The Greatest Showman

Pushing open the door once again, Andy looked at the mess in the hallway—it was as if he had travelled back to the 1960s, the era when hippie culture and anarchism were all the rage. He glanced at the hot milk in his hand—a glass cup filled with fresh milk, just heated in the microwave and still a bit too hot to hold comfortably, so he cradled it carefully in his palms. He felt like he’d suddenly regressed, like some rookie nanny. Oh dear.
Only a fresh-faced junior agent would handle this kind of task personally. Once you climbed up the ranks, all the trivial chores would be passed to an assistant. Even if Renly didn’t have an assistant, Andy did. But from yesterday to today, everything had gone off-script, and he hadn’t even made it to the office yet. In this emergency, he had no choice but to do it all himself.

Andy shook his head helplessly. He still had a ton of things to deal with—there was no way he could stay by Renly’s side the whole time. For now, he’d just deliver the hot milk, then head back to the company and send an assistant over.

As he pushed open the recording studio door, Andy saw Herbert with his right hand on a red button, his voice hoarse as he said,
“…the bass track here is still too loud. I’ll turn it down a bit and then try again.”

Before he could finish, Renly, seated in the recording booth, interjected,
“Lower the drum sound, too. I think it’s interfering with the texture of the electric guitar—kind of annoying. For the verse section, I’d prefer to keep the focus on the guitar strings; otherwise, it ruins the whole vibe of the song.”

“But if we want the arrangement to be rich and layered, we can’t rely solely on the electric guitar’s strings.”

“No, no, that’s not it. Once you lower the drums and bass, we can bring in the depth and layering during the vocal performance. That’s what will make the whole track fuller and more three-dimensional.”
Seeing that Herbert still wanted to argue, Renly shook his head and said,
“How about this—we try both versions and see how they actually sound?”

Herbert let out a dramatic sigh. Andy thought he was about to blow up, but instead, Herbert nodded in agreement.
“Alright, let’s give it a try.”

Andy was a bit surprised. Herbert was a top-tier recording engineer in the industry—he’d been part of Sound City since the late ’80s and had worked on albums for big bands like Nirvana and Guns N’ Roses. He wasn’t just experienced, he was also insanely talented. Herbert was famous for being tough, stubborn, strong-willed, and often scolding singers to tears during sessions.

But just now, in that brief exchange with Renly… Herbert had compromised? That was truly unexpected.

Taking advantage of a break, Andy handed the hot milk to Renly with a small gesture. Renly just nodded and said “Thanks,” then urged Herbert to play the second track again. Andy figured his job here was done—he could finally retreat and head back to the office.

But before Andy could turn around to leave, an argument broke out behind him:

“This is folk. Folk! I need something simple and pure. If the arrangement becomes too flashy and technical, it ends up ruining the original emotion…”

“But if the arrangement is too thin, it won’t carry the emotional weight. If you were someone like Bob Dylan, and could convey sorrow with just an acoustic guitar, then that would be fine. One guitar would be enough. But the problem is—”

“The problem is, the emotion in this song needs to be slowly savoured by the audience, not driven by the melody. It’s not the kind of song that instantly brings tears to your eyes. That kind of special feeling is different for everyone, and I don’t need to force it on them!”

“But if the arrangement isn’t more modern, the market won’t accept it!”

“Aha! Now you’re the one telling me it has to be modern? You’re telling me I need to make it marketable? Hello? Do you even realise where we are right now? Mr. Herbert Jones!”

Andy’s steps faltered. His brow furrowed, and he strongly suspected this place might soon turn into a crime scene—and Sound City would end up shutting its doors for good.

Turning around, Andy saw Herbert with both hands braced against the mixing console. The fury on his face was plain under the dim lights, his terrifying glare stormy and intense. If not for the glass barrier between them, Herbert might have already leapt across and torn Renly to pieces. The atmosphere in the recording studio froze instantly.

But Renly didn’t back down in the slightest. Eyes wide, he met Herbert’s glare head-on, calm and unyielding. It was a direct confrontation, blow for blow, wall to wall, neither side giving an inch. His whole body was tense, ready to jump into battle at a moment’s notice. Even if it meant rolling up his sleeves and going at it, he was all in.

The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder—just one spark could ignite the whole room into chaos.

“Pop!”

Suddenly, Renly took a step forward, eyes bright with excitement, and said, “Sections—we split the melody into parts. Let the electric guitar handle the lower register, the acoustic guitar play the higher one, and then use the acoustic as the main melody. In the bridge between the verse and chorus, bring in drums and keyboard to add texture. How about that?”

