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Pulling up to the warehouse district, Ian pauses the car long enough to punch a code in the hidden panel that slides a rackety gate to the side and grants us passage. He drives us along a wide road, one big enough to house semis on both sides including the turns out of each business entrance, until we get to the dead end.
Another hidden panel and the dead end opens up to a separate drive. This one curves and winds, barely big enough for the SUV to fit through the trees on both sides until we reach the destination about a mile back.
Set back in a forest of trees for privacy and protection, is my band’s state-of-the-art recording studio.
My home away from home that is in fact equipped to be a refuge and a practice venue. A recording studio and safe haven.
Here, As Above has spent many nights cramming for records, recording all-nighters, and creating content and shorts for social media. We bought the land when our first record went gold, planned the new build when our second and third went platinum, and have recorded each record here since. We even rereleased the first ones from this studio.
The walls are lined with the plaques, posters from each world tour, photographs of magazine covers, and stage shots that only a pro can get. All of our accomplishments are on display for us to see, to admire, and remember what we’ve managed to do over the last few years.
When I come here, I feel satisfied. I feel my childhood dream has come true with each step through the place. I tend to feel inspired by what I’ve helped create, empowered even, to know that my legacy will go on living long after I’m gone.
Tonight, though, my heart hangs heavy in my chest. My mouth is dry and gross from vomiting despite the water I chugged to rid the taste. My hands tingle with nerves as I slinkdown the hall to the studio portion of the building. I lock myself in the soundproof room with knots in my stomach, grab the control tablet to block out the other side of the window where someone else would sit to listen in, and I let loose a guttural growl.
Hitting record on the tablet, I scream-sing what’s in my heart.
I do what I do best as an artist and I write and sing and scream until I’m nearly spent and have the beginning songs of a heartbreak album about a beautiful woman and a broken man.
Emotion fuels me to keep going, so I add snips of unused riffs and instrumentals my band has left recorded on the device. The songs come together easier than I’d hoped, so I lead into another song when my phone rings.
I can’t help it—I sprint across the room to where I left it in hopes that it’s Aria, except it’s not. In fact, there’s nothing from her at all. My twin’s face pops up on the screen as his name scrolls, but I decline the call and head back across to my stool, my notebook, my work. I pass the empty drum set, the untouched guitar stands filled with bass and six strings. I’m tempted to set up at any one of them—I can play almost anything—but I keep with my most powerful means instead; my vocals.
Tap, tap, tap.
I pause mid-step, pinching the bridge of my nose before I bring myself to look up at the window that was dimly lit before. Now, it’s fully bright on the other side, illuminating my brother and two other band members.
Shit.
I’m not ready for them. To explain anything.
I give a subtle head shake to my twin, who gets the message but speaks into the mic anyways. When it doesn’t come through to me, I hold the tablet up to show I’ve restricted the outside world, but he overrides it on his side.
“Playback that last one.” I sigh, but nod. He’s giving me the chance to work it through with him at a distance so I throw my hair up into a better knot and adjust the mic.
I start out with slow, sensual, lyrics. Just like it did that day with Aria. I watch as Mac hits a few buttons, signals to keep it going so I slide the headphones on and sing my heart out. Passionate to desperate, the lyrics tumble from me as I vocalize how fucked this world is. How love can’t survive the bright lights of the stage. I sing of how my dreams have turned into nightmares and stolen the one thing I didn’t know I even wanted.
By the time my voice gives out, we’ve recorded a full album worth of material. Finland has joined me in the studio to add instruments to my vocals in the places where scraps won’t fill in, but he minds his own business and just plays to the notes that match the key and the melody. He’s jumped from the drums for a beat that Mac repeats to the bass for background.
“One more.” I rasp, my voice shot and Mac tries to shake his head, but I shoot him a look. This is what the last one needs. The rawness and the passion. The broken vocals.
I adjust the headphones so that only one ear is covered and I sing with almost no voice.
Can you relate?What’s been taken from you?
I take another shot of whiskey from the bottle that’s been sitting next to me since Fin came in, the liquid burning all the way down.
Who do you want there with you when the world comes crashing down?
A ballad is born, a love song to rival the classics built on rock ‘n’ roll foundations and sang with a twinge of soul that reminds me of her.
If it all tumbles down tonight, it’s you I want by my side. Cuz there’s no light without you here.
With the final chorus off of my lips, I pop the headphones from my head and walk out without another glance at anyone else in the room.
They did great. We created a whole-ass album. But I’ve got nothing left to give to anyone else, so I limp my ass back to the apartment side of the building, pop a painkiller for my bum knee, and pass out on the couch.
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