Producers
In a luxurious conference room overlooking the Miami skyline, the executives of Atlantic Records gathered for an urgent meeting.
Craig Kellman, sat at the head of the table, flanked by senior VPs and marketing directors. His piercing gaze scanned the room, ensuring he had everyone's undivided attention before he began.
"Alright," Craig started, his voice calm but authoritative. "Let's talk about Arell Rose. Diddy's people have reported that he's been successfully drugged, but we haven't gotten him to do any sexual activities yet. The next fashion show is in four days. We'll have another chance to get what we need."
Tom, the A&R executive, furrowed his brow. "Are we sure we can keep this under control? Arell's got this Geoffrey person watching his back. We need to get him away from Arell."
Craig nodded thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on the polished mahogany table. "Geoffrey is indeed a problem. We might have to convince Arell to fire him. But Geoffrey is useful. Maybe we can offer him a role within the company."
Julia, the head of marketing, smirked. "I'm sure his loyalty can be bought. We just need to find the right price."
Craig leaned forward, his expression cold and calculating. "Make it happen. We need to ensure Arell stays on our path. No deviations. Keep Geoffrey away from him, make sure he stays drugged, and get the footage. We control Arell, and we control the future of this label."
The executives nodded in agreement, the gravity of their task settling in.
Tom cleared his throat, breaking the momentary silence. "We need to stir up more beef between him and The Game. The producers of Westbrooks have reported that India Love Westbrooks has refused to escalate it further, so we'll need to discuss other methods."
Craig's eyes narrowed. "What do you suggest?"
"We could have The Game disrespect Arell's dead grandmother and aunt," Tom proposed, his voice matter-of-fact.
Julia shook her head. "That might not work. Lil Reese tried the same thing, and Arell remained composed. We need something that will really get under his skin."
Tom leaned back, pondering. "What if we have The Game fight one of his friends? Kenny, perhaps? We've seen how Arell reacted when he got shot. It could push him over the edge."
A slow smile spread across Craig's face. "That's more like it. And let's add to that. Have Soulja Boy speak about India provocatively. Stir the pot from both sides."
Julia's eyes gleamed with approval. "Perfect. We'll coordinate with The Game and Soulja Boy to make sure it happens."
Craig nodded, satisfied with the plan. "Good. Now, onto other things. We need to ensure Arell comes to the next fashion show and, more importantly, the afterparty. If he's hesitant or refuses, we can ensure Geoffrey that Fair Trade will make it into the top 10 on the Billboard by next week."
Tom interjected, "And if we need more leverage, we can dangle some big collaborations in front of him. Weeknd, maybe even Drake. Something he can't refuse."
Craig's cold smile returned. "Exactly. Make sure every angle is covered. This is our chance to solidify our hold on him. We shape the stars, and we own the sky."
<>
The Miami sun beat down on Arell as he stepped out of the SUV, the heat immediately enveloping him like a thick blanket. He squinted against the glare bouncing off the studio's glass exterior, fishing his sunglasses from his pocket.
As he pushed through the revolving door into the lobby, the blast of cold air made him sigh with relief. His eyes swept over the polished marble floors and abstract art adorning the walls.
A burly security guard at the desk looked up as Arell approached. "Can I help you?"
"Yeah, I'm here to see Pharrell," Arell said, his voice easy and confident.
The guard's eyebrows rose slightly. "Arell, right? Top floor, studio 3."
"Appreciate it," Arell nodded, heading for the elevator.
As he rode up, his mind wandered to his own setup back in Atlanta. His home studio he'd put together, while it wasn't exactly finished yet it still was definetely a point of pride, after all he had proffessional grade equipment in there. Still, he was curious to see what Pharrell was working with.
The elevator doors slid open, and Arell followed the muffled thump of bass down the hallway. He pushed open the door to Studio 3, and there was Pharrell, hunched over a array of equipment.
Pharrell looked up, a grin spreading across his face. "Arell! Come on in. How was the drive to here?"
"Not bad," Arell said, crossing the room to shake Pharrell's hand.
Pharrell chuckled. "I bet. How you liking it down there in Florida? Bit of a change from Chicago or Atlanta, huh?"
