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“Shit.”
Anxiety spiked in my chest as Kyir pulled the headphones from his ears, cocking them back to rest on top of his head. Through the glass separating him from the rest of the studio, I watched as he closed his eyes, face tilted toward the ceiling.
I’d never sat in the studio with him before and the way it seemed to be going… I would never again. It seemed like he was having a rough time, and from the look on Dean’s face, it wasn’t the norm.
For some artists, studio time was relaxed, not a ton of do-overs, damn near a party, actually. Polished perfection wasn’t really the vibe.
Not with Kyir.
He was passionate about his craft, focused, driven to strike that difficult balance of a project that felt raw and organic, but somehow refined still. There was a certain sophistication to both Kyir’s lyrics and the presentation that wasn't easy or common.
And now I was seeing up close and personal that sometimes it was stressful for him.
Despite him making it look effortless.
“The subject matter is… difficult… with this one,” Nick said, avoiding framing his words as a question. He wasn’t an interviewer, as he’d stressed to me before we sat down in the studio with Dean and Kyir. Not a journalist, but not exactly a fly on the wall either. We were there to observe and occasionally interact.
Not interrogate.
Without shifting his gaze, Kyir nodded, confirming Nick’s assertion, which came as no surprise.
Of course it was difficult.
The specters of addiction, incarceration, and struggling mental health—exacerbated by the first two—were ever present on the block and Kyir’s family was unfortunately no exception.
It wasn’t his first time speaking about it, but itwasthe first time he’d put it on a song, which was likely theactualreason he was struggling with it.
Notbecause being in the room together with other people made him feel anywhere near as flustered as I was.
“Let’s switch it up,” Dean suggested. “Work on another song.”
“This is the last song.” Kyir finally dropped his head, glaring at Dean from the sound booth. “Once we get this one done, it’s a wrap.”
Dean chuckled. “Exactly. After this one, it’s a wrap, so get your shit together. Nick, ask this man some icebreakers or something, shake him up.”
Instead of correcting, Nick played along, already chuckling to himself as he asked Kyir his favorite color.
Kyir shook his head, feigning annoyance as he answered. “Black.”
“Of course it is,” Dean laughed.
“Favorite song?”
“Wrong Bitch, by Vanity.”
That set off a whole other round of laughter, just because we hadn’t expected that answer or for it to come so fast.
“Deadass?” Nick asked as a follow-up and Kyir nodded, chuckling.
“That shit slaps at damn near any occasion.”
“Van is nice,” Dean added. “Y’all shoulda been here when she came through to record her feature. Left the shitsmoking.”
I grinned because I could believe it, but didn’t say anything, letting the guys have their conversation while I observed.
