Chapter 453: CH : 442 How Does He Do That?

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Even though we used to argue... it’s alriiight... My booo

I know we haven’t seen each other in a whiiile...

But you will always be my boooo..."

Then the soft, aching ad-libs rose over the groove.

"Oh, my oh, my... oh, my oh, my... my boooo..."

Beyoncé’s voice floated higher, and Marvin’s magic rose with it again—gentle, shimmering, turning each "my" into something tender that melted into the sighing sample and warm chords.

"My oh, my oh... my oh, my oh... my boooo..."

They smiled, leaning into the final chorus as the beat swayed beneath them.

"It started when we were younger... you were miiine... My booo

Now another brother’s taken over... but it’s still in your eyyyes... My booo

Even though we used to argue... it’s alriiight... My booo

I know we haven’t seen each other in a whiiile...

But you will always be my boooo..."

Marvin’s voice returned alone for the soft outro, low and certain over the same relaxed groove.

"I don’t know about y’all... but I know about us and, uh...

It’s the only way we know how to rooock...

I don’t know about y’all... but I know about us and, uh...

It’s the only way we know how to rooock...

It started when we were younger...

My boooo..."

The music swelled in his headphones—a stripped-down, acoustic guitar loop layered over a deep, soulful R&B bassline. It was a different frequency from the bright pop tracks he had just recorded. This was raw, vulnerable, and nostalgic.

This was *My Boo*.

After the last word left his lips like a quiet promise. The electric piano held its warm, looping chords a moment longer, the light snare and distant vocal sample fading gently into the soft hum of the studio.

Through the glass, Marvin caught Michael swaying near the back wall.

His eyes were closed.

The last notes of the track were still hanging in the room when Michael began humming along under his breath.

"My oh, my oh..." He smiled. "My oh, my oh... my Boo..."

The melody faded from the monitors.

Michael opened his eyes.

For a moment, he just stood there, still smiling.

Marvin pulled off his headphones and pushed open the booth door. Beyoncé followed him into the control room, adjusting her vocals.

Michael turned toward them. "That was beautiful."

Marvin reached for a bottle of water. "Thank you."

"Thanks."

Michael shook his head. "No, really. That part..." He pointed toward the speakers. "When your voices come together there. It feels warm."

Beyoncé smiled. "You were listening?"

Michael gave her an amused look. "Of course I was listening."

"You came back for a Mickey Mouse pin."

"I did."

"And stayed for the song."

Michael laughed softly. "Yes."

Marvin glanced toward him. "So what happened to the pin?"

Michael touched his jacket pocket. "I lost it."

"Again?"

Michael smiled. "Apparently."

He looked back toward the console. "I was going to leave, but then I heard you singing."

His attention moved between Marvin and Beyoncé. "I couldn’t go."

Beyoncé looked at Marvin. "I think that’s a pretty good compliment."

"It is," Marvin said.

Michael stepped closer to the console. "What are you calling it?"

Marvin took another drink. "Working title."

Michael waited.

Marvin smiled. "My Boo."

Michael repeated it quietly. "My Boo..."

He nodded. "I like that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Michael pointed toward the speakers. "It’s simple. You hear it once and you remember it."

Beyoncé leaned against the edge of the console. "He wanted something simple."

Michael looked at her. "He was right."

Marvin laughed. "That’s two votes."

"Three," Max said from behind the console.

Michael turned. "You like it too?"

Max shrugged. "I’ve heard worse."

Michael laughed. "That’s a very Swedish answer."

Max grinned. Marvin shook his head.

Michael looked toward the booth again. "Can I hear the whole thing? Do you happen to have any other new songs lined up to track today?"

"Sure" Marvin nodded, gesturing generously toward the plush couch. "That’s exactly why I am here today! To finish the album. Please, have a seat."

Michael’s face brightened. "Thank you."

He moved toward the couch, then stopped. "Oh."

Paul was standing beside the leather sofa.

