was strange being in a place like this, surrounded by people who probably didn't recognize him, after having sung for thirty-five hundred people the night before.
"Yo! Are you Demiurge?"
Michael looked up. A kid his age, maybe a year older, was standing in front of him. He had bright red dyed hair, tattoos climbing up his neck, and an energy that seemed to vibrate even when standing still.
"Yeah," Michael replied. "And you are...?"
"Trippie. Trippie Redd." The kid smiled, showing teeth with gold grillz. "Bro, your show last night was insane. I was there. I almost died when you sang 'XO TOUR Llif3.'"
Michael was surprised. "You were at the show?"
"On the second floor. I snuck in, not gonna lie." Trippie laughed. "But it was worth every second. Your energy is different, bro. I've never seen anything like it."
"Thanks, man. Do you make music too?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm just starting out, nobody knows me yet, but I've got a couple things I think are good." Trippie paused, as if deciding whether to say the next thing. "Hey, I've got a studio a few blocks from here. Nothing fancy, but it works. Wanna come by? I'd love to show you what I'm working on. And if you have anything new, I'd like to hear it."
Michael looked at T-Roc, who shrugged as if to say "your call."
"Why not?" Michael said. "Let's go."
---
Wednesday, March 16, 2016 (12:30 AM)
Trippie's "studio" was a small apartment in Bushwick, with foam mattresses glued to the walls for sound absorption and a production setup that probably cost less than one of Michael's headphones. But there was something authentic about the place. Something real.
"It's humble, but it's mine," Trippie said, turning on the equipment. "This is where I cook."
Michael sat in a rickety chair and watched as Trippie loaded some projects on his laptop.
"This is something I've been working on," Trippie said, pressing play.
A melancholic beat filled the small space. Trippie's voice emerged, raw and emotional, with a unique tone Michael hadn't heard before. It was as if pain and hope were battling in every note.
"It's good," Michael said when the demo ended. "Your voice has something special. That raspy, emotional thing... it's genuine."
Trippie smiled. "Thanks, bro. You got anything new? Something you haven't released yet?"
Michael hesitated for a second. Then he pulled out his phone and connected the headphones to Trippie's system.
"This is something I've been working on. It's called 'Fuck Love.'"
He pressed play.
The beat came in soft, melancholic, with guitars crying in the background. And then the main melody, that melody Michael had heard in the System's guide and had recreated note by note.
Trippie stood motionless, his eyes closing as he absorbed every sound.
"Bro," he whispered when the demo ended. "That's... that's incredible. You got lyrics for that?"
"Yeah. I have them complete."
"Can we record it? Right now?"
Michael looked at the humble setup, the foam walls, the microphone that probably cost a hundred dollars. It was the opposite of the professional studios where he normally worked.
But there was magic in this place. The same magic he had felt when he started making music in his bedroom.
"Let's do it."
---
(1:00 AM)
The recording took less than an hour. Michael knew the song so well he barely needed multiple takes. But what started as a solo session became something more.
"Hey," Michael said after listening to the instrumental demo. "Your voice has something special. That raspy, melodic tone... Why don't you sing the chorus with me?"
Trippie looked at him surprised. "For real?"
"For real. I do the verse, you do the chorus and post-chorus. I think our voices are going to complement each other."
Trippie didn't need to be told twice. He put on the headphones and Michael explained the chorus melody to him.
They recorded Trippie's part first. His voice filled the small studio with raw emotion:
'Baby, I need you in my life, in my life'
'Please, bae, don't go switchin' sides, switchin' sides'
'I swear this is where you reside, you reside'
'Please, bae, don't go switchin' sides, switchin' sides'
'Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah'
Then the post-chorus, with that vulnerability that made Trippie's voice unique:
'Ooh-ooh, please don't throw your love away, huh'
'Please don't throw your love away, huh'
'Please don't throw your love away, huh'
'Yeah, ayy'
"Perfect," Michael said. "Now my part."
He put on the headphones and let the instrumental envelop him. When his moment came, his voice emerged with an intensity that made Trippie lean back in his chair:
'I'm nauseous, I'm dyin''
'She ripped my heart right out'
'Can't find her, someone to—'
'My eyes are all cried out'
'Lost it, riots'
'Gunfire inside my head'
'I've lost it, riots'
'Gunfire inside my head'
The song went back to Trippie's chorus, their voices now intertwined in the mix:
'Baby, I need you in my life, in my life'
'Please, bae, don't go switchin' sides, switchin' sides'
'I swear this is where you reside, you reside'
'Please, bae, don't go switchin' sides, switchin' sides'
'Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah'
And the final post-chorus, with both voices blending:
'Ooh-ooh, please don't throw your love away, huh'
'Please don't throw your love away, huh'
'Please don't throw your love away, huh'
'Yeah, yeah, ye—'
When the last note faded, both of them sat in silence for several seconds.
"Bro," Trippie finally said, his voice barely a whisper. "That was... that was one of the most beautiful things I've ever done in my life."
Michael took off the headphones and smiled. "Thanks for the studio, Trippie. And for your voice. This wouldn't be the same without you."
"What are you gonna do with the song?"
