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

[prodigalflame]

John didn't quite smirk at the man's comments, or raise an eyebrow, but a somewhat amused cast came over his face. "There was a band here tonight," he said offhandedly, and shrugged. "Guess everyone came to see."

"If the world is ending, let me know?" he added, after a pause. "I could get a few more drinks in before the apocalypse." There was something familiar about the guy, but John always had a shit memory for people who weren't threats. He definitely couldn't remember seeing a blind dude around campus or anything.

[prince_of_nymphs]

Fin snorted, tapping away, then shaking his head. "World's not ending, turns out my agent just really, really wants me to do some soap."

That didn't appeal though, and Fin shook his head again as he turned off his phone and tucked it into his pocket.

He rubbed at the hint of stubble on his jaw, then crossed his legs as he slouched slightly in his seat. "The band was good," he noted, "Not my taste, but certainly talented. I can see why they'd have so many admirers. Are you a fan?" he asked curiously.

[prodigalflame]

"Oh, yeah, you're that actor, right?" John had put it together. "I dunno if I've met you around or just feel like I've met you, because you're on a bunch of magazine covers when I go on the tube." Celebrity was ubiquitous: he felt like he knew half a dozen people who were famous, mostly just by flicking through breakfast TV, and he didn't really like any of them.

"Soap's good," he shrugged. "Steady work is good, right? They'll only fire you if there's some fucking twist and they want to kill you off. And half the time they can bring you back to play your twin brother." John had grown up taking care of his sister. They'd watched a lot of soaps because at times he hadn't known what the hell else to do, once homework was done, and books were read, and meals were eaten.

"...I'm the lead singer," John confessed, with a bit of a laugh, and slapped the table, probably far too pleased with it that he'd kept that to himself until this far in the conversation. "Sorry man, it was just nice not having someone know. People coming up and asking where I learned to play, or why I like those songs, or if they can have my drummer's number...Yech. I'm over it."

[prince_of_nymphs]

Soaps didn't appeal to Fin though. Perhaps he was being a snob, but he just felt he could do better, blind or not. There had to be other parts out there.

Fin flinched a little when the man slapped the table, and smiled faintly at his amusement. "I am, indeed, 'that actor', though most people call me Fin, far less wordy. As for not recognizing you, I apologize, I am at a slight disadvantage in that regard," he smiled, gesturing at his eyes. "However, if you don't want to talk shop, I understand. I'm not a fan of chatting about my work either," he admitted.

[prodigalflame]

"It's just there's only so many ways you can say the same damn things," John said a little helplessly, and shrugged. "I thought being a campus rock god would be a lot different. Probably like being a soap actor," he teased, good-naturedly.

John had gone to school with all sorts of people who might be considered 'disabled' but in practice whatever deviations from the norm they had concealed far greater gifts. At the least, Fin could probably hear a pin drop, all of that.

"So why does your agent think it's a good idea for you to do a soap, and why do you not?" Laying out in those terms interested him: everyone had their own perspective.

[prince_of_nymphs]

"Mmm, I imagine being a 'campus rock god' has its perks though," Fin replied, reaching for his cigarettes, then remembering he probably couldn't smoke here. "As for the soap- My agent knows I'm focusing on my writing now, but he's worried that I need to keep up my exposure. Also, I did express an interest in trying to continue my acting career, and parts for blind actors just don't come up very often. I'm grateful for the opportunity, I'm just not certain soap acting is for me. It's hard work. You get the script the day of filming sometimes, which is hard for me. It wouldn't leave much time for other pursuits. ...Besides, I'm actually dabbling in music myself at the moment. My partner's a musician, we've written a few songs together, though we've yet to record them."

It was hard still referring to Will as his partner- But honestly, he wasn't sure what else to call him.

[prodigalflame]

"Oh, writing," John told him, with something close to a young man's casual dismissiveness. "Fin, I'm a student. Everyone is writing their novel, or some music. Everyone thinks they'd gonna make it - everyone wants to be the hero." He stopped then, the idea of a bunch of deluded wannabes causing him to feel a thrum of nostalgia for his own sharper need for success.

"I just mean that work's work, you know? Gift horse, mouth, don't turn down what's on your plate, all that. You should take it, because the publishing company might go bankrupt and your songs might only be streamed and pay you nothing. Steady work beats being a starving artist, and that's straight from the 'campus rock god.'" Even with all the money he had now, even with all the security, he still remembered the day his dad had walked in the front door and told them he'd been fired, and the messy, tenacious existence his family had fallen into as a result.