He held up a small gold Mickey Mouse brooch between two fingers. "Found it."

Michael stared at it.

Then at Paul. "You had it the whole time?"

"It was under the couch."

Michael took it from him and examined the little pin. "I was looking everywhere."

Paul said nothing.

Michael slipped it into his pocket.

Marvin smiled. "Good thing you lost it."

Michael looked at him. "Exactly."

He smiled again. "I think Mickey wanted me to hear the song."

Beyoncé laughed. "Maybe he did."

Michael settled onto the couch, crossing one leg over the other. "Go ahead. Don’t change anything for me."

Marvin looked at Max. "You heard him."

Max reached for the controls. "Got it."

The room quieted.

Marvin went back toward the booth.

Beyoncé sat beside the three girls who were momentarily absorbed in the music. "You’re recording another one?"

"Yeah."

"What?"

"You’ll hear it."

She narrowed her eyes. "You’re doing that on purpose."

"Maybe."

"You’re annoying."

"You’re still here."

She smiled. "Yeah. I am."

Marvin stepped into the booth.

The door closed.

Michael watched through the glass.

The lights on the console came alive again.

Max brought up the next track. The opening beat rolled through the monitors.

Michael’s eyebrows lifted. "Oh."

Marvin adjusted the microphone. He listened to the intro once.

Then the first line came. His voice filled the booth.

Michael leaned forward.

The song was bright on the surface, but Marvin’s delivery gave it something heavier. The melody remained catchy, almost deceptively simple, while the vocals carried more weight than the arrangement suggested.

Michael’s fingers began tapping against his knee.

He smiled.

Then he looked toward Max. "What song is this?"

Max glanced through the glass. "Baby."

Michael laughed softly. "Baby?"

"That’s what he calls it."

Michael turned back toward Marvin. "I like it."

He settled deeper into the couch. "Very much."

....

...

..

.

"When I see her in the street...

And at school on the playground...

But I really wanna see her on the weekeeend..."

His voice had changed.

The verses had carried a little more energy, but now there was something softer underneath it. He didn’t push the notes. He let them fall naturally, almost like he was admitting something he wouldn’t say out loud.

The bright claps kept ticking underneath him, the bass synth giving the song its weight, but Marvin’s voice pulled everything closer.

"She knows she got me daziiing...

’Cause she was so amaziiing...

And now my heart is breakiiing...

But I just keep on saayiiing..."

Something stirred inside his chest. The magic woven into the song almost before anyone can even understand it.

Marvin leaned closer to the microphone.

The mana slipped into his voice, subtle enough that nobody in the room could have pointed to anything strange. It simply made the words land harder. Each repeated phrase carried a little more warmth, a little more ache. The kind of sound that made a simple pop lyric feel as though it had been written for whoever happened to be listening.

Then the chorus came.

"Baaaby... baaaby... baaaby, ohhh...

Like baaaby... baaaby... baaaby, nooo...

Like baaaby... baaaby... baaaby, ohhh...

Thought you’d always be miiine... miiine..."

He stretched the vowels, letting the notes hang just long enough.

The sweetness in his voice was almost disarming.

There was no force behind it. No dramatic belt. Just that soft, pleading quality that made the chorus feel much more vulnerable than the bright production underneath suggested.

He went through it again.

"Baaaby... baaaby... baaaby, ohhh...

Like baaaby... baaaby... baaaby, nooo...

Like baaaby... baaaby... baaaby, ohhh...

Thought you’d always be miiine... miiine..."

On the final "mine," his voice cracked. Perfectly. Not enough to sound accidental, but enough to make it hurt.

The last note hung there for a moment before the song moved into its outro.

Marvin pulled back slightly from the microphone.

His voice became quieter now, almost worn out, as if all the energy he’d spent holding the song together had finally drained away.

"I’m gooone... Yeah-yeah-yeah... yeah-yeah-yeah...

Now I’m all gooone... Yeah-yeah-yeah... yeah-yeah-yeah...

