He meant it.For the first time in years, the idea of being back on the road didn’t feel like freedom.It felt like running away, and he was ready to stand still for a bit.
***
Aweek later, his phonerang.
“Vic Montrose.”Meghan Delorio’s voice was crisp and businesslike, the same tone she’d used since she first spotted him playing a dive bar at fifteen.He’d been backing one of Rosie’s bands, learning what his dad called “crowd control” with the drums, because he could elevate a threat or subdue an angry fan just by changing his drumming.“I heard you were back in town.I’ve got three sessions this week that need a solid drummer.You available?”
He didn’t hesitate.“Yeah, Meg.I’m in.”
***
The first session atBlackbird Studios was with a five-piece indie folk-rock band fronted by a woman named Rowan Vale.She was in her thirties, with wild curls and a voice that could shift from fragile whisper to raw howl in a single breath.They were here to record just one track, and the producer told him they wanted the drums to feel like late-night porch sessions that slowly caught fire—intimate at first, then more untamed as the song went on.
Vic settled behind the kit and listened to the scratch track.Then they played it at half speed, and he thought he could tell where they were going.The song had a gentle, almost hesitant acoustic foundation with banjo and mandolin weaving through it.He started subtly on the first take with soft brushes on the snare, light touches on the ride cymbal, keeping everything understated so the vocals could breathe.
It was safe.Polite.Wrong.
On the second take, he changed everything.He switched to sticks, brought in a gentle but insistent pulse on the kick, and added delicate rim clicks that sounded like rain on a tin roof.Then, right as Rowan’s voice climbed into the pre-chorus, he opened up—a swelling roll across the toms that built like gathering storm clouds.When the chorus hit, he let the full kit breathe with her, powerful but never overpowering, giving her space to soar while anchoring the whole thing.
When Rowan finished singing, she turned to the control room with an incredulous laugh and wide eyes.
“Who the hell is this kid?He just made my song feel alive.”
The producer gave Vic a thumbs-up through the glass.“That’s the take.We’re keeping him.I’ll get a contract to Meg for the track.”
Vic felt the familiar rush—that electric satisfaction of finding the exact missing piece.He wasn’t just keeping time.He was shaping emotion, giving the song a heartbeat it didn’t know it needed.It was powerful.
And it was a lie, because the drumming didn’t hold even a beat of his own creative fire.
Still, when Rowan hugged him after the session and whispered, “Thank you—that felt like magic,” Vic smiled wide and meant it.
The second session couldn’t have been more different.
This time, the studio was dimly lit with purple and amber accent lights.The artist was a rising neo-soul singer named Lena Solace.She was in her early twenties, had a voice like velvet, and an incredible sense of dynamics.She wanted the drums to feel like silk and smoke, a luxurious, sensual experience, never in a hurry.
Vic had never played much in this world.He listened carefully as Lena ran through the verses, her voice gliding over intricate, layered tracks.The groove needed to be loose but locked, sexy without being flashy.
First take, he played it safe again—staying in the standard pocket, flicking in a few tasteful ghost notes.It was fine.Professionally cautious.It wasn’t real, because he didn’t even believe in his performance.
Lena shook her head after the take.“Too stiff.I need it to feel like...breathing.Like skin on skin.”
Vic closed his eyes on the second take and let instinct take over.He loosened his grip on the sticks until they felt like extensions of his pulse.He laid way back on the two, almost lazy, then slipped in delicate hi-hat flourishes and soft press rolls that whispered instead of shouted.During the bridge, he dropped everything to almost nothing except a heartbeat kick and faint cymbal washes, letting Lena’s voice float naked over the groove.When the final chorus swelled, he brought the full kit in underneath her like a slow-building wave.
Lena’s eyes were closed when the last note faded.She stayed silent for several long seconds.
Then she opened her eyes, looked straight at Vic through the glass, and mouthed, “Yes.”
Her manager and producer actually stood up and clapped.The manager toggled the feedback mike and said, “That’s the one.Kid, you just made that song feel expensive.”
Vic felt the thrill again, deeper this time.He had taken something already beautiful and made it sensual, alive, and very human.He had adapted so completely that he almost didn’t recognize his own playing.
When Lena came into the tracking room after the session and hugged him tight, whispering, “You made me sound like my best self,” Vic hugged her back and let himself enjoy the moment.
The final session was pure chaos in the best way.
The studio had been transformed again.Synthesizers, laptops, and a full rock kit shared space with looping pedals and modular synths.The band was a four-piece alt-rock outfit called The Static Saints, with a heavy electronic influence.Their frontman, a wiry guy named Jude with neon-streaked hair, wanted the drums to feel like a living heartbeat inside a digital storm—organic but glitchy, powerful but unpredictable.
Vic had never played anything quite like this.
