The Pioneer Takes All the Arrows: The Cost of Being First

Five studios. Fifteen years. A rotating cast of dreamers, drug dealers, investors, family, and friends. This is what it looks like to go first. To build before you know how. To take the hits so others don’t have to. It’s not a blueprint. It’s a blood trail. And sometimes, that’s the point.

There’s a romance to being early. A kind of mythos. The pioneer. The visionary. The dude with the machete in the jungle, clearing the path for everyone else to comfortably stroll through later, sipping La Croix. But what they don’t tell you is you also take all the damn arrows. You get malaria on the Oregon Trail. You die by snake fight. You get pistol-whipped in your own studio. I’m not exaggerating. This is the story of how I pioneered creative studio spaces in Cleveland, Ohio. And how every time I did, I paid the price.

Chapter 1: The Blackheads Era

This starts way back. My oldest daughter was still a baby. I was in a music production crew called The Blackheads. Four of us, moving as a unit, producing beats for half the city. We had a manager, a sound, a wave. If one of us made 99% of a track, it was still credited to the group. We were building something communal. Something bigger than any one of us.

We were tight. Each guy brought a different flavor. And we weren’t just working. We were pushing each other, competing in a friendly way, constantly trying to outdo one another. We shared ideas, we collaborated on everything. It created this feedback loop of creativity where the whole really was greater than the sum of its parts.

And the name stuck. The Blackheads. People knew us. We were getting known across Cleveland for our unique sound and the fact that we always moved as one. It wasn't “produced by Demetrious,” it was “produced by The Blackheads,” even if I did most of the work on that track. That branding mattered. It made us feel like we were building a movement.

We started selling beats to artists in the city. Things picked up fast. We had a manager helping steer the ship, and before long, we were building a reputation. Artists came to us for that signature sound. We were green as hell, but we were serious.

And then came the conversation. We were at the rec center, waiting to play pickup basketball. It was one of those in-between moments where the body’s cooling down and the brain starts wandering. One of the guys, Rodriguez Bailey Jr., turned to me and said, “What would you do if we actually had the money to build our own studio?”

Chapter 2: The Drug Dealers and the Wake-Up Call

Let’s rewind a bit. Before that basketball court conversation, something big happened that changed everything. We were already buzzing in the city, selling beats here and there, and that led to a wild encounter.

We sold a batch of beats to a solo rapper who was backed by some big-time drug dealers. This was back when every street dude in Cleveland was trying to break into music. These guys were serious. We didn’t know that at first. We were just some suburban kids, wide-eyed and excited. But our manager, who was older and more seasoned, immediately clocked who they were.

They rolled up to my apartment, sat down, and listened to a bunch of our beats. And when I say they bought 10 or 11 beats on the spot, I mean they pointed to the speakers and said “that one,” “that one,” “that one,” and dropped stacks of cash on the table. No negotiation. Just boom, paid.

Something in our brains shifted. It was the first time we saw what our art could be worth. It was exciting. Dangerous. Addictive.

Turns out, these guys owned a bar on the east side. And they had a second floor they wanted to turn into a recording studio. They came to us and asked, “Can you build it?” We said yes.

We didn’t know shit about building studios, but we knew gear. And we had a secret weapon: Dave from Guitar Center. Dave was our guy. He worked on commission and knew everything about audio equipment. We’d been going to him for years. Old head. Knew his stuff. Every time we came in, we asked for Dave. He liked us. Looked out for us. Always dropped gems and made sure we got the right stuff.

We weren’t just customers. We were regulars. We’d come through all the time, asking questions, soaking up knowledge, and eventually buying gear. Dave loved it. He’d walk us through options, steer us clear of overpriced crap, and help us build setups that made sense for what we were doing. He was part of the team in his own way.

So we went to Dave, told him what was happening, and he helped us put together a full equipment list. We came back a week later with the drug dealers, and they dropped cash on all of it. Dave was floored. Told us we were legit. That felt good.

We built that studio. Got it all set up. But something was off. It wasn’t the clients. It was the energy. The types of people coming through. The late-night sessions that turned into something else. It didn’t feel like us.

We started pulling back. Slowly distancing ourselves. Then one night, we skipped out on a session we were supposed to be at. That same night, the place got hit. Armed robbery. People got pistol-whipped. It was a whole thing.

The drug dealers didn’t think it was us. But they asked around. They had to shake the tree. Our manager handled it. Told us, “Y’all just dodged a bullet. Literally.”

That’s when the seed was planted. If we could build for them, why not build something for us?

Chapter 3: Studio #1 – Lakewood

We took that basketball court conversation and ran with it. Rodriguez, the same guy who floated the “what if” question, wasn’t just fantasizing. He was sitting on a lump sum. Eighty grand. A big payout that hit his account not long after that conversation. And the first thing he wanted to do with it? Build something with his boys.

That kind of selflessness still blows me away. He could’ve done anything with that money. But he brought it to the table and said, “Let’s build.”

