ph_logs | Early August Catch-All and Intros

Current Music: Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out

Early August Catch-All and Intros

Who: Grace Holloway (

deepbluerevue) & sundry (You)

What: Grace’s musical performances (ranging from her debut to all the gigs afterward). These will be her introductions to most of the town’s residents!

When: Three days after Grace’s arrival <-> Mid-August

Where: Various venues for live music gigs around town (restaurants, lounges, taverns)

Warning(s): Rapture in the late 1950s into the 1960s was a tough place to live, though Grace is unlikely to bring such things up of her own accord.

PRE-SHOW [Music venue, such as a restaurant, lounge, or the Oak & Iron]

It’s mid-afternoon, and the venue is sparsely populated by customers. Besides the employees, though, there’s a woman in a simple ensemble of a long brown skirt, linen shirt, light brown vest, and tidy women’s boots, the outfit completed by an ill-matching, utilitarian walking cane in her left hand. Her tightly-coiled hair is swept back into an elegant but unadorned chignon, and as she moves from spot to spot in the venue, staring at the performance area at each stop, there’s a growing crease between her curved, pencilled brows, red lips pursed together.

As someone approaches, however, the crease disappears, replaced by a warm smile. “Hello there. You looking for something?”

SHOW + POST-SHOW [Music venue, such as a restaurant, lounge, or the Oak & Iron]

By no means was the live performance flashy. It hardly could be, not when the performer merely walked to the area cleared for her, introduced herself as Grace Holloway, and, after a half-minute or so of casual conversation to match the mood of the audience, sat herself upon a tall wooden stool and, with no accompaniment, began to sing.

At venues such as these, with a newcomer artist such as her, the musician is meant to be background entertainment, and Miss Holloway arranges her set accordingly: her voice is a smooth, well-supported croon, transitioning seamlessly from teasing paeans of good times to wry, melancholy blues of the bad, and back again. The set lasts for a full hour, until most people are done with their meals, and Miss Holloway concludes with a jaunty march, bowing to scattered applause before disappearing into the back halls.

Miss Holloway reappears some fifteen minutes later, a glass of water in her right hand, and seats herself at an empty table. She looks slightly tired, but mostly vibrant — if not happy, then at least content.

Note:

For Grace’s range, think Sheryl Lee Ralph’s voice performing Bessie Smith’s oeuvre. You can find an example on Grace’s journal!

FOR MAYOR POE [Town Hall]

The fourth time Grace Holloway found her way to the Town Hall with business in mind, she discreetly kicked a little bit of wood into the front door jamb to keep it propped open. Fool her twice, shame on her. Though whatever power locked her in likely wouldn’t be much incommoded by a little thing like that, it made her feel slightly better to take some precaution.

The mayor’s office door was slightly cracked, and Grace knocked lightly on the frame. “Excuse me, Mayor Poe? Would you happen to have a minute?”

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The woman beamed, lifting her skirt to the side in a half-joking curtsey. “That I am, young man. Grace Holloway.”

She crossed to sit at a chair nearer to the young man, one hand pulling a cigarette out from a pocket in her skirt. “You wouldn’t happen to have a light, would you?”

Gerard chuckled softly. "Not as young as I look, ma'am. Gerard Keay."

He took a seat, producing his lighter--- a utilitarian, old-fashioned thing. It was hand stamped with letters that had wonky placement and inconsistent depth, giving it character that made it appear older than it was. The phrase read "Mama Tried". With a practiced flick, he lit the flame and offered it to her.

When Grace saw the lighter, she let out a faint snort. Business-like, she leaned in with a hand cupped around the flame to light her smoke, then sat back in her chair with an equable air. “Young enough, Mister Gerard. You listened to the blues before? The locals don’t seem to have heard anything like it, but this place isn’t the most cosmopolitan. No fault to them, of course.”

"I have, in fact," he replied. "Not my usual genre, but I can appreciate the classics. Blues paved the way for rock music, and alternative rock and metal followed after that."

Grace paused halfway through a drag, eyebrows raising in interest. “‘Metal’? I’m not familiar with it.”

[Internal thoughts]

Back in the early fifties, she’d surreptitiously acquired a few smuggled records of rhythm and blues tunes, and a few of the later ones had started calling themselves “rock and roll” before she lost the means to be obtaining such pricey, illicit items, so she could guess what “rock” and even “alternative rock” were… but “metal”? Was it a pun?

