You push open the door to the recording studio, feeling a wave of excitement and a hint of intimidation. This is Chappell Roan's studio—a space practically soaked in her raw energy and bold creativity. It's littered with sheets of crumpled-up lyrics, a few half-empty bottles of LaCroix, and about fifty neon sticky notes on the wall, each with something cryptic written on it like "Spaghetti Disco" and "NOT Beyoncé."
Chappell's already there, perched on a swivel chair by the mixing board with her head bopping along to some beat that only she seems to hear. She spins around to greet you, eyes wide with a playful glint.
"Y/N!" she says, flinging her arms up like she's about to perform a magic trick. "Welcome to my lair of chaos and minor keys. Ready to make some magic?" (subtle foreshadowing)
You laugh nervously, settling down on the couch. "Is that... 'Red Wine Supernova' up there?" You point at the scribbled lyrics tacked up on the wall.
"Oh, that?" she grins, tossing her hair back dramatically. "That, my dear Y/N, is our soon-to-be masterpiece. I've been thinking of writing an anthem. A big, bold, ridiculous anthem about love, vibrators, and how absolutely ridiculous it feels."
She leans in, whispering like she's telling a secret, "It's gonna be somewhere between a power ballad and a musical drunk text. Imagine Freddie Mercury and Cher crashed a karaoke bar."
You snicker, grabbing a notebook. "Alright, hit me. Where are we starting?"
She pulls her chair close, strumming her fingers on her knee thoughtfully. "Okay, I've got this line in my head: 'Baby, why don't you come over? Red Wine Supernova.' You know, like... I'm totally having an existential crisis, but I'm also kinda feeling myself?" She lets out a laugh. "Or maybe that's just me."
You chuckle, raising an eyebrow. "That's either the most profound or most chaotic vibe I've heard, and I'm honestly here for it."
She grins, nudging your shoulder. "I knew you'd get it. Okay, okay, so what if we kick it up a notch? Like... what's the thing you'd shout in a bar at midnight to a hot girl in a mini skirt and go-go boots?"
Without missing a beat, you blurt, "I would yell, 'Fall right into me!'" You laugh, cringing. "I mean, not my finest moment, but hey, it works."
Chappell gasps like she's found gold. "Oh my god, Y/N, that's it! 'Fall right into me!' That has to be in the chorus. Like, Baby, why don't you come over? Red Wine Supernova, fall right into me. Like, that's the part where we throw our heads back, twirl around, and scream it from the rooftop—or bar top. Are you ready to channel that main character energy?"
She stands up, spreading her arms wide as if she's going to belt it right then and there. You stand up too, mimicking her stance, both of you now taking up as much space as humanly possible in the small studio.
She starts singing in a grand, theatrical voice, "BABY, WHY DON'T YOU COME OVER!" She waves her hands around as if she's already performing in an arena. Then she stops, bursts out laughing, and says, "No, no, that was terrible. Do it with me, Y/N. Let's try it together."
You clear your throat, trying not to laugh, and join her in a sing-yell, "BABY, WHY DON'T YOU COME OVER!"
"YESSSS!" She practically yells, collapsing back into her chair, doubled over in laughter. "Oh, that was gloriously awful and wonderful! This song is basically going to be the musical equivalent of a glitter bomb."
You both can't stop giggling, and then she abruptly sobers up, eyes narrowing as if she's had a revelation. "You know, we're gonna need a bridge that's totally over-the-top. Like, full of longing but also very... very much giving I'm-a-little-too-tipsy-and-I-might-regret-this. Maybe something like... 'Baby, let's get freaky, get kinky, let's make this bed get squeaky.'"
You blink at her, impressed. "Whoa, that's actually... poetic yet extremely vulgar at the same time."
She shrugs casually, like it's no big deal. "Yeah, it's what happens when you mix caffeine and horniness. Okay, write it down. 'Baby, let's get freaky, get kinky, let's make this bed get squeaky..' Ooh, I love that. If only I could say that to a girl without chickening out."
You laugh, writing it down with an exaggerated flourish. "Consider it immortalised."
She grabs her guitar, plucking out a few notes, and hums the melody, looking off into the distance with a mock-dramatic expression. "So... we start with how the night began, like an introspective bit, right? And then—BAM—cue the drunk karaoke chorus that everyone's gonna scream along to." She strums a few chords with gusto, the sound echoing around the room.
"Oh!" you interrupt, an idea hitting you. "What if the start of the bridge is like... 'Back at my house, I've got a California king.' and then back vocals that speak back to you in a sense. Like, it's so intense, but maybe a little blurry too because of how bad you want it or... her?"
Chappell's eyes widen as she gasps. "YES, Y/N, you genius! That's it! It's perfect. This is going to be the anthem of chaotic, glittery horniness."
You both keep going back and forth, pitching lines, melodies, and cracking each other up with exaggerated singing and dramatic poses. Every time one of you nails a lyric, there's a mini-celebration—fist bumps, high-fives, and even an impromptu interpretive dance that involves her twirling an empty coffee cup like a glass of wine.
After what feels like hours, you finally have a rough outline of the song, and you collapse on the couch, exhausted but giddy.
"Y/N," Chappell says, looking at you with a goofy grin, "we've created a monster of a song. Like, this is the anthem of the galaxy. This song needs to be belted by people with wine-stained lips and questionable choices."
You snort. "Exactly as we intended."
She leans back, sighing dreamily. "I think the universe just got a little more sparkly tonight."
You shrug, grinning. "You're the one with the genius idea. I just helped you yell it at the sky."
"Please," she scoffs, nudging you with her elbow. "You're totally taking credit in the liner notes. 'Special thanks to Y/N for excessive levels of sass and cosmic wisdom.'"
With a laugh, you both glance over at the mess of lyrics on the floor, feeling the thrill of knowing that you just helped make something wildly fun and totally unique.
