13-Zach - One Year Ago
(August twenty-sixth, twenty twenty-four)
I smooth the front of my blouse, trying to appear more put together than I feel.
On the couch across from me sits Daemonium, the trio everyone in the industry is suddenly obsessed with. And honestly? I understand. They’re magnetic in a way that isn’t forced. Three completely different energies and aesthetics that somehow blend into something cohesive and striking.
They’re currently with the alternative British rock band, Masonary, closing up their West Coast tour, and I’ve had the opportunity to travel with them the past two weeks to film for Masonary’s upcoming documentary.
I thought I’d be the quiet observer in the corner, capturing their harmonies and backstage chaos. Instead, they somehow pulled me into their orbit. Pamrata especially.
Nicole would’ve adored her.
After the first show in Sacramento, we sat on the curb beside a food truck eating samosas as she told me about her family in South India. She talked about growing up between cultures, and the expectations of splitting into versions of herself she wasn’t sure she could ever fully satisfy.
I understood that more than I expected to.
Whitney and Liane joined us eventually, and we stayed up until nearly sunrise, trading stories in the hotel lobby about childhood disasters, first heartbreaks, and the strange loneliness of being surrounded by crowds of people night after night.
Cooper hovered, only wandering off to charm the night staff before he returned with snacks.
Somewhere in those hours, the distance between “subject” and “documentarian” dissolved.
They aren’t just the Daemonium trio anymore.
They’re Pamrata, with her soft laugh and encyclopedic knowledge of medical biotech, Whitney, all restless energy and sharp mind, and Liane, who oozes an empathic aura that can make anyone feel seen.
After this interview, I might never see them again.
The club reeks like musty carpet, burnt coffee, and the cheap peach air freshener plugged into the wall in a desperate attempt to mask it.
My stomach always flutters with a mix of nerves and anticipation right before an interview.
But lately, music’s been strange—warbled, like it’s trying to say something I can’t hear.
Interviews used to be easy; this shouldn’t feel like a precipice of my downfall.
“Ready,” I say, blinking a few times as Cooper turns on the lights behind me. The three women toss their palms up in an attempt to block their sight, and I can’t help but laugh. “I promise the sooner you let your eyes adjust the easier it is.”
They put their hands down, each of them blinking rapidly as their eyes no doubt water. With a twirl of my pointer, the familiar beep of my camera signals that Coop has started recording.
“From my understanding, Daemonium is its own musical entity,” I begin, “You sort of contract yourselves out independently as backup vocalists. Do I have that right?”
Pamrata, in front of me to the left, nods. “That’s exactly right. We grew up together, actually. We always loved to sing, and we found we were really good at harmonizing with one another.”
Her eyes are so brown, sparkling like a night sky.
She’s tall and soft-featured, her dark hair falling past her shoulders in loose waves.
A fitted black blazer sits over a burgundy top, the color rich against her cool russet skin.
Pamrata carries a gentle, dreamy quality with her, and it settles over the room like the scent of fresh-baked goods.
Whitney’s in the middle, directly across from me, legs crossed, leaning back in her chair with the relaxed confidence of a woman who knows exactly who she is and doesn’t give a damn who disagrees. Liane sits to her right, posture straight, hands folded neatly in her lap.
“We sort of drifted for a bit,” Pamrata continues, “and then after the pandemic happened, we reconnected. I think everyone was online then, and we realized we missed performing. Extra harmonizing voices are always needed in any musical act. And I found it was sort of an untapped market.”
“I love that,” I say, leaning forward. “And when you say you all did your own things, you’re not lying. You have a PhD, do you not?”
Pamrata’s full cheeks warm. “I do. In cognitive linguistics.”
“Which is insane,” Whitney adds, scrunching her nose as she cups Pamrata’s chin affectionately. “She’s the smartest person I know.”
“And Whitney,” I say, turning to her, “you’ve got credentials of your own.”
