Gathering Post - Singles' Night (These Are The Times)

[prodigalflame]

The Tavern, as it was called, brought to mind images of faded Tudor quaintness: of whitewashed exterior, black beams, windows barred with cast iron, mulled mead and a fireplace in every room.

In truth, the pub was anything but. Located in one of the gentrifying suburbs, it was a modern bulwark of concrete, iron and glass. The first two stories were the pub proper, and the next ten were apartments. The owners had called it 'The Tavern' in a display of hipster pride, as if it was the only pub that mattered. Snaking through the two levels were a series of pipes, as small-scale brewing took place on site.

It was usually a lively sort of pub, populated mostly by the fussy, the well-off, the well-educated and those that aspired to be, although situated near a tube station meant it also got a lot of randoms peering in to grab a pint. The alcohol menu was diverse, the food menu was dominated by various pulled meats and a cheese board (if anyone cared) and there were probably far too many male graduate students with neckbeards who nodded enthusiastically at each other as they discussed Kant.

Still, on Saturday night it was even more bustling than usual. People stood on the stairs, beers in hand, and chatted. Every seat was taken. The wait staff had their hands full (literally), and moved with ease and grace through the throng to deliver food to tables, and collect numbers and plates.

Tonight there would be music. Tonight there would be bands. Tonight was Singles' Night, a guarantee of no sappy love songs, no heart break, no angst. Two local bands were playing: first there would be a set from The Flamethrowers, with a mix of classic rock and pop standards, and then after a break, there would be an electro-synth duo to allow for dancing well past midnight.

So at about 9pm, patrons were treated to the sight of the first band tuning up. There wasn't really a performance space, so much as a corner on the ground floor of the pub that was currently unoccupied by tables. It was a four-piece band: some shaggy-haired cross between hobo and hipster on rhythm guitar and vocals, a slightly older british caribbean guy in glasses with goatee on double bass, a short-haired woman in her mid-20s on percussion and vocals and a tendency to beat the ever-living fuck out of the drum set, and another woman, more long-haired and willowy, on keyboards and vocals. Mr Hobo-Hipster of the shaggy hair and blond tips sang lead most of the time, but he gave it up for each of the women through their eleven song set, and there were duets. The keyboard was set to produce a more honky-tonk piano sound, and combined with the double bass, most of the covers had a dirty feel to them, all loose chords and guitar slaps. Clearly they'd played together for long enough to have a good feel for each other, which just added to the looseness, the occasional digression or ad hoc solo.

And Mr Hobo-Hipster didn't so much as introduce the band members as say "Hey. We're the Flamethrowers" and then let his guitar speak for itself as they launched into a funked-up version of Money. His voice was a little rough, almost a growl, and his stage presence was contained but not muted. Even without posturing, John made it very clear that he was the driving force behind the band: he didn't preen or strut, he didn't need to, and only the hint of a smirk could be seen around his eyes. There was no grinning, not now: now he was controlled and contained and came off a little bit contemptuous of having to perform. He sang, sure, and he played, and played pretty well, but his focus were the frets of his guitar, the lyrics of the songs. That night, he was sleek and dangerous and full of pride. That night, he had no reasons to smile or grin or show how happy he was: he'd lost those along the way. He was pared back to his disdainful core. Overall, the band was good but not great, and with John being Intense, the performance probably came off somewhere between 'bluesy rock band' and 'satanic death cult'.

Grooving through the set-list for roughly 45 minutes, the Flamethrowers played a series of stripped-back, funked-up covers. Rock the Casbah. a slowed-down take on Time after Time. Versions of Dangerous and Sweet Dreams (are made of this) that were dominated by the keyboards and a sparse double bass. Everybody Wants to Rule the World. John's wry grin came out for a guitar driven, lazy run on Carole King's "It's Too Late", before he paused to finally introduce the band, have some water, and explain that the point was to avoid the melancholic and romantic: to not make anyone feel bad for being single.

Four more songs, and they then closed with Mama Told Me Not To Come, having meandered their way past some INXS, Living End and Lynyrd Skynyrd.

In the end, John thanked the band (again), thanked everyone for showing up, and hoped they passed the audition. As a nicety, he promised there would now be some 'music you can dance to' after a little break, and then disappeared to pack up his guitar and amp and find himself a drink and a quiet corner.

The night went on without him, and that was just fine.

[OOC: Saturday night at an upmarket pub and destination of note. Feel free to show up before, during or after the band. Complain about the noise, the locally brewed artisan beer, the hipster food, the even more hipster band, or just dance the night away.]

Comments

[pippa_flynn]

Singles night was exactly what Pippa needed. She'd heard about the Tavern from a friend of a friend and had decided she'd invite herself to the festivities. She found herself at the bar and it didn't take but ten minutes before someone had bought her a drink. She wasn't surprised it had happened so fast, even though she was understated in blue she was still magnetic.