We were pumped. But we had no clue what we were doing. Sure, we knew how to pick out gear. We knew how to set up a mic and fire up Pro Tools. But putting together a full studio from scratch? Budgeting for rent, utilities, soundproofing, furniture, legal stuff? Nah. We were winging it.

Still, we made moves. Found a spot in Lakewood. Signed a lease. Started building. We had walls framed up. Gear coming in. But it was slow. For a couple months, we were paying rent with nothing but studs and concrete floors to show for it. No drywall. No insulation. Just the dream.

But we were hyped. And when the studio finally came together, it was a game-changer. It gave us legitimacy. Like real legitimacy. Artists saw the space and said, “Oh, y’all are serious.” And we were. We were also broke.

Because we weren’t charging people. We were still stuck in that relationship-building phase. Trying to help artists. Trying to build our name. So the studio became this cool hangout spot. But it didn’t make money. It didn’t even break even.

Eventually, rent caught up to us. And one day, we showed up to find the locks changed. Landlord wasn’t playing. Our gear was stuck inside.

Two of the guys broke in through the basement and pulled everything out. We left behind furniture. Studio desks we built by hand. All gone. A producer who looked up to us rented the spot after us. Moved right into our buildout. Our work. Our design.

That’s when I really felt it. Being early hurts. You lay the bricks, and someone else gets to live in the house.

Chapter 4: Studio #2 – Downtown Cleveland

We knew we still needed a space. The Lakewood chapter taught us a lot, mostly about what not to do. But even through the chaos, we got addicted to having a creative space that wasn’t our living room.

This time, we found a spot downtown on the eleventh floor. The building itself had a view of Lake Erie, but not our unit. No windows. No natural light. Just four walls and a lot of potential. The upside was it was already built out. We didn’t have to swing a hammer. Just move in, plug in, and get to work.

The cool part? Other producers and studios were in the same building. We were part of a creative ecosystem. Artists would book time in one room and bounce into another. Everyone knew everyone. Cleveland’s music scene was small, so this building started to feel like a mini creative compound.

But downtown Cleveland came with downtown problems. Parking was a nightmare. No one could find our building. If you weren’t already familiar, you were probably going to be late and pissed by the time you showed up.

The location ended up being a bigger issue than we expected. It was just too inconvenient for clients. We started losing momentum. Energy fizzled.

So after a while, we bounced. On to the next.

Chapter 5: Studio #3 – The Clark Studio

We were still active. Still producing. Still taking sessions. And one of the artists we were working with had this uncanny ability to attract investors. She was a bartender, very pretty, very charismatic, and she worked at a high-end hotel bar. That’s where she met them—these rich, usually bored, older dudes who wanted to be part of something cool.

She’d pitch them on her music career, and somehow they’d bite. They’d show up to meetings, hear the music, and then, instead of just investing in her, they’d end up being more interested in us. Because we were the engine. We were producing the music, building the structure, creating the vision. That dynamic made things complicated.

The first guy she brought around was an Austrian multimillionaire. Total wild card. But he liked what he saw and decided to invest. Not in her, but in us. That’s actually how we got the Clark Studio. His investment helped us secure that space and get it set up. That’s how deep her network ran. She brought him in, and suddenly we had a whole new studio.

But it didn’t stop there. She brought in a second investor. I was working at Apple at the time, and this guy walked in flexing his black card like it was a backstage pass to heaven. Bragged about it constantly. And just to show off, he bought her an iMac, an iPad, and a MacBook Pro. All at once.

Now, side note—were these guys trying to sleep with her? I don’t know. Allegedly. Probably. But what I do know is that once they got a taste of our world, they shifted their attention. They didn’t want to manage a solo artist. They wanted to be part of a creative machine. That was us.

And that shift didn’t sit well with her. She thought she had a stake in the studio. She assumed that by bringing in these guys, she’d built something with us. But we had to clarify—no, they’re investing in us directly.

That second guy? A trip. Super difficult. Always dropping names. Said he was friends with Robert De Niro. Claimed he co-owned a restaurant with De Niro and Chazz Palminteri. We laughed it off until we looked it up—and damn if he wasn’t in photos with them, smiling like he belonged there.

He used to randomly hand us cash. Just... cash. Like it was candy. No contracts. No strings. It was surreal. Like we had somehow stepped into a weird Cleveland version of Entourage.

So yeah, that’s how we ended up with the Clark Studio. Because a bartender with star power brought in two investors who thought we were the ones worth betting on. We had credibility. We had people coming through for meetings, not just music. We were doing deals. Building things. The Clark Studio had a buzz.

But the problems were familiar. We still didn’t manage money well. Rent was high. We blew too much on gear. Every month was a scramble. By the time the lease was up, we were selling equipment to pay bills. We didn’t get kicked out, but we knew we couldn’t keep going.

We walked away. Clean break. No drama. But once again, the dream didn’t stick. Another arrow in the back. And honestly, this was the unofficial, official end of our music careers and the group. Not just because the studio closed, but because we were done. Life had shifted. The game had changed. The music industry is brutal. Four people trying to keep it together indefinitely? That’s a miracle, not a plan. There was no beef. Just burnout. We’d all hit our limit with music in that form.

