The note hung in the air of Studio B like a dying animal. It was flat. Painfully, obviously, offensively flat. Leo cringed behind the mixing board, his fingers hovering over the faders like a bomb disposal expert.
He set the retune speed to zero. The human voice ceased to exist. Every wobble, every breath, every raw, honest crack was instantly sucked into a digital abyss and replaced with a perfect, glassy, robotic stair-step of pitch. Seph’s warbling B-flat snapped to a pristine C-sharp. Her sliding, uncertain verses became a staccato laser beam. autotune audacity
Within twelve hours, the internet broke. The note hung in the air of Studio B like a dying animal