"…For the main instruments, I'm planning to use electric guitar and bass. I'm also thinking about adding a double bass—I want the melody to sink low."
"But the chorus needs some tweaking. The sound needs to feel fuller, with richer layers, while still keeping the verse's weight. I'm considering jazz instruments for that."
Ronan looked up, turning to the other guy with an open, easy vibe as he shared his thoughts. No holding back—just a genuine dive into the discussion.
Who knows? Beyond the pros, there's always hidden talent out there. Plus, he, Ollie, Maxim—they were all amateurs, self-taught, especially him. So Ronan always approached things with a humble attitude.
The jazz instrument idea? That came from New Orleans.
Jazz gear has a vibe all its own—lazy yet cozy, elegant yet smooth. The low end, especially, is a treat for the ears. Think trombone, clarinet, double bass, trumpet—stuff like that. They give melodies a velvety texture that's hard to beat.
For "Kill Me Slower," Ronan was chasing a clash of feelings: sadness in the tune, but a laid-back lightness too. Beyond how he sang it, the arrangement mattered. Jazz instruments were perfect—they'd add depth alongside the electric guitar and bass without stealing the spotlight.
Plus, the chorus repeats over and over, same chords, same lyrics. That can tire listeners out fast—
Like "Bruno" said, it could get old, especially with an extra four beats tacked on. The monotony of those simple chords would stand out even more. Jazz instruments could sprinkle in some flair, stretching the sound without breaking the song's core stiffness and numbness.
"Bruno's" eyes lit up a bit. Ronan hadn't spelled out his whole reasoning, but the guy's reaction said it all—he got it in a flash. Even in the dim light, his gaze sharpened, and the shadows on his face cleared just enough to notice.
"Jazz instruments are a solid pick. Oboe or trumpet… hmm… maybe try a French horn? Thicker, subtler." He rambled on, like he was tinkering with his own project. "No, wait—bass trombone's better. You know, keep the jazz vibe under the radar but still beef up the arrangement's depth and layers."
"Bass trombone?" Ronan mulled it over, a flicker of uncertainty in his expression. "Sorry, I don't know much about it. But I'll check it out later. Right now, I'm leaning toward a cornet or French horn—their tone's amazing. Just haven't had time to hit the studio yet, so I'm not sure how it'll sound."
If he didn't get it, he owned it. Ronan stayed honest.
"Bruno" didn't mind at all, a smile creeping into his eyes. "Cornet's a good call, but the bass trombone's velvet feel? Nothing tops it. If it were me, I'd be in the studio tonight, hunting for the right answer—no, the best fit."
"Ha, if I could, I'd be there too. Just imagining it's got me itching to try," Ronan chuckled, not elaborating, just quirking an eyebrow. "Remember? It's all slowly killing me."
That lyric.
"Bruno" froze for a second, then caught on. Ronan meant he couldn't just waltz into a studio whenever. "A guy who can't? Living at the Hilton? That doesn't add up."
"Someone's footing the bill," Ronan said casually. "If they say no, we're broke. Might start working as pool boys here tomorrow."
Pool boy—a term with a wink, like plumbers or repairmen in certain "special" movies. Just younger, fresher meat.
"Bruno" got it instantly and burst out laughing, a big, raspy sound bouncing around the pool. His hoarse voice couldn't quite carry it, like something was stuck in his throat. It flared up quick, then faded into a cough.
"You okay?" Ronan asked, concerned, glancing around. No water in sight—just a giant pool of chlorinated stuff.
"Bruno" waved him off, signaling he was fine, but caught Ronan's gaze drifting to the pool. He pieced it together, started to say, "You…"—and choked on his own spit. A coughing fit hit, but the laughter wouldn't quit. "Hahaha!" He lost it again.
"You're a funny guy."
"Bruno" said it with a nod. "Now I get why you're shaping that song this way. Honestly, I'm kinda pumped to hear the final thing. I've got ideas in my head, but they might not fit you."
Ronan grinned back. "Me too. Can't wait."
A smile rippled through "Bruno's" eyes. "You deserve your own props. If they won't cover your hotel, come find me. I might be able to help. You know, in these slow-suicide years, finding some joy? I'd tell 'em you're a damn good musician. Even if it's a slow death, we can stretch it out a little."
The way he put it made Ronan chuckle.
But it also sparked some curiosity.
In the dark, Ronan studied "Bruno's" jawline. He still couldn't be sure who this guy was—the light wasn't helping. But that last bit? It oozed a quiet confidence, a steady grip on things, not the tone of some washed-up boxer. Unless he was a world-class con artist.
So who was he?
Could it really be Bruno?
In their short chat, Ronan's guess had flipped back and forth a dozen times. He just didn't have the "visual" experience to lock it down. But now, calming down, he had a moment to think—and a real shot to test it.
So… should he give it a go?