Chapter Twenty-Two
Vic
The control room at Slate’s studio smelled like fresh coffee, warm electronics, and faint traces of weed from the jam session the night before.Red lights glowed on the consoles, and the big window looking into the live room showed the full Occupy Yourself lineup spread out and ready.
They were deep into tracking for the new record, and it wasn’t going smoothly.
“Again,” Benny said, frustration bleeding into his voice.“The bridge is dragging.It feels...safe.Too fucking safe.”
Mitty rubbed his temples.“We’ve tried it three different ways already.”
The session bassist was pacing.And Mercedes sat cross-legged on the couch, watching everyone with sharp, patient eyes.
Vic leaned back on his stool behind the kit in the live room, sticks resting across his knees.He’d been mostly quiet for the last hour, listening.Feeling the tension build.
He stood up and walked over to the talkback mic.
“Run it one more time,” he said calmly.“But this time, don’t overthink it.Benny—trust the emotion.Don’t try to control it.Let it get messy.I’ll meet you there.”
Benny met his eyes through the glass and gave a short nod.
They started again.
The first verse was solid.The pre-chorus built nicely.Then they hit the bridge—and Vic let loose.
His drumming shifted from steady support to something alive and dangerous.He attacked the toms with powerful, rolling fills, then dropped into a half-time groove that gave the song room to breathe while still pushing it forward.The sticks became extensions of his body—graceful, precise, full of controlled power.
Grace in motion.
Benny responded instinctively, leaning into a raw, imperfect vocal take that cracked with real feeling.The rest of the band followed Vic’s lead, and suddenly the song opened up.It breathed.Itlived.
When the final note faded, the control room was silent.
Slate’s voice came through the talkback, sounding stunned.“Jesus Christ.That’s the take.”
Mercedes smiled wide.“There it is.”
***
Technical issues hitlater that afternoon.