Chapter 6: Studio #4 – Deep Space

After the Clark Studio folded, I went a long stretch without a real creative space. Just me and a laptop, bouncing between makeshift setups at home. It worked, technically. But it wasn’t the same. There’s something spiritual about having a dedicated space. A place you walk into and instantly switch into make mode. I missed that.

Eventually, I decided I wanted to do it one more time. But this time? No team. No shared vision. No collective. Just mine. Something I could fully shape from scratch.

I called it Deep Space. I had a full vision. Space-themed walls. Cosmic lighting. A dark, moody vibe that made you feel like you were floating in orbit with your creativity. It was gonna be one big open room. Minimal buildout. Maximum energy. A blank canvas designed for artists.

Only problem—I had no money.

So I did what a lot of people do when they’re stuck. I vented to my mom. And like the plot twist in every Disney Channel Original Movie, she pulled a move. She invited me and my dad to breakfast under false pretenses. Neither of us knew the real reason. She just wanted us in a room together.

It was awkward. My dad was irritated. He thought we were just grabbing a bite. And then it turned into the pitch. I showed him the space I wanted, explained the vision, laid out what it could be. He was hesitant, but something clicked. Two months later, he was all in. Fully invested. Contractors, furniture, paint, gear, everything.

We bought all brand new equipment. Lighting rigs. Cameras. Studio monitors. Microphones. Drones. We built out a real multimedia lab. It was wild going from zero to launch with that kind of speed and support.

And the final result? It was stunning. Fully themed. Deeply curated. Instantly recognizable. It didn’t just function—it popped. It looked like a boutique art museum disguised as a studio. People came in and lost their minds. It had clout.

My little brother, Scotty, started using it for his clothing line, Outline Ohio. My dad used it for events. It became a family creative hub. And for the first time, we had something that felt like ours. Not just another rented room. A flagship.

But of course, the building sucked.

Old bones. No AC. Heat was controlled by old radiators that hissed and popped like horror movie sound effects. You couldn’t record audio without ghost noises in the background. Summer was a sweat lodge. Winter was a sauna. It looked like the future, but it felt like a 1920s boiler room.

We made it work for a while. But eventually, I told my dad, “We need a better building.”

And for the first time, he took the reins. Found the next place on his own. And just like that, Deep Space had a sequel coming.

Chapter 7: Sparks Before the Fire

The new space was different.

My dad found it on his own. One day, he just hit me like, “Let’s go look at this spot I found near the house.” And that’s how we ended up touring what would become our most put-together studio yet. No permits. No drywall. No haunted plumbing. It was a legit commercial space. Multi-room. Central air. Clean as hell. Like, professionally clean. We weren’t in the trenches anymore.

And it was close. Walking distance from his house. Five-minute drive from mine. Like the city itself gave us a do-over.

We moved in. No drama. We brought everything from Deep Space—gear, furniture, art—and dropped it right into a space that finally made sense. For three years, it worked. A real creative co-op. Scotty doing clothing drops and branding shoots. I was recording, editing, building. My dad was hosting community events. No strangers. No hustle. Just our family turning ideas into output.

And then, change. I moved to California.

Scotty was ready for his own thing. His own name on the lease. His own vision. He started asking me questions. Constantly. About space. Gear. Studio culture. Infrastructure. And I told him everything. I brain-dumped all the knowledge I had from every failed studio, every wrong turn, every arrow I’d taken. I laid it all out.

He didn’t inherit a studio. He inherited data. He inherited context. He inherited confidence. Because he saw the whole arc. Watched me build and collapse and rebuild over and over. And when it was his turn, he took the good, avoided the bad, and moved cleaner, faster, smarter.

He found a warehouse. Big. Raw. Flexible. He turned it into Sparks Studios. A hub for creatives in Cleveland. Coffee bar in the front. Spaces for video, photography, audio, podcasting. It’s ambitious. It’s working. And it’s his.

And my dad? That switch flipped in him too.

He’s told me straight up—getting involved in Deep Space reactivated something inside him. He went from reluctant investor to full-on entrepreneur again. He’s building things. Taking risks. Moving in ways he hadn’t moved in years. And he credits me for that. Says I pulled him back into the builder’s mindset. That space gave him more than he expected. And that means everything to me.

Let me be clear. I’m not bragging. I’m not trying to take anything away from my dad, my brother, or any of the guys I built with along the way. Every one of them was crucial. Every one of them brought something real to the table. And my brother is an extremely sharp entrepreneur. His vision and execution are his own.

But I know where I stand.

I am part of this story. I am the pioneer. I’ve got the arrows in my back to prove it.

And we need those people. The ones who look at uncharted territory and say, “Let me go first.” The ones who walk into the jungle, clear a trail, and build a basecamp out of nothing. The ones who take the hits so the next person doesn’t have to.

That’s me. That’s who I’ve always been.

And maybe the dream didn’t land where I thought it would. Maybe I didn’t end up on the mountaintop.

But someone did. And they got there on a road I helped pave.

That’s enough.