"Definetely, it's a whole different world," Arell said, settling into a chair next to Pharrell. It's nice but I think i prefer Atlanta to be honest. Got myself set up nice, built out a home studio that's..." He whistled appreciatively as his eyes roamed over Pharrell's equipment. "Well, maybe not quite like this, but it's getting there."
"Home studio, huh?" Pharrell nodded approvingly. "Smart move. No point wasting money on studio time when you can do it yourself. You produce most of your own stuff right?"
Arell leaned back, a hint of pride in his voice. "Yeah, most of it actually. Normally I'd be in there by myself, a bag of chips and just working my magic."
Pharrell laughed. "Those are the best times, man. When you're hungry for it, just figuring shit out as you go. But look at you now - few million in the bank, mansion in Atlanta. You've come a long way."
"True that," Arell nodded. "But I try not to let it change me, you know? Still work like I'm broke." Arell said, but as Pharell went to respond he doubled back. 'Mansion in Atlanta?' Arell's brow furrowed. "Wait, how'd you know about my place?"
Pharrell chuckled. "Oh, I had a chat with your manager, Geoffrey. Seems like a sharp guy."
"Geoffrey?" Arell's surprise was evident, Geoffrey had never mentioned he spoke with Pharell. still, it wasn't unexpected, he had a knack for networking afterall. "I didn't know you two had talked."
"Yeah, we crossed paths at Diddy's party. Got to talking about investments, real estate, that kind of thing. Your boy knows his stuff."
Arell nodded slowly, processing this information. He made a mental note to ask Geoffrey about it later.
Pharrell's expression turned serious for a moment. "Speaking of Diddy, Arell... just be careful around that crowd, alright? There's a lot that goes on behind closed doors in this industry."
Arell felt a chill run down his spine, at this point he'd love for the word Diddy to never be mentioned around his again. "Yeah, I've been getting that vibe. Thanks for the heads up though."
Changing the subject, Pharrell's eyes twinkled. "So, what's the deal with you and that girl I saw you talking to at the party? India Westbrooks, right?"
Arell couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, we've been seeing each other. But I'm trying to take it slow, you know? Don't want to rush into anything."
Pharrell nodded approvingly. "Smart move. India's a good girl, but she's got some... interesting people around her. Those producers of her show, for one. Just keep your eyes open, alright?"
"Will do," Arell agreed. "Thanks, man."
Pharrell clapped his hands together. "Alright, enough gossip. Let's make some music!"
He turned to his equipment, fingers dancing over the controls. Pharrell cycled through beat after beat, each one a masterclass in production. Arell leaned in, his keen ear catching every nuance, every layer. His head nodded involuntarily to the rhythm, fingers tapping out patterns on his knee.
"This one," Pharrell said, queuing up the twelfth beat of the session, "is something special. I'm working on it for that new movie. Hidden Figures, you know it?"
Arell's eyebrows shot up. "Never head of it, but if you're music is on there, I'll definetly watch it."
Pharrell grinned, hitting play. The studio filled with a stripped-down, skeletal version of what would become ("WTF (Where They From)" By Missy Elliot).
"It's not there yet," Pharrell admitted, "but the flow's locked in. Check out the chorus."
As the hook hit, Arell's eyes lit up. The drawn out lines echoed through the room, infectious even without the full production.
"Damn, that's catchy," Arell said, already imagining the finished product. Then something caught his attention. "Wait, what's that at the beginning? Those four counts?"
Pharrell's smile widened. "Good ear, man. That's my producer tag. Four counts, subtle but distinctive."
"That's mad creative," Arell nodded appreciatively. "Subtle branding, I like it."
Pharrell leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming on the armrest. "I'm still working on the samples though. Can't quite find the right sound to tie it all together."
Arell closed his eyes, letting the beat wash over him. His mind raced, picking apart the layers, searching for the missing pieces. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open.
"What about...," he paused, searching for the right words. "There's this old funk track, heavy on the brass. I think it could work perfectly here."
Pharrell raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Show me."
Arell leaned forward, fingers flying over the keyboard. He pulled up the track, isolating a specific section. The funk-laden brass blared through the speakers, and Pharrell's eyes widened.
"That's it," he breathed. "That's exactly what this beat needs."
