“Sure, go ahead and ask him about the leak if you wanna get punched in the face,” is the general warning I’ve received from Travis Scott’s entourage. I haven’t actually met Travis yet, but one thing is already abundantly clear: He’s not happy about Rodeo, his debut album, surreptitiously making its way online for free exactly a week before its intended release. Being the big, loud idiot that I am, I’d still like to hear this from the horse’s mouth. Thankfully for my face, I never get the chance to do this because—and this is the next observation that becomes abundantly clear—the 23-year-old rapper who calls himself “La Flame” doesn’t stop.

EPIC FEST, L.A. | Aug. 29, 2 p.m.

At the inaugural Epic Fest, the “Epic” is not so much a descriptor as it is a plain reminder that we’re here, at the behest of label CEO L.A. Reid, to watch Epic Records’ current roster of acts. This list includes Jidenna, Big Grams, Future, Ozzy Osbourne, and—the artist I’ve been assigned to track down—Travis Scott. I’ll later read online that the event is also serving as some sort of litmus test for plans to bring Epic Fest to a city near you—because, although they no longer buy music, people still love festivals.

Today Epic Fest is still for the label, by the label, with its parent company’s (Sony Pictures Studios) lot in Culver City serving as the backdrop. It’s a beautiful day in California, and the crowd is buzzing off of free Budweiser and Patrón. The vibe reads casual corporate block party, much like the L.A. imagined in every working New Yorker’s West Coast fantasy. Epic Fest’s lineup is ordered by seniority, with artists getting between one and three songs to impress the roughly 100 people who aren’t too cool to rush the stage. Travis Scott is slated to perform sometime after Jidenna—evidently, Kanye West production credits are worth more than a radio hit. But Travis is MIA, so after “Classic Man” comes Big Grams, and then Epic Fest’s one truly FOMO-inducing moment: when Future and DJ Esco take the stage. A mass of bodies hurries forward, and what can be best described as a religious experience ensues, with Future buoyed by the kind of confidence that only comes when you’re having the best year of your entire life.

And then, some two hours after his listed set time, Travis Scott blows into Epic Fest like a hurricane of weed smoke. Wearing a Goyard purse and a dad cap that reads “Beastin,” he frantically weaves about the studio lot, his 10-person entourage trying desperately to predict his next move—the head of a snake governed by a primordial instinct leading a winding body behind. The dust only settles once Travis finds the appropriate VIP backstage area where he can presumably smoke more weed. This is my first taste of the Travis Scott orbit. You may know where he is or even see him, as I can now, but you cannot reach him.

Everybody is always chasing Travis. And I mean this in the most literal way possible. I have never seen a faster walker in my life—just pure, lean, kinetic energy, propelling itself forward. In fact, he’s not so much walking as he is bouncing laterally, hunched and gangly. During my four days (spread out over the course of four weeks) around Travis, nobody once breaches his immediate radius, as if there is some type of invisible force field surrounding him the second he decides to move.

With the aforementioned warning in place, Travis’ crew explains to me that now is probably not the best time to introduce myself as the writer for his cover story. He’s fucking pissed. In fact, Travis is apparently so consumed with the unfortunate events of the day that I’m not sure he’s aware that this story—or I—even exists, something that will soon become painfully clear.

FOOL’S GOLD DAY OFF, L.A. | 8 P.M.

Whatever pent-up energy and aggression Travis has left over from skipping his Epic showcase, he spends (and overdrafts) at Fool’s Gold Day Off later that night. I’m posted up stage left, behind the boards, watching a coronation. While the sea of people here to see Travis headline what is easily the biggest party I’ve been to in my entire life is beyond impressive, the VIP section is no slouch, either. I’m flanked by Kanye’s Donda brain trust—Virgil Abloh, Ibn Jasper, Jerry Lorenzo, and Heron Preston—some of whom are tangentially involved with Travis’ creative, and Kylie Jenner, who’s wearing a pair of jorts so tattered that I’m not sure they can legally be defined as clothing.

Everything you’ve ever heard or read about a Travis Scott show is true. By sheer force of will he conjures the gods of rage and chaos—not surprisingly two of his favorite buzzwords—as the crowd manically tries to keep up with its leader. Pits open, swallowing fans and spitting a lucky few on stage who must, as required by law, stage dive back into the abyss. While he begins the night kitted out, Travis soon achieves his final form, thrashing until he emerges a shirtless, sweaty blur, skinny jeans sagging off his ass.

Unlike earlier, tonight is going exceedingly well. Or, as Travis tells the crowd, “the best motherfucking show I’ve ever done in my motherfucking life” and “the best experience of all time.” In the absence of a real smash record, both mixtape standbys like “Upper Echelon” and recent bangers like “3500” ring off equally. By the time Travis goes into “Antidote”—his first time performing the song in his new home of L.A. and his first real shot at the kind of anthem on which hip-hop stars build legacies—everybody is experiencing a full-blown exorcism. Travis is mobbed on stage by his boys while Kylie and company migrate into the audience to dance. In the midst of pandemonium, I’m able to catch a fleeting glimpse of both a somber Trinidad James and a gleeful Theophilus London, the former casually and the latter actively watching the ascension of rap’s new star. The two help frame the evening in a metaphorical sense—the ghost of what could have been and the ghost of what may still be.