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ph_logs2024-03-24 05:28 pm
daemoniumexmachina) wrote in ph_logs2024-03-24 05:28 pm
March Sadness
Who: Efrain, the Prince of Sorrow's Song, and you!
What: Sadboy open mic night
When: March 24th
Where: Empty Pockets
Warning(s): I'm not sure how to describe it other than it's a huge bummer.
-Lover, come to the kitchen floor; the tiles are cold and so am I-
In late March, posters begin cropping up around town and on the bulletin board. They are beautifully made, on gray paper with swooping white letters, advertising a "Sing Your Heart Out" event at the Empty Pockets Performance Bar.
The bar in question, seated in a cozy location in Downtown Hollow, is well known for hosting musical, theatrical, and poetic talent of all sorts on its stage. Many of them are planned, but "open stage nights" are fairly common as well. So when the posters begin appearing, advertising an opportunity for residents to come and showcase or simply enjoy emotionally vulnerable music and poetry as a community bonding exercise, it comes as no particular surprise. The staff aren't sure who planned it, nor were they informed it would be occurring, but hey. It's an opportunity for them to sell more drinks. They don't intend to look a gift horse in the mouth.
And so it is that on the evening of March 24th, performing arts lovers of Pumpkin Hollow come to Empty Pockets to move or be moved by songs and sonnets that tug upon the heartstrings. It's a quirky event, and strange that it'd be so popular. Were this many people looking for an emotional outlet by happenstance? Or did those with sorrow in their hearts feel called by some unheard song?
Empty Pockets is a dimly lit space, intimate and close. A carved wooden bar, polished with care, features a winding piece of wall art, little marble tiles in black and white, cut to look like piano keys, sprawling in a flowing trail along the well-stocked backbar. Cormac Bowen, of Cormac and the Banshees, can be seen chatting excitedly before his act, banjo strapped to his back as he downs a pint and jokes with anyone he talks to. Before too long, he and the aforementioned "banshees" ascend the stage, happy to be the opening act as they play some of their more emotionally stirring pieces.
Get comfortable. Grab a drink. Enjoy the scene. It won't be peaceful for long.
-I can feel your sorrow pouring out of your skin; and I don't want to be alone-
Not long after Cormac and the Banshees excuse themselves from the stage, the bar becomes... strangely quieter. As if a shroud of grey has fallen over the crowd, hushing it by just a few decibels.
A band of strange people file onto the stage, hardly noticed by the crowd despite their unusual appearances. A starkly pale woman wearing a blindfold, dressed all in lace and gossamer finery and wearing a halo-like crown over her veil. A grey-skinned man whose mouth and chest are fitted with shiny brass piping, which looks terribly painful. And lastly, a shrouded figure with four arms, carrying a massive stringed instrument decorated with skulls. The group does not introduce themselves, or even announce the start of their act, they simply begin to play.
First, the man with the heart of brass begins to sing a low note, which presses air through all the pipes to sound like a harmonization between a hurdy gurdy, an organ, and a tuba. The shrouded figure takes a bow to his strange instrument, which creates a unique and eerie sound that blends the deep, rich tones of a bass with the sliding, mysterious notes of a dilruba or sitar. And at last, the woman begins to sing, her haunting voice climbing and descending through numerous octaves with unrivalled skill, her Latin lyrics telling a tale that cannot be understood, but felt.
It is the most beautiful music you have ever heard. You are immediately filled with the urge to weep, your heart breaking for a memory you can't quite reach, a life you never lived, a moment you forgot, a loved one whose face you can no longer picture. The pain overwhelms you. The desire to wrench your heart from your chest simply to get it to stop aching, because the pain of its severance would be tame compared to the emotional torment you suffer, becomes very real in your mind. And then the song ends, and more painful than the sound of the song is its loss.
You must find a way to release it.
-So take from me, what you want, what you need-
Efrain and his band vacate the stage, leaving it opened. It calls to you, even if it hadn't before, though you very well may have come here with a song in mind. However, now releasing your pain into the room feels imperative, like there's something rotting you from the inside if you don't. Or you can simply opt to turn to the person next to you and spill your pain to the nearest person. The idea of leaving simply... doesn't occur to you. As if this is all that matters.
Efrain himself sits in the corner. He reaches out a hand to you. "You poor, miserable soul," he croons, his voice soft and breathy but somehow still crisp and clear. He beckons you near. "Come to me. Sing your song of pain. And I will give you what you need."