For the next hour, they dove deep into the sample, Arell had a innate understanding of musical structure due to his Hidden Statuses like Art of the Sample and Ear for Music, and it complemented Pharrell's years of experience. They chopped, twisted, and manipulated the sample, weaving it into the beat.
As the new version of the track played through the speakers, Pharrell shook his head in amazement. "Man, you've got a gift. That ear of yours, it's something special."
Arell beamed with pride, but kept his cool. "Just trying to keep up with you"
Pharrell laughed. "Keep this up, and you'll be leaving us all in the dust soon enough."
"This is good," he said, nodding towards the speakers still pumping out their creation. "Really good. Of course, it's not finished yet, but..."
Arell completed the thought. "But it's got that spark. That thing that makes people sit up and take notice."
Pharrell pointed at him, nodding emphatically. "Exactly. That's what separates the good from the great in this business. Being able to hear that spark, to nurture it."
Arell leaned back, absorbing Pharrell's words. Then, curiosity getting the better of him, he asked, "So, who are those people you mentioned might be stopping by?"
Pharrell's response was casual, almost nonchalant. "Oh, you know, just a few friends. Kanye's supposed to swing by. Timbaland too. Maybe a couple others."
Arell's eyes widened, Kanye? Yeezy? And he just said it so… leisurly. He tried to keep his cool, but inside he was buzzing with excitement, meeting Kanye? No disrespect to Rocky but Kanye was on a whole other level.
Pharrell, seemingly oblivious to Arell's internal struggle, changed the subject. "So, tell me about your music plans. What's next for Arell Rose?"
Grateful for the distraction, Arell cleared his throat. "Well, I'm working on a mixtape right now. Planning to drop it this year like, in a few months. Then I've got an album in the works for next year."
Pharrell nodded approvingly. "Smart move. How's the progress on the mixtape?"
"It's coming along," Arell said, a hint of pride in his voice. "I'd say it's about three-quarters finished. Just need to decide on some final song selections, then it's mixing and mastering time."
Pharrell's eyes lit up with interest. "You got any of it with you? I'd love to hear what you're working on."
Arell hesitated for a moment, then reached into his pocket, pulling out a flash drive. "Yeah, actually. I've got a few tracks here."
Pharrell grinned, gesturing towards the sound system. "Well, what are you waiting for? Let's hear it!"
Arell inserted the flash drive and queued up the first track. As the opening beats of "Pink Dust" filled the studio, Arell watched Pharrell's face intently, searching for any reaction.
As the track played, Pharrell's head began to nod, his fingers tapping out the rhythm on the armrest of his chair.
[Reference Track: Lil Uzi Vert (Neon Gutz)]
"Extraterrestrial swag, I transcend the terrestrial plane
Draped in fabrics so rare, they ain't got a name
Diamonds dance on my chest, a constellation of wealth
Pink Dust got me ascendin', I'm outside of myself
Whip game ridiculous, paint job meticulous
Every move calculated, my wins are continuous
Stacking paper to the heavens, no time for hesitation
My ambition's on ten, no need for meditation
Eternal Atake, now I'm Eternal Pink
Life's a movie and I'm the star, no need for casting me
Diamonds dancin' on my neck, they do ballet and sync
Pink Dust got me floatin', I'm in my own galaxy
Nah, this Pink Tour Ecstasy
Balenci' on my body, I'm a walkin' lick
Pink tint in my vision, world look fantastic
Six foot Rose, big money, that's oxymoronic
Pink Dust in my system, flow supersonic
Pink Dust floatin', high off success
Never settle for less, always aim for the best
Young and rich, diamonds dancin' on my wrist
Money talks, bullshit walks, don't get it twisted
In the club poppin' bottles, livin' life lavish"
[Chorus]
"Neon dreams and Pink Dust schemes
We're illuminated, seams gleam
Cash rules everything, cream on cream
Living life vivid like a lucid dream
Elevated minds, we reign supreme
Neon nights, Pink Dust dreams
Breaking barriers, busting seams
Real recognize real, we're the cream"
[Verse 2]
Pink dreams, cream schemes (Yeah)