“I worked in sound engineering for a while.” She shrugs, though the beaming smile spreading between her golden-warm umber cheeks betrays her pride. “Did some freelance mixing. Nothing fancy.”
Her obsidian eyes bounce between me and her partners. She’s in a vintage band tee tucked into high-waisted jeans, rings stacked on nearly every finger, each one glinting as she gestures.
“And Liane?”
She looks like she stepped out of a cozy indie film, with a pastel cardigan buttoned over a floral sundress. Liane beams, revealing a crooked bottom tooth that only adds to her charm.
“I teach at a nursery.” She picks at the couch’s blue-velvet armrest. “Kids are brutal critics. Tougher than any audience.”
“Not only are you a trio of immense talent, but incredible intellect as well. I can see why you’re so sought after. Masonary has spoken nothing but the highest things of you. And hearing your vocals myself, I can say that they add a richness and tone that’s hard to replicate.”
“I appreciate that,” Pamrata says softly, her calf-length boots scraping against the floor as she crosses her ankles.
“From what I hear,” I continue, taking a breath to steady myself, “you’re booked and busy. As soon as you finish this tour tonight, you’re staying in the States and starting another one next week, correct?”
Whitney’s tight curls sashay across her shoulders as she nods. “Yeah. We’ve been working with Somnium since their second album—oh God, years now. This one’ll be twenty-six shows in five weeks.”
“Are you excited?”
“Oh yes,” Pamrata chimes in, her knees bouncing as she shimmies straighter in her seat. “We love working with different bands. Seeing each fanbase. The love people have for music, it’s beautiful.”
I force myself to keep my posture relaxed. My fingers curl over my knees, nails pressing into the skin. I’ve been sober for months, but I need a drink. What is it about this conversation that has my nerves frayed at the edges?
“You said you’ve worked with Somnium for years,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the sudden dryness in my throat. “How did that come about?”
“Honestly? I’m a huge fan.” Pamrata brightens, her thick lashes fluttering like she’s blinking back tears. “I followed them when they were still up-and-coming. And then one day I got an email asking if we’d be willing to fill in for a live performance.”
“She screamed.” Whitney grins, picking at her ear. “Nearly blew out my hearing.”
“Anyway.” Pamrata rolls her eyes. “We said yes, of course. And everyone was so supportive and kind. They’re the ones we work with the most. This is our third American tour with them.”
“And definitely the biggest,” Whitney adds, taking a sip from her monster-sized energy drink.
“Do you all listen to the bands you perform with, or is it more of a work thing? Obviously you answered that, Pamrata, with Somnium. But what about you two?”
“Oh, definitely,” Liane says. “The first time I heard Somnium I was just lost. I mean—give me a second.”
She reaches to the floor and digs into her bag, pulling out her phone.
Her hands are small and delicate; short nails painted a matte lilac.
After a few taps of the screen, familiar piano notes drift from her speakers, soft and slow.
The melody drapes around me like a custom-fitted dress. My heart stops mid-beat.
Though it lives in the back of my mind, I convince myself I imagined it. Just like I imagined the god.
“I mean, it’s so ethereal.” Liane grins, misty-eyed. “Who wouldn’t fall in love with a sound like this?”
I nod, though my pulse thrums. The room’s warmer, the air thicker. Peachiness mixes with coffee grounds and the lingering perfume of the three women; Pamrata’s warm sandalwood, Whitney’s citrus-cedar bite, and Liane’s cotton-herbal sweetness, blending into a nauseating haze.
“Um, yeah,” I manage to say as my sight fogs at the edges. “What did you say the name of this song was?”
Liane blinks. “It’s Don’t Hurt Yourself Anymore.”
“You all right, love?” Whitney leans forward and reaches for me, brow furrowed. “You look a bit peaky.”
“I’m fine. Just, I’m sorry, can you give me a second?”
“Of course,” Pamrata says gently. “Take your time.”