"Oh, uh---" Abruptly it occurs she might not be as modern as some of the other people here. "I think... If my theory is right, some people here might be from different time periods. So it may not have been invented yet for you."

“Hard to say,” Grace said ruefully, tapping ashes onto a napkin. “Anything could’ve happened on the surface — or rather, outside of where I lived, especially the past ten years, and I’d be none the wiser. But,” she added, “you’re on to something for sure. I’ve heard about some mighty strange places, the past few weeks.”

"Well, ah, metal music is loud and angry, usually. Lots of it is about darker subjects. Injustices, anti-religion, death," Gerard explained. "It's... not for everyone. I'd offer to let you listen to some, but I left all my music behind in Morden, and I've got no talent for playing music myself."

Grace laughed, a remnant of smoke ghosting out along with the sound. “Well, I don’t know about loud, but if that’s the kind of tales you like, then you oughta love the blues,” she teased lightly. “‘Morden’, huh? Haven’t heard of it.”

"It's south of London," he offered. Most people knew where London was no matter where they were from.

"What about you? Where you from?" America, he guessed.

“A place called Rapture, most recently, though I grew up in St. Louis.” Grace’s expression turned wistful. “Thought about trying to visit London once or twice. Didn’t pan out, though.”

"Eh, you're not missing much," he joked, but he raised an interested brow. "Where's Rapture? Not sure I've heard of it."

Grace’s expression fell into a lopsided smile. “The northern Atlantic ocean floor.” Her expression said, I know this sounds ridiculous, and I’m prepared to be amused by how you react. “You wouldn’t have. It was meant to be a refuge for the creators of the world.”

Gerard's eyebrows shot up, but aside from that he didn't seem too shocked.

"It wasn't founded by a rich old bastard by the name of Simon Fairchild, was it?" He asked, nose wrinkling. That sounded like the sort of horse piss he would pull.

“… No, it was a man by the name of Andrew Ryan,” Grace said, “but now I’m curious about this ‘Fairchild’ character. Was there another underwater city I didn’t know about?”

"Nah, just sounded like the sort of insane thing he'd do. It's... a long story," Gerard grumbled. "He's a prick with a lot of money who does unhinged nonsense like that just for fun. And it's usually a disaster."

It was a little more complicated than that, but he didn't think Grace would believe him.

"What about Ryan? He any better? Or was he worse?"

Grace’s expression moved from regret to anger before settling on resignation, a sigh escaping her lips. “It wasn’t good.” She shrugged. “Don’t know if it was better or worse that it sure wasn’t just for the hell of it.”

Gerard watched her facial expression, gleaning all the information he needed.

"Did he at least have the decency to die before you?"

“Hm? Oh, yeah, yeah,” Grace said, waving a hand. “Someone cracked his head open with a golf club, little less than ten years ago. Good riddance.” She jutted her chin at Mister Gerard. “What about that fellow you mentioned? He gone?”

"No," Gerard replied glumly. "He's immortal. Only the good die young, I suppose."

Grace clicked her tongue. “Pity.” Tilting her head, she asked, “Immortal like we’re all apparently immortal around here, or…?”

"No, like actually immortal," he replied, taking another drag. "It's, ah... In my world, there's monsters. Like here but without the luxury of some of 'em being funny. They're created by these... gods of fear, for lack of better words. And sometimes a person could choose to devote themselves to the service of one of those gods, and they'd become a monster too. They wouldn't usually look like one, they'd still look like a human, but they'd be a monster on the inside. Fairchild was one of those."

“Hn.” Grace’s lip curled upward, like a cat’s face wrinkling in disgust. “Can’t imagine having to deal with… shit like that. It’s hard enough to put down a huckster when they aren’t immortal.”

Huckster. A dated word, but comically accurate. Fairchild, like most avatars of the Vast, had a habit of hucking people right off the side of buildings.

"Yeah, but just because he doesn't age doesn't mean he can't die. Something will get him eventually." Gerard reclined in his seat. "When do you go on?"

“Luck willing.” Grace squinted at the light filtering through the thick glass of the windows peppering the Oak and Iron. The tavern had filled up somewhat while they’d been talking, the supper crowd starting to trickle in. “Mm, in a half hour or so.” She finished off her cigarette, giving Gerard a genuine smile. “While I’d love to keep talking, sir, I think I ought to go get myself set up. I hope you’ll enjoy it — if you’re still interested after my jabbering, of course,” she teased gently.

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skeletonkeay - 2023-09-15 00:18 (UTC) - Expand

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