"I'm fed up," Usher sang, his voice soaring effortlessly over the crashing horns, a perfect blend of pain and power. "I'm tired of the games... I given 'em my all, and they still want more..."
DJ Khaled stood in the center of the room, draped in a black velvet tracksuit that absorbed the harsh glare of the overhead fluorescent grids. He wasn't yelling. Not yet. He was staring at a massive, custom-built soundboard that looked like the cockpit of a stealth bomber. "I'm fed up," Usher sang, his voice soaring
"We need the soul," Khaled whispered. "We have the muscle. We have the hunger. We have the future. But we need the soul to tie the knot." He wasn't yelling
From the far corner of the room, sitting at a baby grand piano that no one had noticed him playing, Usher looked up. He hadn't said a word all night. He wore a black leather vest over a bare chest, his skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat. He struck a single, minor chord on the piano. The note hung in the air, melancholic and powerful, vibrating against the heavy bass traps in the walls. "We need the soul," Khaled whispered
The door to the back lounge swung open, and Young Jeezy walked in, flanked by two men who looked like they were made of granite. Jeezy didn't walk; he marched. His neck was heavy with diamonds that caught the light like strobe flashes. He didn't look at Drake. He didn't look at Ross. He looked straight at the soundboard.
"I'm looking at the numbers, Khaled," Drake said, running a hand through his hair. "I'm looking at the city. Everyone wants a piece of this. I’m tired of playing nice. I’m tired of smiling for the cameras when I know what they say when I leave the room. I’m just… I’m fed up." "Then put that pain in the microphone, boy!"
Drake stepped out of the shadows by the vocal booth. He was young, his face fresh, wearing a pristine grey crewneck sweater that looked far too innocent for the heavy air in the room. He held a BlackBerry in his hand, his thumb furiously scrolling through lines of text.