Gabe Palman’s office looks more like a greenhouse than the typical professional office. Every surface in the room is made of glass: the desk, the paperweights, and a ladder that holds a variety of potted green plants. Even the far wall is made of glass, offering a sweeping view of Times Square’s glittering lights and crowds of people. Not that I can see a lot with Gabe pacing back and forth in front of it.
“Coffee?” he says. “Tea? Water?”
“No, thank you,” I say. I glance over at Kyle, who shakes his head too.
“Right.” Gabe stops pacing. “Let’s get down to business then.” He takes a seat at his desk, placing his hands in a steeple. “I want ten tracks. Original music. The same style you posted online.”
Despite the fact that I’m sitting beside Kyle, the drummer for one of the most famous