And it was ten more minutes before she had a small group around her, sycophants all, drawn to her power and her spirit. Pippa was used to being the center of attention, she always had been. She'd always had a small army of those who loved her, or thought they did. Hangers on who wanted nothing more than to please her and bask in her smile.

She grew tired of that group after not long and had excused herself to go listen to the band. More drinks found her and she gave out smiles and a bit of her time to those who brought them to her. But in the end they all forgot her as soon as she moved on.

After dancing a bit, Pippa stepped outside to have a smoke. She was a little drunk and always had a fag or two when she was pissed. The night air was cool and she felt good. And because she felt good her power radiated off of her, warming everyone around her and making them happy and loose.

Coming tonight was exactly the sort of thing she'd been needing.

[prince_of_nymphs]

Fin was a friend of one of the owners, who'd suggested he stop by. The music was enjoyable, if not exactly to his taste, but by the time DJ started their set he found he needed a break and some air.

He hadn't known Pippa would be there, and was a bit startled to feel her near as he folded his cane away and lit up his cigarette.

"Pip?" he asked, wanting to be sure it was her.

[pippa_flynn]

"Fin!" she said cheerfully, a bit loud. When she moved to him to hug him she reeked of liquor. "I didn't know you were here. My night just got a million times better. Are you having fun?"

[leloupnoir]

Akeem frowned as his lighter refused to cooperate and, after shaking it as if that might help, he gave up and looked over at the person next to him. Simply looking at her smoothed out his irritation, and his breathing came easier, not that he noticed. What he did notice was her smell; she was something other.

But all he needed was a light, and what she was was her own business.

"I'm sorry, miss," he stepped closer, abandoning his empty lighter in a nearby ashtray, unlit cigarette in hand. "Would you have a light?"

[pippa_flynn]

Pippa had had her eyes closed, listening to the thumping bass that spilled outside. She opened them when he got near, not because of his voice but because he smelled so different from anyone else she'd met tonight. Seeing him made her smile and she nodded.

"Of course I do," she said, fishing her lighter out for him. "Here you are."

[prodigalflame]

John had thanked the band individually, and personally, as he'd packed up, although it had been little more than a meaningful nod and a clap on the arm by way of thanks. Lately, well, he'd been keeping his emotions pretty close and his counsel tighter. Besides, they'd done a good job: they were even something like friends, if he was the sort to have friends.

But he wasn't the sort. And so John sat, tucked away in the corner, nursing his neat scotch slowly, and just observed the people with their lives and their loves and their friends like it wasn't some big pile of crap. His arms were crossed on the table in front of him when he wasn't taking a sip, shoulders hunched, and he knew he looked like a worn out, defensive grumpy bastard. He didn't glare though - he didn't care enough for that - and exchanged civil greetings with anyone who came up to talk about the band, before fobbing them off with a sort-of-half-smile-half-shrug and gestured to his glass.

[utterly_mysterious]

"You were marvelous," said Angelique as she drifted up to the singer's table practically out of nowhere. She offered him warm smile that made her dark eyes twinkle, lingering next to his table with a drink in hand cradled by silver-tipped fingers. "I love the Cyndi Lauper song, and I was ready to hate you for covering it, but you converted me.

"Though it doesn't look like you're enjoying the, er, fruits of your success." As in, no groupies were flocking to the grungy, soulful-looking singer.

[prodigalflame]

"Thanks," John said, a bit taken aback by the company before he settled into something a little more friendly, awkwardly standing so he could pull back one of the chairs. "Sit, if you want. I'll pass on your praise to Kendra, she was lead vocals on that one. I just did guitar." And the arrangement, but John was happy to let others get praise as long as he got the recognition he deserved.

It wasn't that he hadn't expected praise - he knew the band didn't suck - but he knew he was more...stand-offish, these days. He might as well come with a 'Do not feed the animals/poke the bear' sign.

Realising how he looked, all alone, hunched over, John snorted at the woman's remarks, and absently scratched at the scruff that was growing along his chin. God, why had he ever shaved? "It's fine. I'm fine," he clarified, hand shifting to absently play with the engagement ring on his finger. "You can always judge an artist by the quality of their fans. I'd rather someone honest than all the bullshit, right?"

[prince_of_nymphs]

Fin's phone had been going mad for the last twenty minutes, buzzing in his pocket almost constantly- Which meant either something awful was happening on his social media, or his agent was desperately trying to get hold of him. Both were fine, but it wasn't as if Fin could just sit down and look at his phone. His magic did its best, but it wasn't clear enough to read messages- So checking his phone was a bit of a process. One that involved a quiet place to sit, and putting in his earpiece so his phone could read it all out to him.