Herbert’s hands were still planted firmly on the console, his brows still locked in a knot. The tension was palpable, like a coiled spring. Then, without warning, he slammed his palms down on the desk. The ashtray toppled over and landed silently on the carpet, and ashes and cigarette butts scattered everywhere.

“Let’s try it.”

What?

Andy felt like his brain couldn’t keep up. One second they were at each other’s throats, and the next they were working together in perfect harmony? The creative process of artists really was beyond comprehension.

As he collected himself, Andy realised he had been overreacting—again. It was like being thrown back to his early rookie days, when his emotions were all over the place and hard to control. He wasn’t used to this anymore.

Looking over at Renly, now fully immersed in playing the guitar again, Andy had to admit: signing that agency contract with him had been the boldest and most unconventional decision he’d made in the last five years. Renly’s unconventional style—who knew where it would lead? That uncertainty was probably what had him feeling so rattled.

Maybe that was a good thing.

Taking a deep breath, Andy didn’t hesitate. He quickly left the recording studio, exited Sound City, and regained his usual calm and composed self.

“Very, very good.”

Neither Herbert nor Renly even noticed Andy had left—strictly speaking, they hadn’t even noticed his return. Renly’s earlier greeting had just been an unconscious reflex.

“Let’s stick with this approach. We’ll begin recording the vocals now. Are you ready?”

Renly set his guitar aside and stepped up to the microphone. He nodded toward Herbert, and then Herbert’s voice came through the monitor speakers:
“This is your first time in a recording studio, so let’s just do a run-through. Get a feel for it, and I’ll get a sense of your vocal qualities. Relax—just treat it like a normal performance.”

Renly gave an “OK” gesture and put in his earphones. Instantly, the entire world went silent. It was a complete and absolute silence, as if he were wrapped in a cocoon where no sound could reach him—not even his own voice. The sensation was strangely surreal. Then, the clear and cheerful melody came through the earpieces, flowing directly into his brain without resistance. It was like being surrounded by music in an endless void, inviting him to immerse himself in the ocean of notes.

Herbert sat back down and lit a cigarette, letting his tense mind relax a little. He intended to listen not as a sound engineer, but as an audience member—just to experience Renly’s first vocal recording.

The recording booth at Sound City was a brutally honest place. It amplified every nuance of a singer’s voice—the strengths and the flaws alike—stripping away any cover like peeling off clothes, laying everything bare. That raw exposure could easily crush a singer’s confidence, but it was also the foundation for producing great music. So, Herbert needed to thoroughly understand Renly’s vocal tone to properly prepare for the sessions to come.

“I was Cleopatra, I was young and an actress,
When you knelt by my mattress, and asked for my hand…”

Renly’s voice flowed through the speakers—rich and warm, with a subtle rasp that was almost imperceptible, like contrails left by a jet across the sky: lazily drifting but tinged with a soft golden glow that slowly diffused through the melody.

There was fullness in his tone, but also a thread of fragility—especially in the high notes, where his voice thinned and lightened. That rasp became more pronounced, even teetering on the edge of cracking, just enough to be jarring… and yet, miraculously, that touch of vulnerability melted into the music seamlessly. It pierced straight through to the tenderest part of the heart.

There were no excessive techniques—he sang like a true bard, forsaking all flourishes and affectations, relying solely on the truth of his voice and his heart. No polish, no pretense—just something unshaped yet natural, flowing freely like water, carried effortlessly from start to finish.
He simply stood there: one spotlight, one voice. That was it. So simple—so profoundly simple—and yet from it burst a gentle melancholy warmth. A quiet sorrow wove through the song, telling a story that belonged to him, to her, to someone, somewhere.

“But I was late for this, late for that, late for the love of my life.
And when I die alone, when I die alone, when I die, I will be on time.”

Suddenly, a thin layer of moisture clouded his eyes—an ambush of emotion that struck before one could even brace for it. A swell in the chest tightened the throat; the mess of feelings couldn’t be put into words, only drifted along with the melody—like a single fallen leaf on the long river of time. Clear yet heavy, deep yet warm.

The cigarette in Herbert’s fingers still burned. A long tail of ash, no longer able to hold itself up, fell silently to the carpet.

Then Herbert remembered what Renly had insisted on earlier:

“I need it to be simple and pure.”

Now, finally, he understood.

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