12-26-2024, 09:30 PM
Ezvin listened intently, standing grounded but entirely focused as Cadence spoke, her passion pouring into the room like a rising tide. This was what he lived for—not the mechanics of music production, not the endless meetings or polished deals, but this: the fire in an artist’s voice when they shared their vision, raw and unfiltered.
He didn’t interrupt. He wouldn’t dream of it. Instead, he let her words shape the moment, studying the subtle nuances in her tone, the way her energy shifted, the flicker of darkness in her eyes when she mentioned embracing the good and bad. It wasn’t just ambition driving her—it was deeply personal, the kind of project that artists poured their soul into, no matter the cost. Ezvin felt a faint pang of admiration—and respect.
When she mentioned her "Abbey Road" and "A Night at the Opera," a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Those weren’t casual references; those were masterpieces, each created by artists who had thrown convention to the wind and redefined themselves in the process. And now Cadence Mathis was standing here, with that same bold conviction, ready to push boundaries and claim her own space in music history.
As she spoke of her responsibility to inspire others, Ezvin caught the quiet shift in her voice—the vulnerability beneath the strength. That vulnerability didn’t make her weaker in his eyes; if anything, it made her more compelling. She wasn’t here to play it safe. She wasn’t here to settle. She was here to reach people, to challenge them, and to give them something real. And for someone who had spent his life working with artists, Ezvin understood exactly what that took: unrelenting passion, raw honesty, and yes, sometimes a touch of chaos.
When Cadence brought up her idiosyncrasies, her social anxiety, and her moodiness, Ezvin simply nodded, his expression steady. He wasn’t fazed. He’d worked with divas who made entire orchestras walk out, with perfectionists who rewrote the same chord progression twenty times. None of that mattered to him if the vision was pure, and here, it absolutely was.
Then came the invitation—a rare one, he could tell—to pick up his guitar and join them. She’s testing me, he thought, his fingers itching to meet the challenge. He appreciated the subtlety of it, though. She wasn’t demanding an audition, but she was inviting him to prove he could be a part of this—her vision, her band, her sound.
He set his messenger bag down gently, unzipping his guitar case. As he pulled out the instrument, a sleek acoustic-electric that had traveled with him through countless sessions, he felt a quiet thrill settle over him. This wasn’t about impressing anyone; it was about slipping into the music, letting it guide him.
Ezvin met Cadence’s gaze and offered her a small, confident smile.
“You don’t have to worry about me, Cadence. I’m not here to change you, or control this. I’m here to amplify what’s already there—and believe me, what’s already there is powerful.”
He slid the guitar strap over his shoulder and gave it a quick tune, his movements efficient but unhurried.
“As for the sheet music,” he added, his tone lightly teasing as he gestured toward Casey, “sure, I’ll take a look—but I’ve got a pretty good ear if you want me to just jump in and feel it out.”
He let his gaze drift back to Cadence, his smile softening into something genuine.
“You said it yourself: this is all about the music. Let’s make some.”
Without waiting for further prompts, he strummed the strings lightly, testing the tone, and shifted his weight slightly as the band prepared to start.
He didn’t interrupt. He wouldn’t dream of it. Instead, he let her words shape the moment, studying the subtle nuances in her tone, the way her energy shifted, the flicker of darkness in her eyes when she mentioned embracing the good and bad. It wasn’t just ambition driving her—it was deeply personal, the kind of project that artists poured their soul into, no matter the cost. Ezvin felt a faint pang of admiration—and respect.
When she mentioned her "Abbey Road" and "A Night at the Opera," a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Those weren’t casual references; those were masterpieces, each created by artists who had thrown convention to the wind and redefined themselves in the process. And now Cadence Mathis was standing here, with that same bold conviction, ready to push boundaries and claim her own space in music history.
As she spoke of her responsibility to inspire others, Ezvin caught the quiet shift in her voice—the vulnerability beneath the strength. That vulnerability didn’t make her weaker in his eyes; if anything, it made her more compelling. She wasn’t here to play it safe. She wasn’t here to settle. She was here to reach people, to challenge them, and to give them something real. And for someone who had spent his life working with artists, Ezvin understood exactly what that took: unrelenting passion, raw honesty, and yes, sometimes a touch of chaos.
When Cadence brought up her idiosyncrasies, her social anxiety, and her moodiness, Ezvin simply nodded, his expression steady. He wasn’t fazed. He’d worked with divas who made entire orchestras walk out, with perfectionists who rewrote the same chord progression twenty times. None of that mattered to him if the vision was pure, and here, it absolutely was.
Then came the invitation—a rare one, he could tell—to pick up his guitar and join them. She’s testing me, he thought, his fingers itching to meet the challenge. He appreciated the subtlety of it, though. She wasn’t demanding an audition, but she was inviting him to prove he could be a part of this—her vision, her band, her sound.
He set his messenger bag down gently, unzipping his guitar case. As he pulled out the instrument, a sleek acoustic-electric that had traveled with him through countless sessions, he felt a quiet thrill settle over him. This wasn’t about impressing anyone; it was about slipping into the music, letting it guide him.
Ezvin met Cadence’s gaze and offered her a small, confident smile.
“You don’t have to worry about me, Cadence. I’m not here to change you, or control this. I’m here to amplify what’s already there—and believe me, what’s already there is powerful.”
He slid the guitar strap over his shoulder and gave it a quick tune, his movements efficient but unhurried.
“As for the sheet music,” he added, his tone lightly teasing as he gestured toward Casey, “sure, I’ll take a look—but I’ve got a pretty good ear if you want me to just jump in and feel it out.”
He let his gaze drift back to Cadence, his smile softening into something genuine.
“You said it yourself: this is all about the music. Let’s make some.”
Without waiting for further prompts, he strummed the strings lightly, testing the tone, and shifted his weight slightly as the band prepared to start.