The following Saturday, Alex found himself not in a sterile recording studio, but in his father's surprisingly plush home office. David Vance, in weekend casuals, sat behind his large mahogany desk, a stark contrast to his usual tailored suits. On the desk, instead of financial reports, lay a yellow legal pad where he was jotting down notes as Alex spoke.
Alex, armed with his acoustic guitar and a mental list curated by the [Maestro's Codex] for maximum parental "wow" factor, had spent the morning playing. He started with "Photograph," its nostalgic warmth clearly resonating. Then, a stripped-back, earnest rendition of "Say You Won't Let Go" by James Arthur. He followed with "Let Her Go" by Passenger, its bittersweet melody hanging in the air. These were songs with universal appeal, built on strong songwriting and relatable emotion, perfect for convincing a businessman father with a good ear but no deep music industry knowledge.
He avoided anything too stylistically "out there" for now – no NF intensity, no layered electronic textures of The Chainsmokers. Just pure, unadulterated songcraft.
David listened intently, occasionally asking Alex to repeat a line or a chord progression. His initial stunned surprise had morphed into a serious, almost forensic curiosity.
"And you… you just 'came up' with all of these?" David finally asked, tapping his pen on the pad. The slight skepticism was still there, but it was warring with genuine awe.
"The melodies, the lyrics… they sort of just… arrive," Alex said, mastering the art of the vague-yet-prodigious explanation. The System, bless its silent digital heart, offered no comment on his ethical tightrope walk. "I hear them in my head, pretty much fully formed."
"Remarkable," David murmured, more to himself than to Alex. He looked at his notes. "Alright, Alex. I'm… impressed. More than impressed. I think you genuinely have something here. A significant talent." He paused. "You mentioned 'equipment.' And a 'label.'"
This was it. Alex leaned forward. "Yes. To do these songs justice, to get them out there properly, I need more than my laptop and old guitar. I need studio-quality microphones, a powerful computer with professional software, monitors, audio interfaces… the works. And for the label, it's about more than just my music. It's about building something. A platform."
David raised an eyebrow. "A platform for what? Other fifteen-year-olds writing hit songs in their bedrooms?"
Alex met his gaze evenly. "Maybe. But also for finding other talented artists who don't have a voice yet. For creating music that matters. Look, Dad, the music out there right now… it's fine. But it's safe. It's predictable. I think people are hungry for something… more. Something real." He was channeling every industry pitch meeting he'd ever sat through.
The Codex pinged softly in his mind: [Rhetorical Strategy: Effective. Aligning personal ambition with market opportunity appeals to Subject D. Vance's business acumen.] Alex mentally told it to quiet down.
David was silent for a long moment, looking out the window. Alex knew his father. He was calculating, weighing risks and rewards. In his original timeline, his father had been supportive but cautious, his business dealings more traditional. This version seemed… bolder. Perhaps it was the unexpectedness of Alex's talent, or perhaps this parallel world's David Vance just had a higher risk tolerance.
"Starting a record label from scratch is a monumental undertaking, Alex," David said finally. "And you're still in high school. How would you manage that?"
"I can learn. I will learn," Alex said, passion lacing his voice. "The creative side, I know. The music, the production, finding the right sounds. The business side… that's where I'd need your help. Your guidance. Your experience." Buttering him up, but sincerely.
David gave a wry smile. "So, I'm not just the bank, I'm the mentor too?"
"Exactly," Alex said, grinning. "Who better?"
His father sighed, but it wasn't a sigh of exasperation. It was the sigh of someone accepting a surprising new challenge. "Okay. Let's lay out some ground rules. We'll start with the equipment. I'll provide a reasonable budget. You research what you need – professional grade, but not gold-plated. Present me with a list and a justification for each item."
Alex's heart soared. "Yes! Thank you, Dad."
"Don't thank me yet. This is an investment, Alex. I expect to see a return, not just financially, but in terms of effort and commitment from you. Schoolwork doesn't slide. And this 'label' idea… we'll take it one step at a time. Get the music made first. Make it undeniable."
"It will be," Alex promised, conviction ringing in his voice. He already knew which songs he'd tackle first for professional recording. The System was already cataloging "Best First Release Options – Timeline B Optimised."
"We'll also need to consider the legalities," David continued, already shifting into business mode. "Copyrighting these songs in your name. Setting up a simple business structure if this takes off. Since you're a minor, I'll have to be heavily involved."
"I understand." And he did. In many ways, it was a relief. He knew music, not contract law.
The rest of the weekend was a whirlwind of research for Alex. Guided by the System's database of professional audio gear (with handy notes on what was available and considered high-end in 2015), he compiled a list: a Mac Pro (a beast even then), Pro Tools software (the industry standard), a Neumann U87 microphone (the dream of any vocalist), Yamaha HS8 studio monitors, a Focusrite audio interface, quality cables, headphones, and a few essential plugins the System flagged as "highly versatile for early-stage diverse production."
He presented the list to his father on Sunday evening, complete with estimated costs and justifications for why each piece was crucial. David reviewed it meticulously, asked pointed questions Alex (thanks to the System's pre-emptive information blurbs and his own ingrained knowledge) answered confidently.
"This is… substantial," David said, looking at the projected total. It was tens of thousands of dollars. "But, you've done your homework." He nodded slowly. "Alright. I'll arrange the funds. We'll convert the spare room next to yours into a proper home studio space. Insulation, acoustic treatment – the basics, at least, to start."
Alex was floored. This was more than he'd dared hope for so quickly. "Dad, I… I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll make me proud," David said, a rare warmth in his eyes. "And that you'll prove this isn't some passing fad."
"I will," Alex said, his voice thick with emotion. "I absolutely will."
As he lay in bed that night, the digital glow of the Codex illuminating his thoughts, he scrolled through its endless catalog. "Thinking Out Loud," "Photograph," "Shape of You" – these would be his first flagships. Under his own name. His own voice, recreating these masterpieces for a world that had never known them.
The plans for Echo Chamber Records were no longer just a dream. The blueprints were being laid. The revolution had found its funding. The silence was about to break.
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