The day after signing with Natas as my manager, he had me set up with about a hundred tracks to listen to from some of the top producers out. I had beats from Bobo, Big Bang Beats, Thundercracker, and Kilo What, but I ended up picking this dope one by Lewis Cool.

The next day, I met with the in-house engineer at Natas’ studio to get to work. The place was decked out with top-notch shit. The mixing board alone was amazing—it went from wall to wall and had at least 64 channels with buttons and nodes up and down each line.

For those who don't know, a mixing board can be called a mixing desk, console, sound board, or audio mixer. I usually call it a track board. At its core, it takes two or more sounds, merges them together, and provides one or more output signals.

This isn’t just a studio thing; anything involving audio—concerts, DJs, movies, or even your church service—uses a mixing board. They can range from a decked-out 48-plus channel studio mixer to a virtual one on your laptop.

Basically, a channel (or track) is the line that a single sound output runs through. With a band, the lead singer’s mic, the guitarist, and the bassist all run through three different channels so the sound can be isolated and blended. A drummer usually has several mics, each with its own channel.

The people running these boards are the unsung heroes of the music world.

The environment was vastly different from my recording space. My setup back home was nothing more than foam bed toppers stapled to the walls of my living room coat closet to flatten my vocals. I had one mic sitting in the middle with a lamp, squeezing myself and my iPad into that tiny space to record.

Natas’ studio had leather couches, HD monitors, hardwood floors, and a soundproof booth. It ran on the latest version of Pro Tools, the industry standard. I, on the other hand, run on Audacity—a free software that’s awesome for what it is, but doesn't compare to the power of a pro rig.

I was intimidated. Every piece of that studio said, “Don’t fuck this up”.

After a couple of hours, I felt like I was doing just that. I hadn’t written more than two lines, and they sucked. Sean, the engineer, was patient, but I knew he was wondering what was going on. He said he wanted to take a smoke break, but I’m pretty sure it was just to give me a chance to get my shit together.

I high-tailed it to my car and sat there for ten minutes, trying to decide if I should call it a day—or a lifetime—and head home. I felt over my head. I was more comfortable in my DIY closet.

Then my phone rang. It was Lori.

“How’s your first session going over there?” she asked.

“Not great. I’m thinking about calling it a day”.

“Already? You’re usually going hard for at least four”.

“I know. It’s just... all of that fancy shit in there ain’t me. I want to be at the house with my headphones on and the TV on mute. I need a comfortable space”.

“You sound nervous,” she said.

“I ain’t nervous. I’m scared. What if I can’t make a song that justifies recording in that studio? You should see all of the gold and platinum plaques posted all over that building. What if I don’t measure up to that?”.

“Measure up? Who in the fuck are trying to measure up to?” she fired back. “You are Quanstar. One of the most talented men the world has ever known. Are you going to fucking tell me that those platinum plaques outweigh the work you put in?”.

“No,” I said.

“That’s right. Get your head out of your ass, and let these people know that they should be blessed that someone like you is in their studio”.

“Thanks coach”.

“I’ll be naked waiting for you tonight,” she added.

She was right. I am the shit. After that pep talk, I went right back into that studio and went to work.