I'm illuminated at the seams (Glow)
Neon nights, Pink Dust life (Bright)
Living lucid, cutting through with a knife (Sharp)
Elevated mind, I'm so refined (Up)
Breaking barriers, leaving Earth behind (Gone)
Real recognize real, I'm one of a kind (Rare)
Pink Dust got me feeling so divine (Godly)
Alien swag, I'm not from Earth (Woah)
Designer fits from birth (Yeah)
Neon aura, I'm worth a milli (Mill')
Pink diamonds, wrist so chilly (Brr)
Lamborghini, color silly (Skrrt)
Stack my money to the ceiling (Racks)
They can't see me, John Cena (Hey)
Pink Dust turned me to a boss, call me Pink Pluto
My diamonds water like Fiji, no Voss, though
Neon dreams got me beaming, I'm too gleaming
Pink Dust in my system, got me fiending
I'm that Pink Panther, smooth criminal
My life's animated, no it's not minimal
From dark nights to neon lights, what a glow up
Rockstar life, but I'm punk like it's 1977
Pink Dust got me levitating straight to heaven
They say money talk, mine's multilingual
My drip extraterrestrial, no habitual
Pink car, tinted windows, can't see me
Stack my guap so tall, it's kissing the ceiling
I'm a Pink Dust baby, born in Atlantic City
Neon in my veins, my swag's like my girl, so pretty.
[Bridge]
Geeked up, Pink Cup (Sip)
Minds shift when I pull up (Skrrt)
Can't resist this Pink Dust (Nope)
We've been winning, they disgusted (Mad)
New dimension, we adjust quick (Adapt)
Pink print, we leaving our mark, distinct (Stamp)
[Chorus]
"Neon dreams and Pink Dust schemes
We're illuminated, seams gleam
Cash rules everything, cream on cream
Living life vivid like a lucid dream
Elevated minds, we reign supreme
Neon nights, Pink Dust dreams
Breaking barriers, busting seams
Real recognize real, we're the cream"
[Outro]
"Neon aura, Pink Dust flowing (Yeah)
Minds elevated, we keep growing (Up)
Future's ours for the knowing (What)
Pink Dust, keep it glowing (Glow)"
When the song ended, he turned to Arell with a thoughtful expression.
"You can sing," he said, a note of approval in his voice. "The beat's good, but it could be bouncier, more majestic. But your flow, man... that's something special."
Encouraged by Pharrell's words, Arell queued up the next track. Whatever She Wants began to play, its smooth R&B vibes filling the room.
As the song progressed, Pharrell's eyes closed, his head swaying to the rhythm. When it ended, he opened his eyes, a broad smile on his face.
"Now that," he said, pointing at the speakers, "that needs no changing. It's perfect as it is. Your voice, the production, the lyrics - it all comes together beautifully."
Arell felt a warmth spread through his chest at Pharrell's praise. He quickly played through Blue Balenciagas, Slimed In, and Fair Trade, each earning nods of approval from Pharrell.
Then, Arell queued up Outside. As the soulful melody filled the studio, Pharrell leaned forward, his attention fully captured.
When the song ended, Pharrell was silent for a moment, his eyes distant. Then he turned to Arell, his expression serious.
"Beautiful," he said softly. "Absolutely beautiful. There's so much soul in this, man. It's... it's really something special."
Pharrell paused, studying Arell's face. "Did you grow up in church?"
Arell nodded, his eyes growing distant as memories began to surface. "Yeah," he said softly. "Yeah, I did..."
As Arell's voice trailed off, his mind drifted back to his childhood, to Sunday mornings filled with gospel music and the powerful voices of the choir...
Chicago, Summer 2004
The old wooden pews of Greater Mount Olive Baptist Church creaked under the weight of the congregation, packed tightly for the morning service. Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns across the worn hymnals and bowed heads.Su
Arell fidgeted in his seat, tugging uncomfortably at the stiff collar of his Sunday best. His grandmother, sat beside him, her eyes closed in fervent prayer, her weathered hands clasped tightly in her lap.
His grandmother was a fixture in the community, known for her unwavering faith and her famous peach cobbler. Her round face was etched with lines that spoke of both laughter and hardship, and her eyes held a warmth that could melt the coldest heart. But beneath that warmth was a steely resolve, forged by years of struggle and sacrifice.