The venue was crowded, and his magic was struggling to show him everything, but there was a table nearby that looked somewhat empty, and he slowly made his way over. The sound of his cane tapping against the floor lost almost completely under the thudding music, but Fin spoke loud enough to be heard.

"Sorry, do you mind if I sit here for a moment?" he asked, removing his thick, black sunglasses from his face as he spoke. As much as he wasn't keen on being recognized, or having people gawk at his slightly milky and unfocused gaze, it did stop people from assuming he was some prat wearing sunglasses indoors, usually.

[utterly_mysterious]

This was not Angelique's usual sort of place, very far away from the arty coffee houses, theaters, and drag bars where she usually spent her time. A few of her friends had wanted to try the place -- if nothing else, they could laugh smugly at the hipsters, they said -- but had quickly gotten bored with the novelty of feeling superior to other people. Angelique, on the other hand, had been enjoying the band and elected to stay.

She hadn't altered her style for the change in venue, either, wearing a cute boho black dress with bell sleeves, silver peep-toe boots, and plenty of jewelry. Between the performance and the electronic portion of the evening, she strolled through the bar, looking for friends or potential friends to bless with her conversational presence.

[prince_of_nymphs]

Fin had come simply because he knew one of the owners, who, it turned out, had invited him in hopes of matching him up with a friend. Though this friend was nice enough, he had taken to guiding Fin around like a lost puppy, despite Fin's gentle protests that he didn't need guiding. He was blind, not useless after all.

It had taken some work, but he'd finally managed to lose the man, his cane back out as his magic helped him weave through the crowd- Something he'd been doing quite a good job of until someone knocked into him, in turn knocking him right into Angelique.

"Shit," he said softly. "God, I'm so sorry," he added, unaware of who he was apologizing to.

[leloupnoir]

Akeem was heading back in after having a smoke, the pint he'd been offered in his hand, and glad to find that his stool at the bar still seemed to be free. A small blessing. He made for it, only stopping to let a young woman step up to the bar in front of him, at the risk of her taking his intended seat. Manners were deeply ingrained in him. "Please," he told her with a small, polite smile, and a gesture of his hand indicating that she should go ahead.

OTA

[leloupnoir]

This was not Akeem's usual sort of pub; he preferred smaller, quieter places. He was here because one of his most challenging students, the drummer of the first band, had insisted he attend. He had settled on a bar stool after greeting the other students he had spotted in the crowd, not wanting to cramp their style by staying with them. He had nursed a pint while the Flamethrowers played, and found himself totally unsurprised by the vigorous style of drumming on display. It certainly fit her.

Once their set was over, she made a beeline for him, which Akeem supposed was partly because of the proximity to the bartenders. They chatted while she ordered a drink, and insisted on paying him one. "Just a glass," he relented, but she got him a pint anyway, telling him glasses were not how you were supposed to drink beer.

It wasn't long before her attention was claimed by friends of hers, however, and Akeem wandered outside with his pint, setting it on an empty table as he pulled out his pack of cigarettes to light up.

Re: OTA

[prince_of_nymphs]

Needing a break from the music and crowd, Fin had wandered outside for a smoke, his cane tapping against the ground, then slowing as he stopped near the table. His hand reached out, touching the back of an empty chair, and he hesitated before speaking.

"Is this seat taken?" he asked, his magic punishing him for abandoning the delicious music and people by dampening his already extremely limited ability to see using it.

OTA

[hardertohide]

Dutch had been dragged to the pub by some friends of hers - yes, it's hipster, but the band's good! it'll be fun! - and, by the end of the first set, wasn't sure what to make of the music. There were parts of it she liked, but the setting highlighted the hipsterness of it all. That she couldn't really get behind, and she stood out in the pub, dressed in black and greys, everything about her screaming that she would've loved being old enough to enjoy the good ol' punk outbreak, rather than this hipster shite.

She was by the bar, waiting for her drink, when the set ended and the singer promised the crowd 'music you can dance to' in a bit. She grimaced at the sound of that. "I'm not sure I want to know what people dance to here," she muttered, mostly to herself, but loud enough for anyone to catch.

Of course, the bartender was now setting a pint in front of her, so it sounded like she was going to find out.

Re: OTA

[prodigalflame]

John had decided to swing by the mens' room after he got his shit all packed away, and before he started to nurse his booze and his grudges on what promised to be a slow, dreary night.

Crossing past the bar, he noticed a woman who looked familiar, and from the way she was sitting, she seemed to look as about as pleased to be there as he did, now that it was all electro-doof-bullshit. "...Well, aren't you a happy camper," he remarked, backing up to the bar so he could rest against it, leaning back on his elbows. "I know you from somewhere, and your name starts with....D," he declared, with a certain careful slowness to his tone that he'd had a couple even before the set started.

