Knock Three Times

14. Drag You to Hell

              CHELSEA HELD THE GRIP of her headphones around her tightly tied blonde hair before beginning the song all over again. It was the sixth take of the same verse, and she was growing tired of singing the same parts over and over again, each take more tedious than the next. The expression on her face was that of frustration as Harris Hangman and a few others watched from the other side of the glass, noticing the irritability in her expression with each take. The music stopped again mid verse as the producer spoke through the microphone.

    'Chels, you're gonna have to get into it a bit more.'

    'But these aren't my songs, Harris. I have my own originals, damn it. Why the hell aren't we recording those?'

    'How many times are we gonna have this fucking conversation?' he shook his head, the frustration finally getting to him. 'For the love of fuck, just sing the bloody songs already. You have two songs of your own that are permitted on the album, the rest have already been written for you. We have songwriters for this.'

    'But this is no talent garbage music, and you know it—generic, poppy bullshit, Hangman. I thought I was supposed to be touring with Ozzy, not fucking Tay-tay.'

    'It's . . . a bit mainstream, I'll admit.' he sighed.

    'Make it harder, Harris! Hard licks, fast bass and double kick petals, you hear me?'

    'But we've already recorded most of the songs for this album.'

    'We'll do it again! This would go a hell of a lot easier if I just had my band here . . . musicians with some fucking balls.'

    Harris suddenly lost his temper, slamming his hand against the wall, but then took a moment to collect himself. As Chelsea watched from the other side of the glass, she felt no remorse for upsetting him. After everything she was put through, and the danger she had put her family in, she wasn't going to waste the worth of her eternal soul. If she was to trade her god-given essence for success in this damned and corrupted industry, it was going to be her way, simple and plain.

    'Do you have any idea how much money we've already spent?'

    'Oh, give me a fucking break, Harris. Who the hell cares about money? All the boasting about all these unlimited funds, gold cards and diamond stilettos, and we can't even pump out a decent solo?'

    The sound engineer pulled his fingers away from the mixing board before him, and rested his chin on his knuckles, taking Chelsea's demands into consideration. He and Harris shot each other a menacing stare. He took his hand off the button that connected their mics, assuring that the singer couldn't overhear their discussion.

    'I can't work like this. She wants us to start from scratch?'

    The engineer smirked, watching Chelsea's bothersome but determined expression.

    'Give her what she wants . . . whatever she wants.' The man replied.

    'What?' Harris' crossed arms loosened in shock, surprised that he was willing to give in.

    'I thought he wanted the world to follow her. The youth of this generation aren't going to follow the metal scene—not like they did in the eighties and nineties.'

    'Oh ye of little faith.' said the man, speaking for the Chief. 'If she will not yield to the trends, we will have the trends yield to her. We set the trends in this industry, and the youth will follow whatever the hell we tell them to follow.'

    'You can't be serious.' Harris felt the corner of his lip lift.

    'Looks like metal is about to get a serious comeback.'