The mixing board's meters danced in hypnotic patterns as Beyoncé stepped out to take a call, leaving Rico and me alone in the purple-tinged twilight of the control room. He settled into the leather chair beside me, his face carrying that particular expression I'd learned to read years ago—both in this life and the last.
"Columbia's nervous about the production style," he said, sliding a piece of paper across the console. "They're calling it 'aggressively experimental.'" He tapped the page where their feedback was highlighted in sterile yellow. "Says here it 'lacks commercial viability.'"
I had to suppress a laugh. In my past life, these exact production techniques had defined the sound of 2015. The layered 808s, the pristine vocal processing, the atmospheric synthesizers that seemed to breathe between the beats—it was all coming a decade early. But I couldn't tell Rico that.
"Play them the bridge again," I said, pulling up the isolated tracks. "But this time, listen to how it builds."
*Time keeps slipping through my fingers
Like diamonds in the rain
Every memory still lingers
Of a future yet to remain
And baby, when the clock strikes twice
On moments we outgrew
Will you take the paradise
We lost and make it new?*
I brought up each element individually: first the thundering sub-bass that made the monitors tremble, then the crystalline piano that floated above it like morning mist, followed by the intricate drum programming that would have felt at home in any future club. Finally, I added Beyoncé's vocals, processed through techniques I'd learned (would learn?) from producers who hadn't even started making music yet.
"Damn," Rico whispered, shaking his head. "Where do you get these ideas from, kid?"
The question hung in the air like incense, and I focused on adjusting a high-pass filter to avoid his gaze. How could I explain that I'd spent twenty years studying every production innovation, every technological advancement, every subtle shift in musical taste? That in my other life, I'd produced tracks for artists who were still in middle school?
"Sometimes," I said carefully, "you have to trust your instincts."
The studio door opened, and Beyoncé returned with her BlackBerry still in hand, her expression unreadable in the dim light. "That was Jay," she said, settling back onto the couch behind us. "He wants to hear what we've been working on."
My heart skipped a beat. In my previous timeline, Jay-Z hadn't heard my production work until 2010. Every change I made to the past created new ripples, new possibilities, new dangers. I'd learned to surf these temporal waves carefully, but some moments still caught me off guard.
"Play him the whole thing," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Including the breakdown."
Rico raised an eyebrow. "The experimental one? After what Columbia just said?"
"Especially that one." I began making minor adjustments to the mix, knowing exactly how it would sound through phone speakers. In my other life, I'd spent years perfecting this skill for the streaming era. "Trust me."
Beyoncé watched me work with that penetrating gaze that always made me wonder if she could see through my carefully constructed facade. "You know something we don't, Marcus?"
I met her eyes in the reflection of the control room glass, twenty years of shared memories that hadn't happened yet flowing between us like electricity. "I just know how it needs to sound," I said softly.
The sun had fully risen now, painting Lower Manhattan in shades of gold and promise. Through the window, I could see a billboard for the iPhone's upcoming release, and I smiled at the irony. The future was coming, one way or another. I was just helping it arrive a little early.
I hit play, and the room filled with music that wouldn't exist for another decade. But this time, as Beyoncé's voice soared over the bridge, I caught Rico nodding along, his initial skepticism transforming into something like wonder. He'd taken a chance on a teenage producer who seemed to know too much, and now that bet was about to pay off in ways he couldn't imagine.
The track built to its climax, every element falling into place like pieces of a puzzle I'd solved long ago. In the back of my mind, I could hear the roar of future crowds, see the headlines that hadn't been written yet. But for now, in this studio as dawn broke over the city, all that mattered was the music—and the careful dance between what was and what could be.
After all, some songs were worth waiting twenty years to produce. Even if you had to go back in time to do it right.