To Love And Be Loved

Chapter 9

The air conditioner was whooshing cold, artificial air in the studio and in spite of the bomber jacket he wore, Victor felt terribly cold. Goosebumps rose on his skin and he willed himself to stop trembling.

He'd being sampling beats all morning with Jones. Jones was the producer he got as part of the deal he signed with Skybase Records. He was quite pudgy and coupled with his skin tone Victor thought he looked like a mango way past ripeness. Jones smiled every thirty seconds and he liked saying 'O boy'. Victor hated him already.

"What about this?" Jones asked, leaning back from his laptop. The speakers played out a simple beat. Victor shook his head. It didn't sound like what he wanted for this song.

He missed Rahman, the producer who made Black Divisions' songs. He produced Punch Line, their first studio album which was certified platinum. He still remembered their recording sessions where Rahman always insisted they start off by playing something together. So they'd always start with Will playing a riff on the keyboard and Sam layering it with the bass. One of Rahman's guys usually did the drums while Victor added his vocals later.

Spontaneity, randomness, out of the air; those were Rahman's favorite words. It never mattered if you planned the beats, lyrics and melody before coming to the studio. You had to show him you had chemistry within the band.

Jones was staring at him with that weird smile on his face, Victor realised he was waiting for his answer. "No," he said. He really didn't want to see that smile again.

But Jones didn't humor him. Instead, the smile deepened and he rubbed his hands together. "That's good, that's good," he said. "I once went through a thousand beats with Burna Boy before we got the right one."

"Well, I'm not Burna Boy."

Two hours later and he was halfway through recording the first song. Leila was doing the drum sequence. She had repeated it almost a hundred times. Victor swore she got better after each repetition. He didn't want to admit it but she was good.

Then it was Sam's turn. He got into the isolation booth with his guitar and played. For someone who hadn't played in almost a year he was pretty good. Jones stopped Sam midway with a raised hand. "Six inches from the mic," he said.

Sam shifted backwards until the fingerboard met the guitar body. "Good." Jones gave him a thumbs up. "Lets cut two fifty Hertz, he said as he tinkered with the controls on the mixing desk. Sam wore his headphones and began the guitar sequence that would be in the final mix.

An hour later, Victor was as good as freezing cold when he got into the isolation booth. He had written the song almost a month ago and was bustling to record it but now he felt painful exhaustion seeping into his limbs. He cleared his throat and adjusted his earphone as Jones' voice filtered in his ears. "One, two, three, go."

My heart is a dark dark place
With silence and a bloody bloody taste
When you ask the question
In that neon-light bar
Who would you kill for?
Who would you die for?
I look at you
You with those red red lips and tight tight dress
And I say; the question is lust or love

Jones held up his palm and his voice filtered in. "You're almost at the hook," he said. "Give me a silvery, full bodied tenor from the third line. Make it punchy, give it a warm vibe."

Victor nodded and Jones gave him a thumbs up. "One, two, three, go."

In the neon light bar
Who would you kill for?
Who would you die for?

Jones folded his arms and shook his head, his jowls trembled with each motion of his head. "Come on. You can do better, Vic. Sing with spirit, imagine the audience. Make it punchy."

Victor gave him a tight smile. He felt like punching Jones' smiley face. What the hell does punchy mean?

But he imagined the audience anyway. There was nothing like a crowd of dedicated fans singing the lyrics of your song back to you. He imagined concert lights swivelling. He imagined their voices, thousands of people all dancing to the same rhythm, all shouting the same thing. He closed his eyes and sang.

Who would you kill for?
Who would you die for?
You with those red red lips and tight tight dress.
Because my heart isn't a sunny beach
There are demons in it

Jones and the mixing engineer were behind the mixing desk nodding their heads. Sam was on a recliner watching him, his hands behind his head with a wistful look on his face. Victor understood that look. Leila was behind Sam, thumbing through her phone. Her gold piercing glinting in the studio light.

The night it all fell apart came flashing back to Victor, like freshwater coursing down an incline.

It was a Friday night in the Lagos National Stadium. They had just began touring for Punch Line. The stadium was filled up, tickets were sold out. Victor had never seen so many people in his life. There was a metal barricade surrounding the stage, but that didn't stop people from trying to climb up. Only Segun's huge frame stopped them from trying. He looked like he could snap someone in half.

The crowd was crazy, singing lyrics from Black Division's hit single; Beauty and The Beat, together with Victor. Sam was to his left with his guitar while Will was to his right with the keyboard.

It all started as a series of badly played notes from Will. Victor attributed it to faulty wiring. It couldn't be a mistake, Will never made mistakes. Then he thought some fans must have breached Segun's defenses. But then he heard Sam's guitar stop and he turned.

Will was convulsing on his seat, two fingers locked on the keys in a jerky fit. He fell from his seat onto the floor with a thud. Sam threw off his guitar and ran to his brother, but there was nothing he could do to stop Will's thrashing, the white froth that had gathered on his mouth or the way his eyes rolled into his head until only the whites showed. It was sickening to watch.

Victor couldn't move, he felt rooted to the spot. The crowd was chanting something but he couldn't hear them, they sounded like background noise.

The hazer puffed out a thick blanket of haze. When it cleared, Will was suddenly still. His body went limp and his eyes rolled back into focus. Victor would never forget the look in those eyes. It was a silent glassy stare.

Segun knelt by Will, he had just called an ambulance. He felt for a pulse and with a finality that sent Sam weeping, he said,"he's dead."

Victor wrenched off the headphone from his ears and stumbled out of the isolation booth. He couldn't breath. There was a bitter taste in the back of his throat. He fumbled with the door, hands trembling, heart pounding in overdrive.

The last thing he saw was Sam rushing up to him and Jones saying 'O boy' over and over again. But this time he wasn't smiling. The cold studio floor rushed up to meet him.