She wasn’t nervous, tentative rather. She took another long drag on her cigarette and watched smoke ascend and curl in the dead air. Behind her, an electric bass rattled the bar’s bay window. Muffled screeches and the fuchsia neon of a Chinese takeout across the street. Her straight blonde hair was cut shoulder length and strands fell loosely about her brow and ears. Her slight frame carried curves that none would describe as unflattering. She was thirty, a waitress by day and struggling talent by night. Clearing her throat, she turned and entered.
The crowd was bathed in darkness, but lekos cut narrow paths of light to the now empty mic stand and stool. This was the most popular Tuesday venue for talent in Seattle’s Ballard neighborhood. She had to befriend the manager in order to land a coveted spot in the rotation. This particular night, she planned on offering a few originals and that always made her tense.
Scanning the room a final time, she ascends the stage, black violin case tucked under her arm. Someone coughs in the crowd. The air seems hotter. The polite silence almost rattles her. She unpacks her instrument, settles into the chair. Her face is now focused and stern.
“Hi friends. My name is Chloe and I’d like to sing you a few songs.” Measured applause. A few rowdy chirps from young men. The overhead strand lights form a salve of heat, amplifying her sudden flush.
She launches into the most melodic song of the mini-set. Her voice undulates above and below the pitch of the violin. Her eyes clench in concentration. The chorus drives up an octave, another, and yet another until she is belting near capacity. As quickly as she climbs, she rescinds. The finish is slow as the once spry notes nearly stall, her voice distilled to a gentle hum.
“Thank you.” A roar of applause greets her. The hot salve from the lights is now no longer stifling, it invigorates her. She launches into the next song.
He noticed his fingers drumming on the raised bar trim. That rarely happened on nights such as these, in places such as this. It was something about the way the light hit her yellow hair, spiraling through and hazing. Framed by the power in her voice and fingers, she seemed a touch angelic.
The drumming continued throughout the rest of her performance. It took a firm hand on his shoulder to rouse him from the trance.
“C’mon Whit, time to shine.” His fellow band mate and guitarist, Sam, turns him on his barstool, breaking the moment.
“Jesus, how are we going to follow her? I mean –”
“Yea I know. Well we’re not.” Sam clasps his acoustic Gibson by the throat and strides towards the stage. Whit, his intrigue overcoming his nerves, follows, his tambourine in hand.
Chloe standing bent to pack her violin, looks stunning up close. Whit harbors a sinking feeling about Sam’s behavior and comment. He takes up position by the second mic nevertheless and awaits the next move. With a subtle lean, Sam whispers a few lines in her ear. A self-conscious smile washes into a devilish grin. An affirmative nod, the release of silver buckles and the violin is re-seated on her chin.
Sam bellies up to the main mic, conceding the stool to Chloe. “A little change in our plans folks. We’re going to keep this one up here for one more. What do you think about that?” Cheers all around. “My buddy on vocals and percussion is Whit and we’re the Breakwater Boys. Here’s something I think you all should recognize.” Turning to Whit he lowers his voice to a near whisper. “Follow my lead. October Road on three. One…two, one… two…three.”
They slip into the first verse, each note arriving at their fingers without translation. Whit senses an energy disproportionate to the soft melody. He restrains both his voice and hands as he backs Sam. Chloe’s eyes no longer clench, they dance across the stage and crowd. Whit thinks how much better her powerful undulations would sound than his raspy backing. The short song ends. They peer at each other with the look of toddlers just finished with their first caper.
“Everyone, give it up one more time for Chloe!”
They finish their five-song set as rehearsed. Whit spends half his attention scanning the crowd for her. She darts about, chatting up the manager, bartender, a few taken fans. The other half of his attention he pours into the songs, all originals written over the course of the past year.
