Meeting in Malibu

[ Lyrics ]

Smile nice, play nice, sell your soul cheap?

Ocean view, glass door, your smile’s too clean,
coffee in a cup with a logo I’ve never seen.
You say, ‘Love the vibe, but the sound’s too raw,
we can polish the edge ’til it cuts like law.’
I nod like I’m present, but I’m not in the room,
thinking ‘bout the hook I wrote at 3 a.m. in my gloom.
You suggest new producers, a ‘fresh kind of heat,’
but none of them heard me cry when I wrote my first beat.

You talk trends like gospel, streams like fate,
but my songs aren’t just products — they’re maps of escape.
So I bite back the question, keep my voice soft and low,
play the part like I owe you — but I’m watching the flow.

Smile nice, play nice, sell your soul cheap?
Yeah, I’ll play the game, but I’m not that weak.
You can tweak the image, mute the guitar line,
but you can’t coach the truth out of this throat of mine.
I’ll wear your suggestion like a borrowed coat,
but the fire in my lyrics? That’s my own smoke.

You pull up another track — ‘It’s viral, no risk,’
‘girl like you with a pop twist could go viral quick.’
I hear the tempo, the bounce, the fake ache,
but it don’t sound like the rain on my windowpane.
You say, ‘Think bigger, not deeper,’ like it’s some kind of sin,
but the small things — the tremble — that’s where I begin.
That’s where the mannequin cracks, where the skin starts to breathe,
where I’m not just a face — I’m the voice underneath.

You offer a contract, a smile like a blade,
but integrity’s not something I’m willing to trade.
So I thank you politely, keep my palms cool and dry,
mentally routing the beat back to my own sky.

The guitar stays. The tremble stays.
The midnight verse, the quiet phase.
The moment before the chorus breaks —
that’s the part that no focus group makes.

Smile nice, play nice, sell your soul cheap?
Yeah, I’ll play the game, but I’m not that weak.
You can tweak the image, mute the guitar line,
but you can’t coach the truth out of this throat of mine.
I’ll wear your suggestion like a borrowed coat,
but the fire in my lyrics? That’s my own smoke.

Smile nice… play nice… 
But the soul? Nah — that’s mine.