What: Sadboy open mic night
When: March 24th
Where: Empty Pockets
Warning(s): I'm not sure how to describe it other than it's a huge bummer.
-Lover, come to the kitchen floor; the tiles are cold and so am I-
In late March, posters begin cropping up around town and on the bulletin board. They are beautifully made, on gray paper with swooping white letters, advertising a "Sing Your Heart Out" event at the Empty Pockets Performance Bar.
The bar in question, seated in a cozy location in Downtown Hollow, is well known for hosting musical, theatrical, and poetic talent of all sorts on its stage. Many of them are planned, but "open stage nights" are fairly common as well. So when the posters begin appearing, advertising an opportunity for residents to come and showcase or simply enjoy emotionally vulnerable music and poetry as a community bonding exercise, it comes as no particular surprise. The staff aren't sure who planned it, nor were they informed it would be occurring, but hey. It's an opportunity for them to sell more drinks. They don't intend to look a gift horse in the mouth.
And so it is that on the evening of March 24th, performing arts lovers of Pumpkin Hollow come to Empty Pockets to move or be moved by songs and sonnets that tug upon the heartstrings. It's a quirky event, and strange that it'd be so popular. Were this many people looking for an emotional outlet by happenstance? Or did those with sorrow in their hearts feel called by some unheard song?
Empty Pockets is a dimly lit space, intimate and close. A carved wooden bar, polished with care, features a winding piece of wall art, little marble tiles in black and white, cut to look like piano keys, sprawling in a flowing trail along the well-stocked backbar. Cormac Bowen, of Cormac and the Banshees, can be seen chatting excitedly before his act, banjo strapped to his back as he downs a pint and jokes with anyone he talks to. Before too long, he and the aforementioned "banshees" ascend the stage, happy to be the opening act as they play some of their more emotionally stirring pieces.
Get comfortable. Grab a drink. Enjoy the scene. It won't be peaceful for long.
-I can feel your sorrow pouring out of your skin; and I don't want to be alone-
Not long after Cormac and the Banshees excuse themselves from the stage, the bar becomes... strangely quieter. As if a shroud of grey has fallen over the crowd, hushing it by just a few decibels.
A band of strange people file onto the stage, hardly noticed by the crowd despite their unusual appearances. A starkly pale woman wearing a blindfold, dressed all in lace and gossamer finery and wearing a halo-like crown over her veil. A grey-skinned man whose mouth and chest are fitted with shiny brass piping, which looks terribly painful. And lastly, a shrouded figure with four arms, carrying a massive stringed instrument decorated with skulls. The group does not introduce themselves, or even announce the start of their act, they simply begin to play.
First, the man with the heart of brass begins to sing a low note, which presses air through all the pipes to sound like a harmonization between a hurdy gurdy, an organ, and a tuba. The shrouded figure takes a bow to his strange instrument, which creates a unique and eerie sound that blends the deep, rich tones of a bass with the sliding, mysterious notes of a dilruba or sitar. And at last, the woman begins to sing, her haunting voice climbing and descending through numerous octaves with unrivalled skill, her Latin lyrics telling a tale that cannot be understood, but felt.
It is the most beautiful music you have ever heard. You are immediately filled with the urge to weep, your heart breaking for a memory you can't quite reach, a life you never lived, a moment you forgot, a loved one whose face you can no longer picture. The pain overwhelms you. The desire to wrench your heart from your chest simply to get it to stop aching, because the pain of its severance would be tame compared to the emotional torment you suffer, becomes very real in your mind. And then the song ends, and more painful than the sound of the song is its loss.
You must find a way to release it.
-So take from me, what you want, what you need-
Efrain and his band vacate the stage, leaving it opened. It calls to you, even if it hadn't before, though you very well may have come here with a song in mind. However, now releasing your pain into the room feels imperative, like there's something rotting you from the inside if you don't. Or you can simply opt to turn to the person next to you and spill your pain to the nearest person. The idea of leaving simply... doesn't occur to you. As if this is all that matters.
Efrain himself sits in the corner. He reaches out a hand to you. "You poor, miserable soul," he croons, his voice soft and breathy but somehow still crisp and clear. He beckons you near. "Come to me. Sing your song of pain. And I will give you what you need."
no subject
He still seems a little rattled, but he's coming out of it slowly, and shakes his head as if to physically dislodge the mental fog. Even through it, though, it's hard not to notice how this one musician seems more put together than the rest of the room combined, even the other people who have gone up on stage and sung their hearts out. Leon frowns, unsure what to make of it.
