The Sounds of Death

The Sounds of Death
by Cory Graham

He was the new sensation on the club scene.
DJ Death.
So dark. So edgy. So avant garde. No one questioned his techniques or methods. It was just the way he liked it.

Musica Mortis was nearly complete.
His masterpiece, his magnum opus.
He relishes the reaction from the live shows.
The immediate feedback.
The audiences adore the pounding, pulsating beats.
His tracks follow the heartbeat of his muses.
Increasing in intensity until the final crescendo and release.

Not that every new “sample” came from someone
entering his studio by force. On the contrary.
There were plenty of aspiring singers in the city.
His plain flyers looking for a vocalist were plastered
all over the arts district. Quaintly nondescript ads in the age of flashy graphics, clip art, and funky, bold text.
But his simple, straightforward request was so very vanilla, so refreshingly plain.
Blending in with all the others.
But not to those desperate for a chance at stardom.
From the petite, pretty blonde with the Southern twang
to the plump, classically trained, operatic diva who could belt out the high
notes in life and in ensuing death.

Nevertheless, he did, on occasion enjoy the thrill of incapacitating someone
and bringing that slumped-over form into his studio.
Disorientation produced its own unique sound in the music of panic.
Scrambling about in the carefully padded room.
For acoustic purposes, naturally.
Inevitably, the victim would paw and scratch.
At the foam padding. Sonic insulation.
Meanwhile the DJ watches, observes.
Sees everything from his control room. How perfect. How poetic.
Control means everything to him. Artistic control. Complete and total.
Control over those who give their life for his art.
His “muses.”

He has met almost a dozen muses now. One per track. Just two shy of
his planned thirteen track CD waiting to be unleashed. Lucky 13.
His cell phone chimes to life. He asks for a display of her vocal talents.
She complies. He’s intrigued by her range.
He will push that range to its primal limits.
He smiles. The night is just beginning.

—Cory Graham @ 2009.

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