Sam and Whit had first met in college, both broke but hungry. Their mutual interest in folk music was realized when Whit overheard Sam strumming and humming a few Kingston Trio tunes in the dorm common area. Formalities were dispensed and the two became close friends. Sam was a born front man. Tall, skinny with long wavy hair and prominent brow, he often took the lead with new coeds. Whit bore a unique sense of style that set him apart. He often donned sleeveless shirts and oversized sunglasses well before they were the look du jour. He sported large headphones atop his densely wound, near nappy, sandy hair. After graduating and schlepping through a few odd construction and service jobs, the pair decided to get serious about music. They honed their skills, song wrote sober and drunk, laid some demo tracks.
Some local airtime on UW’s KEXP station was earned and a few promising write-ups garnered, but the duo stalled. They needed more components in the form of a bassist and fully functioning drum kit.
The scene tonight was typical. They were well regarded enough to play when and wherever they pleased, but thoroughly ill-equipped enough to ever secure paying gigs. They pair had grown despondent and irritable of late. Subsisting off of cheap food and even cheaper booze, Whit saw the end of the duo in sight. Tonight had given him hope.
He was surprised to find her waiting at the bar alone.
“Quite a nice little group of songs you two have got there. Lovely sound.” He hadn’t noticed before how much playfulness her bangs lent her.
“Why thank you, really. They blend together for me these days. Seriously, I told Sam that we should just play them all straight through, see if anyone would react.” He earns few full-bodied laughs.
“Well I think that’d be a marvelous social experiment.”
“At the risk of sounding corny, do you play here often? I can’t recall ever seeing you.”
“Yea, this is actually my first time here. I had to agree to have drinks with the manager in order to make the cut.”
“Really? Stevie? Crafty bastard. We actually play here most Tuesday’s, I mean….” She arches her brow. He realizes his carelessness. “Well I mean, we’re not landing regular gigs or anything. Hey, I’d gladly faux date Stevie for a spot. I mean, check out those corduroys.” A near doubling over with laughter. He was winning her back. This one certainly has spunk, he thinks.
“Well I had a great time up there. I haven’t seen anyone cover JT’s newer stuff actually.”
“Yea, all my idea.” A slight pause. The stage lights cut out and the house lights come up. “Well we’re gonna be back here next Tuesday, most likely doing covers. What do you say about combining our acts? Give it a shot once, see how it goes. I mean, still give ole’ Stevie a shot and all. He’ll really appreciate it when you get up there with us.”
“Umm, I dunno. You two seem like you have a good thing going.”
Whit has to again restrain himself, this time verbally and emotionally. Choking back desperation he pensively looks up. “Yea well we do. But some sweet, sultry female vocals never hurt anyone’s act that I’ve ever heard of. Besides the way you play is pitch perfect for our stuff. “
A longer pause. Whit notices Sam off chatting to a few regulars, accepting their offers of pints. Stevie huddles at the register out of earshot, but his jealous peering is apparent.
“Well I guess I could give it a go just next week. See how we sound. I’m free to practice any night between now and then. Oh, save Friday, that’s when Casanova reserved me. Here, I’ll save you the trouble of asking.” She whips open a bar nap and hastily scribbles.
Whit smiles and pockets. “Great. I’ll confer with my ball and chain and we’ll make arrangements. It was nice meeting and playing with you” They shake.
“Pleasure’s all mine.” Whit leaves her at the bar and collects his tambourine from the stage. He swings by Sam on his way out.
“Leaving already brother?”
“Yea, tonight was good enough for me. I’ll just ruin it if I stick around.” The group nods silently, the way people do when they don’t know what you’re talking about, out of grace. He leans in towards Sam’s shoulder. “Got Chloe’s info. Don’t be a dog and scare her off. I think she can really help us out.”
“Well it was my idea so – ”
“Seriously dude. We need this.”
He taps him on the shoulder, bids the regulars goodnight and strides out of the joint. Whit is careful not to glance at the bar or its occupants. He steps out into the street, the salty summer air envelops him. Starving, he heads towards the day glow restaurant out of habit. Despite knowing the mediocrity of the food well, he senses that tonight it will go down with ease.
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