Chapter 27: The Calm Before the Rise
In the car on the way back, Nancy couldn't hold back her curiosity. "Martin, what was that with you and the two princes?"
"Just a small bet, Aunt Nancy. Nothing to worry about." Martin waved it off with a casual shrug.
Nancy thought to herself, I sure hope so. She was beginning to realize that her little nephew had a knack for getting into trouble that rivaled his other talents.
Martin, however, was feeling quite pleased with himself. After they returned to the hotel, he quickly drifted off to sleep, blissfully unaware that his performance at Diana's charity event was already creating ripples. Headlines were beginning to appear on the desks of Fleet Street reporters:
"Diana's Godbrother: The Boy Who Made William and Harry Call Him Uncle"
"One Song, Battle Hymn, Takes the Night by Storm"
"The Boy Who Made Grant Brook Bark Like a Dog"
"The American Child Actor Starring in The Parent Trap with a Dual Role"
British tabloids were abuzz, and they had a new obsession: the eleven-year-old Martin Myers.
"What? I already have paparazzi following me?"
On the way to Max Martin's studio, Martin couldn't help but be surprised as he noticed several motorcycles tailing their car.
Nancy, however, seemed unfazed. "Of course, that's perfectly normal. You made quite a splash at Lady Diana's charity event, and she acknowledged you as her godbrother in front of everyone."
"You should know that ever since her divorce, Diana has been a favorite target of the Fleet Street tabloids. Now that you're linked to her, they won't leave you alone."
"You don't seem too bothered by it," Nancy observed, noticing her nephew's calm demeanor. He showed neither discomfort nor excitement—just a serene acceptance.
Martin chuckled. "Why would I be? Paparazzi and celebrities have a mutually beneficial relationship, don't they?"
"Celebrities need paparazzi for exposure, and paparazzi need celebrity stories to make money. They need each other!"
"Aunt Nancy, when we get out, I'll talk to the paparazzi for a few minutes and give them something to write about."
Nancy was stunned, but quickly recovered. Of course. This is what it's like with a prodigy!
Their car pulled up in front of Max Martin's studio. After straightening his clothes, Martin stepped out.
The motorcycles and cars trailing them screeched to a stop, and paparazzi leaped from their seats, racing toward him.
Martin waited for a moment, letting them approach before he turned with a smile and said, "Gentlemen, no need to rush. I'll give you five minutes for an interview."
Nancy stayed in the car, watching Martin answer the questions confidently. There was no hint of anxiety or excitement about his sudden fame—just a calm, conversational ease.
This kid, she thought, is made for show business.
"Yes, Diana and I are like brother and sister now. She is my elder sister."
"Grant Brook? Yes, we made a bet. I won, he lost, so he had to bark like a dog."
"Was it revenge? You could say that. He not only deliberately snubbed me but also betrayed Diana's friendship. With such poor character, shouldn't I retaliate?"
"Besides, I didn't do anything illegal. If this were the Middle Ages, I'd probably throw down my glove to challenge him to a duel."
"Yes, I'm here at Max Martin's studio to work with him on a mini album."
"I believe Mr. Martin may not be as famous as Grant Brook yet, but I'm certain his talent is equal, if not greater."
After five minutes, Martin cut off the questions with a smile. "Alright, everyone, that's all the time I have. I can't keep Mr. Martin waiting. Thank you!"
He waved to Nancy, and she got out of the car. The two of them walked into Max's studio.
Nancy had expected the paparazzi to keep pestering them, but to her surprise, they all backed off and dispersed without a fuss.
That's odd, she thought. Since when did Fleet Street paparazzi start behaving so politely?
The paparazzi, meanwhile, were equally confused.
"Why did I leave? Shouldn't I be getting more photos, maybe provoke him a little and catch him in an embarrassing reaction?"
"Damn it, I had a few tougher questions lined up. I completely forgot to ask them!"
"Guys, didn't we go a bit too easy on him? We didn't even try half our usual tricks!"
"I feel the same way."
"What were you all thinking?"
"Well, aren't you the same? You acted like a well-behaved puppy."
They quickly found ways to justify it, though.
"Maybe it was his attitude—he didn't treat us like enemies."
"I have to admit, for a kid from the American 'countryside,' he's surprisingly polite and charming."
"Didn't you all feel his charisma? There's something very likable about him."
"Yeah, I think so too."
"This kid is definitely going places."
Max Martin's studio was housed in a modest four-story building, rented in the suburbs where prices were affordable.
When Martin and Nancy arrived, Max was already waiting for them in the second-floor recording room.
"Let's get right to it, Martin. I've been looking forward to this," he said eagerly, skipping any small talk.
Martin stepped into the recording booth and began with a piece titled Scenes of Home.
His versatile vocal technique conveyed the beauty, longing, and sorrow of home so vividly that it became almost tangible.
Nancy, listening through her headset, found herself unexpectedly drawn into memories of her family back in Pennsylvania, her mother, and that grumpy old man...
On the other side, the more sensitive Max Martin was already wiping away a tear as images of his own hometown filled his mind.
As the song ended, a deep silence settled over the studio. Max's assistants, too, were caught in the song's spell, struggling to shake off the emotional pull.
It wasn't until Martin opened the booth door and asked, "How was it?" that they snapped out of it.
Max, astonished, gave him a thumbs-up. "Honestly, I've never heard music that could move people so deeply. Not even Mozart or Beethoven gets me feeling ."
Martin shrugged. "Maybe it's because you've listened to them so much?"
"Maybe," Max replied, quickly getting to the main point. "Martin, I was considering adding some instrumental accompaniment to your voice, but now I've changed my mind."
"Your voice—your vocal cords—are the best instruments we could ask for."