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Chapter 1: First Notes
Dominic Hayes first fell in love with sound at age six, seated before a
battered upright piano in his grandmother’s Crest view bungalow. The
instrument’s ivory keys were chipped and its pedals creaked, but to
Dominic it sounded like magic.
“Go on, baby,” his grandmother would say, settling into her worn velvet
armchair with her morning coffee. “Let it sing.”
Without lessons, he learned by ear—plucking tentative melodies he heard
in his dreams, watching the pale morning light stream across the scratched
wood as each note resonated through the silent house. His small fingers
barely reached an octave, but he didn’t need to. The music lived in the
spaces between the notes, in the way one chord dissolved into another like
watercolors bleeding across wet paper.
His grandmother would peek in with her mug of coffee, smiling at the tiny
boy who coaxed more beauty from those keys than she ever remembered
hearing. Sometimes she’d hum along, her voice adding warmth to melodies
that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.
“You got something special, Dominic,” she’d tell him, her weathered hand
resting on his shoulder. “Don’t you ever let nobody tell you different.”
Summers brought basement beat sessions in his uncle’s converted laundry
room, where an aging boom-box sat next to a pile of toy keyboards. The
concrete floor was cold against his bare feet, but the music warmed him
from the inside out. Dominic looped his cousin’s rudimentary drummachine cartridges into thumping rhythms, then draped bright glissando
over the top until the concrete floors seemed to vibrate underfoot.
It was here—among stained walls and humming fluorescent bulbs—that he
learned creation felt like electricity, crackling through his veins and setting
his spirit alight. His cousin Marcus would nod his head to the beats,
occasionally adding his own scratchy vocals over the top.
“Yo, D, you got that fire,” Marcus would say, his voice echoing off the
basement walls. “This ain’t just playing around anymore.”
By thirteen, Dominic was spending entire weekends in that basement,
building tracks layer by layer. His fingers had grown longer, more
confident. The melodies came easier now, flowing from his mind through
his hands without conscious thought. He’d discovered he could make
people feel things—make Marcus’s girlfriend cry with a slow chord
progression, make his uncle’s friends gather around the boom-box when he
played something with enough bounce.