John knew how quickly things could end up in the crapper.

[prince_of_nymphs]

Fin raised a brow, but decided not to be insulted by the dismissive tone. Honestly, it was sort of nice to talk to someone who had no idea about his career. It made the conversation feel a bit more genuine.

"Well, I've already got an award winning play and a bestseller under my belt, so one might argue I've already made it as a writer. I'm also not in danger of starving any time soon, I've- Well, I'm very good at saving and investing. I spent several years completely homeless, so money's something I tend to be aware of. ...It offers me the luxury to do what I love, rather than what I must."

He had more money than he knew what to do with, actually, thanks to the wish he'd made when he first met Will, and some wise investments and savings. It had been, honestly, the only thing he'd desperately wanted from their arrangement. More than having his play read by the people who might find worth in it, the luxury of never having to worry when he'd eat next had been priceless to him.

[prodigalflame]

John shrugged. The people were rabble, their taste was frequently in the toilet, and money didn't account for ability. Still, he did understand - he had enough money to buy a house in London, to study, to do what he wanted. He had more leisure now he was no longer a criminal, come to think of it - but less reputation. That annoyed him, a little.

"Well, maybe that's your problem," John suggested. "People are supposed to fall into a slump with their second novel and stuff, right? Especially if the first was good."

[prince_of_nymphs]

Fin didn't think that was it, but he smiled and nodded anyway. It wasn't like there was an easy way to explain his situation at home.

"Perhaps," he said simply.

[prodigalflame]

John sat there in silence for a while: the guy wasn't chatty and John didn't want to pry. (Oh, he liked to pry, who was he kidding, but you know, new leaf, reformed, etc etc.) He still didn't like uncomfortable silences though, and as the pause in conversation stretched, John found himself breaking it.

"...What's it about? Whatever you're working on right now? Whose story are you trying to tell?" John always had liked stories - he'd liked them too much, that had been the problem.

[prince_of_nymphs]

Wetting his lips with a quick flick of his tongue, Fin tilted his head slightly, looking thoughtful.

"Well, my first play, Reap, was all about accepting death. I was very ill at the time- Terminal, I'd believed- So that was obviously something I was dealing with personally. My book, however was- Honestly, in retrospect, a bit of fluff. I was really interested in the early industrial era, and-"

He waved his hand a bit and rolled his eyes at himself.

"If my name hadn't been on it, it wouldn't have done so well. I know that now. ...I do have a book of poems coming out soon. A large collection of things I've written over the last seven years or so. Should come out over Christmas. ...At the moment I'm working on my next play though. Editing my poems reminded me how good it feels to get into my own head and explore all the things that make me ache. So this play is about- Well, rebirth, I suppose. Discovering talents, abilities- Things you might be blind to that are just part of you. In your blood even. I've been through so many changes over the last few years, both mentally and physically, it feels nice to put it on paper. Even if I do so in a somewhat abstract and fantasy laced way."

He shrugged then, leaning back in his seat. His eyes were milky, visibly damaged and unfocused- But for a moment they seemed to shine slightly. Bright and focused as they fixed on the other man- Then returning to how they'd been.

"What about you? Do you write your own songs and music, as well as do covers?" he asked curiously.

[prodigalflame]

John nodded at the appropriate times, listening to what the other man had to say. Death, time and rebirth, that seemed to sum it up. Was there anything else to write about, anything that didn't boil down to one of those big three? Certainly his studies had left him a little cynical as to the possibility of originality.

He blinked a little at the sudden seeming brightness of those eyes, but then it was gone again, and things were as normal. Except John was left pensive, lips in a bit of a pout as he ruminated. He'd certainly seen too much in his life to trust to the notion of normal.

"...The thing about change," John said slowly, "is that half the time all it does it reveal what you really were all the time. People have all sorts of talents they don't know about, or don't want to know about. It's not a change to find out what's lurking so much as a revelation." Shrugging a little, he continued: "But there's one talent I'll never have, and that's writing music. I can write, sure, all academic-like, but it's easier - and more interesting - to take an existing song and play with it, see what it can become. Make it mutate, if you will." Bad joke, John, very bad joke. But right now he had need of bad jokes.