2. Velvet Drift
2
VELVET DRIFT
FELIX
Machine By Imagine Dragons
V ibrant music videos flicker on TVs lining the walls, while cozy nooks with plush couches and retro headphones offer pockets of reprieve along one side. A long, glossy desk divides the nooks from the offices, each with glass walls that let in the natural light streaming through the windows.
We stop in front of a door with Dylan Kernish-Grant etched into the frosted glass. “Here ya go, safe and sound,” the receptionist, Janice, says before leaving me. As soon as I walk in, the man behind the desk rises with a friendly smile that puts me at ease.
“Dylan,” he introduces himself, “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I had an unexpected guest.” He extends a hand over the desk before retaking his seat. I have to admit, I was expecting someone in a stuffy suit, not a guy that looks five minutes older than me wearing worn jeans and a faded t-shirt. Not to mention a lip ring and a couple tattoos visible at the sleeves of his shirt.
“Felix,” I say, though he clearly already knows that as I take the chair opposite him, swiping a nervous hand through my hair.
“I have to say, I was surprised to see your email,” Dylan says, leaning back in his chair. “What brought you to Stonewall instead of ECHO Records?”
“My father… he’s a legend,” I begin, my voice a little rough. “I wanted to forge my own path.”
Dylan nods, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. “I get it. Legacy. Comparisons. Trust me,” he adds, gesturing to a framed photograph behind him.
I stand up to take a better look. “My father gave me a list of labels and Stonewall was at the top. I didn’t realize it was owned by a former Mogo member.”
“You know your vintage bands. Though my dads might argue about the ‘vintage’ part,” he chuckles.
“It’s a lot to live up to,” I offer, sinking back into the plush leather chair.
“Tell me about it,” he sighs, leaning back against his desk. “My parents built this label from the ground up. Taking over, well, let’s just say I had a few employees to win over. Still do. People see the age, not the vision. I understand the struggle.” He pauses. “But I also see youth as an advantage. I’m connected to what people want now. Raw vocals. Real instruments. The whole experience.”
Everything he’s saying resonates with me, the passion in his voice as vibrant as the framed gold records lining the walls.
“What about your name?” he asks, leaning forward in his chair, hands clasped together.
“I was considering just using a band name,” I admit. “I don’t want the Krasinski baggage. Let the music speak for itself. Let people decide if they like me , not my lineage.”
“Well, the demos you sent in were incredible,” Dylan compliments, and I can see the eagerness in his eyes.
“Thank you. But did you happen to…”
“I listened to them before I put two and two together about who you were,” he confirms with a knowing smirk. “And you created all of this yourself?”
“Mostly. My younger brother, Gus, helped a bit. But yeah, the core of it—hooks, chords, backing vocals—that’s all me.” The perks of having a rockstar father include access to some pretty decent recording equipment.
“I respect that. The talent. The work ethic”—he hesitates—“but you need a band.”
“Agreed,” I reply. “Producing those tracks solo was… challenging. Reproducing them live, impossible.”
“Good,” he gives a firm nod. “Do you have a band in mind?” He pushes away from the desk, his gaze drifting toward the city view beyond the window.
“Nah, I haven’t been fortunate enough to find other band members. Not that I haven’t tried talking my little brother Gus into it.”
Dylan turns to me and lifts an eyebrow. “Is he a musician too?”
“He’s a writer. Talented, but he lacks the hunger.”
“How do you feel about working with a band I put together? I have a couple guys in mind.”
A knot tightens in my stomach. “I’ve never been in a band,” I confess. “I have a very specific sound in my head. I can be… protective of my vision. But I’m willing to try.”
“Summer tour. Festivals. Not headlining, just a proving ground. See how you gel with the band. If it’s profitable, then we talk about next steps.” He seems to sense my hesitation. “That’s the offer.”
“I don’t want to be promoted as Jack Krasinki’s son,” I state firmly.
“I can’t guarantee anonymity because fans will be fans, but I won’t promote the band as having any affiliation with Turn it Up,” Dylan offers.
“That’s workable.”
“I’ll send over a contract,” he says, clasping his hands together. “We can hash out the finer points later. Now,” he leans forward, a spark of curiosity in his eyes, “any thoughts on a band name?”
I reach into my back pocket, fishing out a folded piece of paper. “Yeah actually,” I unfold the paper and hand it to him. “My brother drew this up and I’d like to go with it if you think it’s a good name.”
He takes the paper, his eyes scanning the image—a sleek silver sports car, mid-drift across an expanse of black, wet sand. Maroon smoke billows from the tailpipe, vibrant against the dark backdrop. The sand, smooth and glistening, looks like black velvet. Beneath the image, in a stylized font, are the words.
Dylan’s gaze lifts, meeting mine. “Velvet Drift.” A subtle smile plays on his lips. “I can work with that.”