Now I’m all gooone... Yeah-yeah-yeah... yeah-yeah-yeah...

Now I’m all gooone... Gone... gone... gone... gone...

I’m gooone..."

The magic followed the change in his lyrics.

It no longer tried to pull people in. It simply stayed there, buried beneath the sound, leaving the repeated words with a strange sadness that lingered after each one.

Marvin let the final word slip out on a breath.

"I’m gooone..."

The note faded.

For another second, the bright claps and heavy synths held beneath him.

Then they disappeared too.

The studio fell quiet.

Sitting on the couch at the back of the control room, Michael’s smile slowly widened.

He couldn’t help it.

He hummed under his breath, barely louder than the monitors, his foot tapping along with the beat that was still playing in his head. "Baby, baby, baby, oh..."

He smiled again.

The rhythm stayed with him. So did the melody. It was simple in the best possible way—the kind of hook that found its way into your head before you even realized you were singing along.

Michael had heard enough.

It was a hit. Another one. And by now, he wasn’t even surprised.

What surprised him was how Marvin kept doing it.

He had already heard the boy move through completely different styles without seeming to struggle with any of them. Classical ideas. Acoustic music. Rock. Pop. Now this—something warmer, more soulful, with the phrasing and feeling of R&B.

None of it sounded like Marvin was trying on somebody else’s clothes. It sounded like he belonged in all of it.

Michael found himself shaking his head with a quiet laugh.

A little jealous, maybe.

He knew what it took to make music that felt effortless.

Usually, it wasn’t effortless at all.

Then Marvin glanced toward Max and gave him a small signal.

Max moved to the console.

The next track came up. "*U Smile*."

Michael straightened a little.

The sound changed again.

The vocal had that soaring, almost Motown quality to it, but what caught Michael’s attention this time wasn’t simply the song. It was Marvin himself.

The speed.

Michael watched the session unfold.

Marvin sang. Max listened. Another take.

Then another section. A correction here. A repeat there.

But there was barely anything to correct.

Michael leaned forward.

Before he had really processed the second song, the fifth track was already coming up.

"*Boyfriend*."

The production shifted again, this time into something breathier and more acoustic, with a swagger that shouldn’t have sounded natural coming from someone so young.

Michael stared at the console.

He looked toward the clock. Less than half an hour. Three songs.

Nearly finished.

No.

He reconsidered that. Finished wasn’t even the right word.

There weren’t stacks of takes sitting on the screen waiting to be pieced together. Marvin wasn’t singing the same line twenty times while Max hunted for the best syllable. There were no endless punch-ins, no stopping every few seconds because a note had gone slightly flat.

The takes were clean.

Remarkably clean.

Michael had spent too many years in recording studios not to understand what he was watching.

He knew how difficult that was.

He knew how much control a singer needed to reproduce a performance accurately, especially when the song demanded delicate phrasing one moment and power the next.

And Marvin was doing it as though he had nothing to prove.

Michael leaned farther forward, his eyes fixed on the booth.

’How does he do that?’ The thought came without him meaning to form it.

Michael had always been hard on himself in the studio. Sometimes painfully so. He could spend hours chasing one line, one breath, one sound that wasn’t quite what he heard in his head.

But this boy was moving through tracks at a speed Michael couldn’t imagine maintaining himself.

And the strangest part was that Marvin wasn’t sacrificing anything to do it.

The voice was still there. The emotion was still there. The control was still there.

That was what really got to him.

Songwriting could be learned. Arranging could be learned.

Production could be learned. People could help.

Michael knew that better than most. Even on his own records, there were producers, musicians, engineers, arrangers and other writers involved. A great song could begin with one person’s idea and become something much bigger by the time everyone had worked on it.

And in the music business, there were plenty of singers who relied on songs written by somebody else.

But nobody could sing for you. Nobody could give you your voice.

That part belonged to you. The voice was the instrument.

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