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He nodded, likely accurately sensing my calculations of what all of this meant. His smile widened. “Yeah, my nigga.” Dale nodded hard as hell. “You feel me?”
Luke scoffed, rubbing his mustache.
It was my turn to smile. “Who you in bed with?” My brain quickly spun the rolodex memory. “RCA, or you goin’ indie?”
“Nah, man.” Dale beamed. “No indie over here. I need the marketing help.Arista.”
My eyes went wild. “Okay! Going back home, in a sense.”
“Yeah. And they givin’ ya boy a nice bag for it.”
I nodded, not expecting this when he reached out wanting to kick it. “You and D.J. getting the band back together?”
“Can I get you a drink, sir?” An Asian waitress with dark red lipstick appeared at my side.
“Oh, nah. I’m good.”
“You sure, man?” Dale looked concerned.
I didn’t mean to be rude. “Yeah. I got something happening at the crib. I flew over here on myMultistrada V4. Can’t stunt on her while loose in the head.”
“Okay. Water?” the waitress offered.
“Sparkling with lemon,” I requested. “Thanks.”
“You got it.” She turned to leave.
“So, D.A.L.Ezee’s gonna be recording again with Mr. Daryl Joubert?” I repeated my question.
Dale and Luke caught eyes. “Nah,” Dale murmured, looking my way again.
“Oh, word? Then who?”
“Somebody that ain’t seasoned like D.J. and me, but somebody with an ear older than ours.”
“T. Trouble?” He was a new cat out of Philly, shooting out hits for Pixie, Mario’s comeback album, and Alana.Shit.Dale had a feature on one of Mario’s new joints that was dope as hell.
Smiling, Dale shook his head. “You, man.”
I felt my forehead stretch. I’d had keyboard credits on one of his failing albums about seven years ago as his sales took a trending dive. I remembered being hyped as hell about being in the studio with Dale for the first time. Every producer coming up at that time would sell their accumulated points to trade places. But Dale was hard-pressed about working with mediocre writers and producers. I sold his team a track—the best-selling one from that particular LP. However, they left me out of true production of his vocal arrangements. The shit infuriated me back then as a budding producer.
“Me,” was all I returned.
“C’mon, Tobias, man. We know—theworldknows—you’ve been the brainchild behind Raj’s wild success over the past three-four years. The nigga went from like…Elton John to Prince doing Michael Jackson’s numbers!” He fell out laughing.
Nah, bruh. Actually, Wynter did that…
I could have never copped to that. It wasn’t my place to. Besides, it would have played into the very reason Dale had seemed to be asking me for my help.
D.J. was not just the producer of most of Dale’s tracks on his “Telling it All” album, his best to date, but he was also the curator of the vibe the album conjured. People believed the stories Dale sang about regarding his recusant love life. D.J., through Dale, wasn’t just selling music; he sold a storyline about wicked romance, and the world bought and ate it the hell up.Thiswas why dude was coming to me. It’s what I’d been doing for the past few years with artists.
“Everybody’s been watching your work with Raj. Just like with D.J. and me with “Telling it All,” you know how to create cultural nuances for the listeners. Look how long and widespread that one line from Raj’s joint, “No Bed Needed,” went. All theTikTok’ers, the challenges onInstagram. They posted fuckin’ Tori McNabb singing it at their annual fundraiser. Hell, even Brielle and her dancers included it in their choreography for her world tour that year! The shit was up and stuck!”
Luke nodded, sipping on his drink. The waitress arrived with my water, giving me a moment to think.
Dale was right. We’d poured a lot of creative juices into Raj’s last two studio albums. Ragee was at a point in his life where he was ready to reveal more, and it was about damn time. The nigga had been closed off to the point of weirdo-ism.
“What’s it gonna take?” Luke finally spoke.