As the choir launched into a rousing rendition of Oh Happy Day, Arell surreptitiously slipped his flip phone from his pocket, eager to check if his Kenny had messaged him about their plans to hit up the arcade later.
Just as he was about to open the message, a bony finger pinched his ear, causing him to yelp in surprise.
"Uh-uh, child," Mrs. Gladys, the stern-faced usher, whispered harshly. "You know better than to be playing with that contraption during service." She plucked the phone from his hand, ignoring his protests. "You can have this back when we're done praising the Lord."
His granmother, who had opened her eyes at the commotion, gave Arell a reproachful look. "You mind your manners now, boy," she murmured. "The Lord sees everything."
Arell slumped in his seat, resigned to his fate.
Pastor Johnson took his place at the pulpit, his deep voice resonating through the church. "Brothers and sisters," he began, "today I want to talk to you about temptation."
Arell's attention drifted as the pastor delved into his sermon, his words flowing over the young boy like water off a duck's back.
"The world out there," Pastor Johnson's voice boomed, "it's full of shiny things that catch your eye. Things that promise fun, excitement, a quick fix to all your problems. But let me tell you something, young people - those things are nothing but fool's gold."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the congregation. "You might think that little hit, that little high, that quick money from the corner will solve all your problems. But it's a lie, straight from the pit of hell itself."
Arell's ears perked up slightly at the mention of "the corner." He'd seen the older boys hanging out there, their pockets full of cash, their necks adorned with gleaming chains. A part of him couldn't help but be curious.
"The enemy," Pastor Johnson continued, his voice rising, "he's crafty. He knows just how to tempt you. He'll make it look good, make it seem harmless. 'Just this once,' he'll whisper. 'Nobody will know.' But God knows, children. God always knows."
The congregation murmured in agreement, a chorus of "Amen" and "Preach" rising from the pews.
"And let me tell you something else," the pastor said, leaning forward on the pulpit. "Those streets out there? They don't love you. That gang? They don't love you. That drug dealer flashing his cash? He sure as hell doesn't love you."
Arell squirmed in his seat, feeling as if the pastor's words were aimed directly at him.
"But you know who does love you?" Pastor Johnson's voice softened. "Your family. Your community. And most of all, God Almighty Himself. He loves you so much He sent His only son to die for you. Now that's love, children. That's the kind of love that will never lead you astray."
As the sermon went on, Arell's attention waned again. He found himself counting the cracks in the ceiling, imagining shapes in the patterns of the stained glass, anything to make the time pass faster.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the service came to an end. As the congregation filed out, the church came alive with chatter and laughter. This was Arell's favorite part - the after-service socializing, where the starched collars loosened and the real community shone through.
His grandmother was immediately surrounded by her friends, a group of older women who had seen each other through thick and thin over the decades.
"Rose, child," Mrs. Beatrice said, clasping his Grandmother's hands. "That cobbler you brought to the bake sale was divine. You simply must give me the recipe."
SHe chuckled, a warm, rich sound that always made Arell feel safe. "Now, Bea, you know a good cook never reveals all her secrets. But I might be persuaded to part with a tip or two over a cup of tea."
As the women chatted, Arell seized his chance. "Grandma," he said, tugging at her sleeve. "Can I go play outside?"
Mama Rose looked down at him, her eyes softening. "Alright, baby. But stay where I can see you, you hear? And don't you go messing up your good clothes."
Arell nodded eagerly, already backing away. "Yes, ma'am!"
He darted through the crowd, dodging between legs and around clutches of gossiping adults. As he burst out into the sunlight, he felt a weight lift off his shoulders.
A group of kids had already gathered in the small yard beside the church, their laughter and shouts filling the air. Arell joined them, his dress shoes scuffing in the dirt as he ran.
As they played an impromptu game of tag, Arell couldn't help but notice the difference between the joyful chaos of their game and the serious discussions of the adults nearby. He overheard snippets of conversation - talk of rising rent prices, of so-and-so's boy getting mixed up with the wrong crowd, of another family forced to move when they couldn't make ends meet.
Even in his youthful exuberance, Arell couldn't entirely escape the reality of their neighborhood.