The chair scrapes against the floor so loudly that I flinch. A wave of vertigo hits me, a side effect of standing too quickly. My heart thuds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Something’s off—the room rocks toward a memory I can’t outrun.
“Hey, you good?” Cooper asks, taking my arm as my legs wobble beneath me. Usually, his zesty spiced designer cologne soothes me like a comfort blanket, but right now it turns my stomach.
“Yeah, yeah,” I assure him, gently rolling out of his protective grip, “I just need some air. Can you man the camera?”
“I gotchu,” he says, tucking a thick loc behind his ear as he looks me over.
Jerking my chin toward the still-running camera, I pat his chubby umber-toned cheek. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
I step out into the hallway and cool air condition slaps me across the face. My hands shake as I fumble for the cigarette pack in my pocket.
That song needs to stop echoing in my skull.
I push through the exit door and step into the alley.
Flies hum from a nearby dumpster. The ground is cracked, stained with oil and who knows what else, but I sit on the busted curb anyway.
A cigarette burns between my fingers, the ember glowing bright against the dull gray of the alley.
I inhale again, the bitterness grounding me in a way nothing else can.
In Arcadia, the cold always made cigarettes hit harder, and tonight it’s like Wisconsin winters have followed me to California. The nicotine enters my bloodstream like a warm rush, but it does nothing to halt my tremoring hands.
Stale garbage clings to the air, a far cry from the over-perfumed room that I just escaped. A gust of wind carries the scent of someone’s fast food from the street, mixing it with the acrid tang of my cigarette.
I take out my phone and type in Don’t Hurt Yourself Anymore by Somnium. Their second album has a swirling pool-blue background, with a silhouette of their emblem surrounded by a faint shimmer of silver smoky dust.
I tap the song, holding my phone to my chest as vibrations from the despondent melody hum through my bones.
Piano notes spill out like an overfilled cup.
Music doesn’t play around me; it plays through me.
I’ve been like this since childhood. But I’ve never felt a song reach this deep, like it knows me.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I’m not crazy. I wasn’t imagining it. It’s real.
My breath hitches, and tears drip down my cheeks, soaking into the collar of my shirt. I’ve always been good at holding things in until they break me open, but this impossible familiarity splits me straight down the middle.
A rough, deep voice floats atop the melody. It’s raw, like he carries a thousand lives in his throat. “I have all I want but nothing to show for it.”
Something inside me cracks open at that line, like an egg smashed at the wrong angle, causing the shell to explode into tiny fragments that are impossible to pick from the albumen.
My hands shake so badly, I nearly drop the cigarette butt as I suck in another drag.
Ash scatters across the concrete like dirty snow.
An unrestrained sob tears out of me. I wrap my arms around my torso and double over, clutching the phone like a lifeline. The music rebounds from the alley walls before getting swallowed by the city noise. I feel the lyrics with every fiber of my being, as if I wrote them myself.
Air comes in short, shaky bursts.
After barely scraping by, I now have sponsorships funding most of the equipment I use.
I film when I want, and I travel constantly.
I get to meet artists and work with bands that I love.
I live the life I used to fantasize about.
But the grind, burnout, and endless content creation of the last few years seems fickle.
I have all I want, but nothing to show for it. Not where it matters.
The melody crescendos like a tide, piano striking with soul-aching chords. His voice wraps around me, stubborn and sure, like a grip snatching me back from the edge.
I click on the first album, then the second, downloading their discography with shaking fingers.
As it dwindles down to the filter, I crush the cigarette under my heel, the ember smearing into the concrete. I lean back against the brick wall, the rough surface scraping my shoulder blades. The cold stone leaches through my clothes, but my limbs buzz with adrenaline.
“Find them,” a voice whispers, caressing the darkest edges of my mind.
Lifting my head, I wipe my face with the back of my hand. My breath trembles, but something inside me steadies, anchored. Somnium’s official page loads with photos and ‘ritual’ dates, and I click on LA’s upcoming show for tickets, needing to experience this for myself.