Michael thought about it. The song was his, he had practically created it from nothing using the System's guide. But Trippie had contributed something real, something that made the song better.
"I'm keeping it," he said. "It's my song, I have the rights. But..." he pulled a USB from his pocket and copied the file. "Here. A copy for you. For letting me use your studio. For your voice. For the vibe of tonight."
Trippie took the USB as if it were a sacred object.
"For real?"
"For real. Just don't publish it or anything without talking to me first. But I want you to have it. So you remember tonight."
"And if I release it someday? With your permission?"
Michael smiled. "When I release it, you're going to be on it. I promise you that. But the timing has to be right."
Trippie nodded, carefully putting the USB in his pocket.
"Thanks, Demiurge. Really."
"Michael. My friends call me Michael."
Trippie smiled. "Thanks, Michael. This means a lot."
They hugged, the kind of hug only two people who just created something together can share.
"Stay in touch," Michael said as he headed for the door. "You've got talent, Trippie. The world is gonna hear your name soon."
"You too, bro. Though the world's already hearing yours."
Michael stepped out into the cold of the Brooklyn early morning, with T-Roc and Big Rob waiting for him on the sidewalk.
New York had given him one more thing before he left: a song recorded in an improvised studio, an unexpected collaboration, and a reminder of why he'd started making music in the first place.
Not for the stadiums. Not for the millions.
For moments like this.
---
Tuesday, March 15, 2016 (8:00 PM)
Michael was alone in his suite, looking at the itinerary for the rest of the tour:
Philadelphia (March 17) Washington DC (March 18) Atlanta (March 20) Miami (March 22) Houston (March 24) Dallas (March 25) Los Angeles (March 27) - FINAL
Seven more shows. Seven cities. Seven opportunities to connect with more people.
Los Angeles was the final. The biggest show, at the most prestigious venue on the West Coast. The Shrine Auditorium, with capacity for six thousand people. Double New York.
'From Phoenix with fifteen hundred to Los Angeles with six thousand', he thought. 'In less than a month.'
It was absurd growth. An ascent that normally took years compressed into weeks. But Michael wasn't a normal artist. He had advantages no one else had.
He opened his laptop and checked the status of the songs in production:
SONGS READY TO RECORD VOCALS:
- Lo Que Siento (beat 100%)
- Falling Down (beat 95%)
- Benz Truck (beat 100%)
- White Wine (beat 90%)
- Gym Class (beat 85%)
RECORDED SONGS NOT YET RELEASED:
- Jocelyn Flores
- I'm Gonna Be
- Awful Things
NEXT PLANNED RELEASE:
- "Jocelyn Flores" - tentative date: after the tour
'Jocelyn Flores after the tour', he decided. 'It's too heavy to release while I'm in tour mode. It needs its own moment.'
The song was a tribute. A farewell. A scream of pain that Michael knew would resonate with millions of people. But he couldn't release it in the middle of tour chaos. It needed silence for people to really hear it.
---
(11:00 PM)
The Prevost was loaded and ready to head to Philadelphia. Michael was in his suite on the bus, watching the lights of Manhattan disappear through the rear window.
New York had been a turning point. Not just because of the size of the show or the audience's reaction, but because of what it meant. He had conquered the hardest city in the country. He had proven he could fill a thirty-five-hundred-person venue and leave them wanting more.
But more importantly, he had proven something to himself.
'I can do this', he thought. 'Not just survive. Dominate.'
He pulled out his notebook and wrote:
"New York, March 14, 2016.
3,500 people. Biggest show yet. Betrayed with red lights. XO TOUR Llif3 as closer. 10-minute applause.
Things I learned:
Venue size doesn't change the connection. It only amplifies what's already there. NYC people are different. More critical. Harder to impress. But when you conquer them, they're yours forever. I'm ready for Los Angeles.
Current net worth: ~$7M
Ethereum: 450,000 ETH @ $13.20 = $5.94M
Shows remaining: 7
Songs ready to release: 3
Songs in production: 5
The plan remains intact. Execution remains perfect. The only limit is myself."
He closed the notebook and put it in his backpack.
Philadelphia tomorrow. Then DC. Then the South. And finally, Los Angeles.
The final stretch had begun.
---
Wednesday, March 16, 2016 (12:30 AM)
The bus was crossing the darkness of New Jersey when Michael's phone vibrated with a message from Amy:
"I saw the NYC clips. I have no words. Just... wow. I'm so proud of you, Michael. Of everything you've accomplished. Of the person you're becoming. Take care of yourself in Philadelphia. And remember: your voice is your instrument. Don't destroy it for one night of glory."
Michael smiled and replied:
"Thanks, Amy. For everything. For believing in me when I was just a kid with a stupid dream. For keeping me grounded when everything feels unreal. I wouldn't be here without you."
The response came seconds later:
"I'll always be here. Now sleep. You have a city to conquer tomorrow."
Michael put down the phone and lay back on his bed.
The bus kept rolling south. The highway lights passed like shooting stars. The hum of the engine was a mechanical lullaby.
And Michael, the kid from another world who had become the voice of a generation, closed his eyes and slept.
Tomorrow there was another battle to fight.
But tonight, there was only peace.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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