As the afternoon wore on, Arell found himself sitting on the church steps, catching his breath. He watched as his grandmother said her goodbyes, hugging each of her friends in turn.
She then made her way over to him. "Ready to go home, baby?" she asked, holding out her hand.
Arell nodded, slipping his small hand into hers. As they walked home, the sounds of the church fading behind them, he looked up at his grandmother. Despite the lines on her face and the grey in her hair, there was an undeniable strength about her, a resilience that seemed to radiate from within.
"Grandma," he said suddenly, "why do we have to go to church every Sunday? It's so boring."
She chuckled, squeezing his hand gently. "Oh, child. Church isn't just about sitting still and listening to Pastor Johnson. It's about community. It's about remembering where we come from and who we are."
She paused, her eyes growing distant. "You see, baby, this world can be a hard place. Especially for folks like us. But when we come together in the Lord's house, we remind ourselves that we're not alone. That we're all God's children, all worthy of love and respect."
Arell pondered this, his young mind grappling with concepts beyond his years. "But why can't we just do that at home?"
Mama Rose smiled, a hint of sadness in her eyes. "We could, baby. But there's power in numbers. When we stand together, lift our voices together, we're stronger. And in this world, we need all the strength we can get."
As they walked, Arell noticed how people on the street greeted his grandmother - with genuine smiles, with respect. Even the tough-looking guys on the corner nodded in acknowledgment as they passed.
"You know," Mama Rose continued, her voice softening, "your mama and daddy, they didn't always make the best choices. But they loved you, baby. They loved you something fierce."
Arell felt a familiar pang in his chest at the mention of his parents. He barely remembered them, just fleeting images and half-formed memories.
"Is that why they left?" he asked, his voice small.
She stopped walking, kneeling down to look Arell in the eye. "Now you listen to me, Arell," she said, her voice firm but gentle. "Your parents, they had their demons. But that don't mean they didn't love you. Sometimes... sometimes people gotta go away to fight their battles. But that don't mean you're any less worthy of love."
She cupped his face in her hands, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "You're a blessing, child. Don't you ever forget that. No matter what happens, no matter what choices you make, you will always be loved."
Arell nodded, fighting back his own tears. He didn't fully understand everything she was saying, but he felt the weight of her words, the importance of this moment.
"Arell? Arell?"
The voice seemed to come from far away, echoing through the corridors of his memory. Suddenly, Arell blinked, the warm Chicago sun fading away to reveal Pharrell's concerned face staring at him.
"You good, man?" Pharrell asked, his brow furrowed with worry.
Arell shook his head slightly, clearing away the last wisps of the memory. "Yeah, yeah, I'm good. Just... got lost in thought for a second there."
Pharrell nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Church memories can do that to you. Hit you when you least expect it."
Arell managed a small smile. "Yeah, they sure can." He cleared his throat, eager to move on. "Hey, I've got one more track I wanted to show you. If you've got time, that is."
"Of course," Pharrell said, leaning back in his chair. "Let's hear it."
Arell queued up the last track, his heart rate picking up a bit as the opening notes of Rihanna My Type filled the studio. He watched Pharrell's face intently as the song played, trying to gauge his reaction.
As the final notes faded away, Pharrell was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke.
"This is good, Arell. Really good. But..." he paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "It's dangerous."
Arell's brow furrowed. "Dangerous? What do you mean?"
Pharrell sighed, running a hand over his face. "Look, if you release this, certain people might take it the wrong way. A lot of wrong eyes could land on you. It might not seem harmful now, but... trust me, you'll understand later on."
He leaned forward, his gaze intense. "Just like with Diddy, I'd recommend you stay away from Rihanna. For now, at least."
Arell opened his mouth to ask for more details, but Pharrell quickly changed the subject, his tone becoming more upbeat.
"But hey, let's get positive. I'm going to help you finish this mixtape."
Arell blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "Now?"
Pharrell grinned. "Why not? You've got lyrics written and a creative direction, right?"
"Yeah, but-"
"Then let's lay out the next tracks and get them composed," Pharrell said, already moving towards the mixing board. "No time like the present, right? Plus, we've got a few hours until the others arrive."