[whispersoflove]

Anael might not be one for dancing, but he did like music. He had been walking in the streets when he had heard the music coming from the crowded pub, and he'd made his way to the bar to order a glass of wine and enjoy the show. The musicians loved what they did, and that was, of course, always a draw. He wondered what Coby would make of the performance, as often finding himself wishing that he was here with him.

In between songs, he turned to the person beside him to ask, curiously, "What genre would you say this is?"

[sunsongs]

The answer Anael got didn't come from the person he'd asked, but a familiar voice behind him, warm with affection. "Classic rock covers most of it. This one in particular," Coby added, hearing the opening chords of Sweet Home Alabama, "is usually Southern rock." Probably more informative than the 'college band' or 'garage band' Coby had mentally labeled the group.

"But don't let me interrupt."

[wispofathing]

One thing was pretty certain, and that was that looking around at all these people Curnen in her ill-fitting dress (she needed petite, and this was not) and bike shorts did not belong here.

But that was okay, because it reminded her a bit of the barn dance at home--though it was certainly much more structured than that--and because a little Tufa charm meant she didn't have to pay for any of her drinks. It wasn't anything overt, just a dazzling smile here, a little gesture of the hand there and someone would insist on getting that for the little lady. Some of the people in here looked at her like she was a squirrel that had gotten into the engine, but she didn't pay them any mind. Music was being played here, and given it didn't suck, she was going to stay. It wasn't what she'd consider her kind of music usually, but there was heart in the performance and that spoke to her blood in a way that mere genre could not.

When the real music stopped and the sad excuse for dancing began, Curnen retreated to the sidelines. All the same, she greeted everyone who so much as glanced her way for more than an accidental eye movement reason. "Well, hey there stranger."

[prodigalflame]

"Are you looking for another drink?" John asked simply, with a bit of wry amusement that twinkled in his eye, scratching absently at the scruff that was growing along his jaw.

"Because somewhere along the line I realised I hadn't seen you pay for one yourself," he stated. It was just an observation, easy and honest and with more curiosity than implied threat- although sure, there was perhaps a bit of implied threat, too. With John there always was. "What's your secret?"

[akatawitch]

Sunny had come in with a couple of her school friends because they'd heard it was a fun, trendy spot. And yeah it was okay, but it felt a bit like it was trying too hard as far as she was concerned. That didn't much matter, though, because as long as dancing was an option she could make do anywhere.

She wasn't particularly into anything being played by the first band, but it made for good dancing whenever she could talk someone into doing ballroom with her (where she was usually the guy, because why did no one know how to do this).

It was when the electro-synth stuff started that she really got into it, flowing and fierce and tireless.

Well. Okay, that last was an illusion. Every so often she did have to leave the dancing to sit down and have a drink, but even then she looked more glowing and happy than tired.

[whispersoflove]

"I'm very fortunate," Anael stated as he caught her taking one of those breaks. He'd been watching her dance, without doing anything to hide it. She loved dancing, and watching her do it was a treat, even if he didn't like doing it himself. "I keep running into you when you're dancing. Would you like a drink, Sunny? All that must be thirsty work." Not that he would know, but he imagined.

[toujours_impur]

Sirius hadn't even wanted to come, not with the full moon having been just last night, but Remus had insisted, and he'd finally relented to a pint or two and then right back home.

Of course, it was in his very nature to flirt, even if he'd sworn to himself and to Remus that he wasn't there to pull, and as he stood at the bar waiting for his pint, he turned a charming smile on the person next to him. "Hullo, gorgeous."

[utterly_mysterious]

"Hello, yourself," Angelique replied, looking up with an immediate flash of interest at the tall, dark, and handsome thing just now chatting her up. Red lips curved into a luscious little smile. This one didn't quite fit in to the hipster millieu here at this particular bar, but neither did Angelique in her black and silver and her own unabashed self.

"Now where have you been hiding?"

[prodigalflame]

John shot him a Look as he squeezed by, somewhere between disdainful and oh can you get a load of this guy. The crowd was quite thick near the bar, so John basically had to rub against Sirius' ass to get anywhere. Christ. "Hello yourself, pretty boy," he murmured, and then gave Sirius a longer look, up and down, when he eased himself out with a grunt and straightened up, laying his hand on the bar and motioning for some service. "...God, are the 70s in again? I thought they'd finally died by now." Not that John could talk, wannabe revolutionary that he was, but at least his T-shirt emblazoned with 'Fuck.' Shit. Up.' wasn't some cash in on a band thirty years in the grave.