Capítulo 47: Echoes of What's to Come
Jerome's voice floated through the monitors like smoke, wrapping around my beat in ways that made Rico lean forward every few bars. Four hours had evaporated like morning mist, marked only by empty coffee cups and the growing pile of scribbled notes beside the console. In my previous life, I'd watched engineers for years before understanding the subtle mechanics of vocal compression. Now my fingers moved across the SSL's controls with practiced precision, drawing a performance from Jerome that exceeded even my memories.
"That high harmony you added," Rico said during a playback, his eyes closed in concentration. "It shouldn't work with that sample, but..." He trailed off, matching my smile with one of his own.
I had pulled that particular trick from a 2012 recording session—a happy accident that had become a signature sound. Now, deliberately recreated, it felt like planting a seed that wouldn't bloom for years. "Sometimes the wrong thing is the right thing," I said, watching the meters dance. "You just have to trust your ears."
Through the glass, Jerome was practically vibrating with excitement. The song we'd built around my beat had evolved far beyond the formulaic club track he'd originally planned. In my first timeline, he'd disappeared from the industry after a handful of mixtapes. But watching him now, hearing how his voice melded with the production choices I'd carefully selected from my mental archive of future trends, I wondered if that fate was already unraveling.
*"Streets got stories that tomorrow ain't heard
Future's just a promise wrapped in hollow words
But in this booth right now, man, vision's getting clear
Building something timeless, making history here..."*
Those weren't the lyrics he'd walked in with. Those had been safe, predictable—all bottles and models. During our lunch break, I'd casually mentioned how conscious rap would surge back into mainstream prominence around 2015. Now Jerome's verses carried weight, substance. Rico hadn't stopped nodding since the third take.
"You ever think about executive production?" Rico asked suddenly, scrolling through his phone's primitive interface. "Got two more artists today, plus that crew from Boston next week..."
The question arrived exactly as I'd known it would, though six hours earlier than in my original timeline. I forced myself to hesitate, as if the idea hadn't been the cornerstone of twenty years' planning. "I mean, if the sound is right..."
A sharp rap on the control room door interrupted us. My heart stuttered—I knew that knock, remembered this moment with crystalline clarity. Right now, in my first life, I had been taking a bathroom break. Missing this.
"Rico, you got a minute?" The voice belonged to Marcus Andrews, A&R for a label that would dominate the next decade. In my previous life, I'd only met him years later, long after his star-making reputation was established.
"Actually," Rico said, "perfect timing. Need your ears on something." He gestured me back to the console. "Run that second verse again?"
I watched Andrews's expression as the music filled the room. Watched the subtle shift from polite interest to focused attention. Saw the moment his fingers began tapping against his expensive jacket sleeve—the same tell I'd learned to look for fifteen years from now.
"This is different," Andrews said finally. "That production... it's not chasing anything current. But it's not..." He struggled, and I suppressed a smile. Of course he couldn't place it. The sound he was hearing wouldn't exist for another few years.
"My new producer," Rico said, with the casual pride of someone claiming a discovery. "Marcus Johnson."
Andrews's card appeared between manicured fingers. "Come by the office next week. Both of you." His eyes lingered on the console's settings. "Bring more beats like that."
After he left, Rico turned to me with an expression I remembered from much later in our relationship—the look of someone seeing the future reshape itself. "You got more tracks like this ready?"
I patted my 505. "Got a whole library. Been waiting for the right moment."
Through the glass, Jerome was still riding the high of the session, mouthing his new lyrics silently, feeling their weight. The future was already shifting, timelines braiding themselves into new patterns. In my pocket, Mom's morning text wished me luck, the same message she'd sent every day for twenty years. But this time, luck had nothing to do with it.
"Run it from the top," Rico said, settling back into his chair. "And then tell me what else you've been holding back."
I reached for the console, fingers finding their home on familiar faders. Outside, New York's afternoon light painted the studio walls in shades of gold, like time itself was blessing this revision of history. The beat dropped, and with it, the careful construction of a future only I could see began to take its new shape.
*"They say time flows one way, like rivers to sea
But what if the current's got a different plan for me?
Every beat I lay down, every track we complete
Is tomorrow's history playing in repeat..."*
The lyrics were Jerome's, but the truth they carried was mine alone. For now.
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