"Can't imagine what it was like for you, if I'm all choked up just hearing about it."
cw hallucinations, body horror, emeto
He grimaces and rubs at his eyes, shrugging.
"I dunno. I guess it was the worst thing to ever happen to me," he admits, careless and casual, as if this isn't the very first time he's ever said as such. "Like being in a bad trip that wouldn't end. I couldn't escape or... or sober up, wake up, whatever. I'd put on an album and the songs would be all wrong, and sometimes the TV would talk to me. I mean, not the TV itself, just, um. The people in it..."
He laughs a little, miserably. And now that he's started talking about it, the words just keep coming, his languid, dreamy pace picking up, becoming something manic.
"That was the only way Ziggy could talk to me. Like a fucking ransom note, you know? All the cut up letters, only it was--" He waves a hand. "Whatever I could see or hear. Like one time, I was hooking up with someone, you know, trying to get out of my head, drown it out, any way I could, and I was with this-- this person, I don't even remember who, if she was a girl or he was a guy or what, but they were beautiful, I think. But when they laughed, I remember-- I remember hearing, like, chords of some tune I was working on, and then I thought... Their neck was long. Pretty. Getting longer every time I blinked, so I tried not to blink, but you know, you can only do that for so long, I mean, you have to blink. And then I saw strings? Guitar strings, like it was a part of them, like they were, were like a living instrument or something, I dunno, I think I thought it was pretty, but it's fucking weird, right? But that was every day by then, so I mean, after a certain point you can't even scream and freak out anymore, you just kind of accept it. I think I accepted it... Or maybe I puked all over the bed. Maybe I dreamt it. I dunno."
He pauses, takes a breath, and slows down again, seeming to come back to himself. Or, like, whatever semi-dazed state passes for Jeff's baseline normal these days.
"But I was never alone when I had Ziggy. And it... It was like being seen and loved by something so much bigger than anyone could ever understand. Something unreal in the most beautiful, fucked up way..."
Jeff groans and leans his head back, wincing at the ceiling.
"Ugh. Sorry! I'm babbling way too much, dude."
He doesn't even know why. This is all shit he's never told anyone before, and here he is, unloading on a stranger, and it just feels so... normal? Like maybe Leon's just a really good listener or something. Yeah, that's it, it's totally not some fucked up demon magic.
no subject
"No, it's - hey, I asked. Wouldn't have if I didn't want to hear about it." He looks pretty intensely worried though. Sounds like what he imagines a bad acid trip would be like, mostly, but he's not about to dismiss it just because of that. Not when he's only here because a goddess snapped him up from his death throes and not when it clearly affected this guy so profoundly. It's just hard to know what to say to any of that. Should he congratulate him that it's over? Or give his condolences?
Leon, being himself, does what he always does in situations where he doesn't know what to say.
"...You think it's better or worse that you didn't get hit with the Spiders from Mars in the middle of all that, too?" The question is delivered with a wholly straight face, leaving his mouth before he really thinks about it. Sorry, Jeff.
no subject
Then it clicks, and Jeff lets out a startled laugh. And then he keeps laughing for... probably longer than warranted, with a giddiness that feels as cathartic as crying.
"Fuck, dude, I'd be a one man show with the whole ensemble in here," he giggles, pointing at his head.
no subject
"Hey, I think you did a pretty good job even all on your own," he says. "I'm Leon, by the way. Good to meet you."
It's probably a good idea to introduce himself now that he's heard a substantial and painful part of this guy's life story, he figures.
no subject
"Thanks. Guess I should get used to being a solo act, anyway." No band. No whatever-it-was tethered to his soul. "I'm Jeff. You come here often?"
A beat.
"Okay, that sounded like a pickup line, I just meant-- Empty Pockets. Um. Like. Did you come to sing?"
no subject
"Me? Oh, no, I uh, don't sing," he says, flustered and entirely unaware of how he'll later make a liar of himself. "Never been very musical. I just saw the posters up and thought I'd give it a listen. What about you, though. You a regular?"
no subject
no subject
Leon is and always has been a bit of an awkward loner, even if he's gotten better at disguising it, but in his fevered imaginings of what it might be like to be an extrovert he always thought being the kind of person to check out local indie bands sounded cool. This probably contributed at least a little to his showing up here tonight.
"How do the people from around here seem to like your music, though? It's gotta be interesting for them, hearing what's pretty modern to us. I'm not even sure I've seen anyone else playing a guitar since I got here."