Whoa, Tillie, Take Your Time | Grace Holloway | Open

[deepbluerevue]

Who: Grace (deepbluerevue) and Open
What: Performances and rehearsals around Pumpkin Hollow
When: December 1st to 19th
Where: Pumpkin Hollow’s performance venues and other

Tillie Brown was a dancing fool / Spent her time in a dancing school

All around Pumpkin Hollow, on community boards and lampposts, fastened with tacks and wheat paste, you’ll find neatly-printed flyers with drawn illustrations of singing faces, microphones, and music notes. (If you’re familiar with Gerry Keay or Mayor Poe’s art styles, you’ll find the illustrations familiar.) The text reads:

To all Instrumentalists resident in Pumpkin Hollow

GRACE HOLLOWAY

SINGER OF THE BLUES

Seeks Musicians as Fellows In Performance

In Particular those with experience in Accompaniment

Desired Instruments:

• Piano • Clarinet • Cornet • Trombone • Violin • Alto Sax • Baritone Sax • Tuba • Upright Bass • Drums •

OTHER INSTRUMENTS POTENTIALLY WELCOME

Contact

GRACE HOLLOWAY

By sending stone or posted mail

Or attend a performance by the vaunted chanteuse at

• The Oak and Iron • Empty Pockets • La Veritable Dragon Rouge •

All Inquiries Welcome

December 16:55

When the band would play / Tillie would start right in to sway

There aren’t all that many venues in Pumpkin Hollow, so it’s pretty easy to catch a show by a woman who seems to be gunning for every gig she can grab.

Grace Holloway appears at every gig in a tidy peaches-and-cream ensemble, a snug jacket over an ankle-length dress and dainty pumps. Atop her coiffed updo, she wears an unidentifiable hat. It might be a cloche, but it’s hard to say. Though she doesn’t have jewelry and her cane is utilitarian, her makeup is always done perfect: red lips, brown eye-shadow, black mascara, lined brows.

At the Oak and Iron or La Veritable Dragon Rouge, you’ll find her perched on a tall stool, singing alone or with a local fiddler, performing tunes easy to eat and chat over. She goes for an hour or more without any sign of vocal fatigue, which might be surprising if you’ve seen her put away a pack of cigarettes. Balancing her attention seems to come without any effort at all, catching the eyes of people in the audience with a wink one minute, and diving deep into a song’s feeling in the next. The numbers range from down-tempo to mid, seamless and smooth, usually finishing with an up-tempo march.

At the Empty Pockets, her numbers get a little more attention-grabbing, her crowd-engagement a little more energetic. She talks in between each song, joking with the audience, teasing the loudest listeners, good-naturedly heckling the few people leaving for other engagements.

Velvet, Ambrosia, and Silk [18+]

At the brothel, she seems to have fun pulling out her more ribald repertoire, bouncing classics like Need A Little Sugar in My Bowl and Empty Bed Blues off the lavishly appointed parlor walls.

Regardless of the venue, after she’s finished her set and bowed to scattered applause, Miss Holloway will usually vanish into back halls for some ten minutes before reappearing with the smell of smoke on her jacket and a glass of water in her hand to take a seat and people-watch. She looks content, and perhaps a little like she’d welcome company — or inquiries by instrumentalists.

[For Grace’s range, think Sheryl Lee Ralph’s voice performing Bessie Smith’s oeuvre. You can find an example on Grace’s journal, or the linked Silent Night cover on the TDM!]

There ain't no use to hurrying 'cause you wanna prance / You've got all night to do that dance

In her free time, Grace tends to be found downtown — often at the Empty Pockets or the Oak and Iron, as if she doesn’t spend all her time there already. If she’s meeting someone for a chat — say, to catch up, or to talk about starting a music group just for fun — she’ll likely be found at the Empty Pockets, saving a seat at a table.

You don't know what to shake when you shake / What to break / Whoa, Tillie, take your time

[Wildcard! Got other ideas? Put ‘em here!]

Comments

wildcard [Empty Pockets]

[incomingchoppers]

Empty Pockets has entered that lull between lunch and the evening crowd, where most of the tables are vacant and staff idly shuffles things around to prepare for the night's performances. That's when Radar arrives with a delivery of winter vegetables from Baker Ranch. He hauls it into the kitchen with the assistance of the cooks, chatting amiably the whole while, then offers to stick around and help set up the performance space too so long as he's there.

Which is how he finds the drum kit.

Huh.

It's been a darn long while since he really got to play the drums. And there's a set of drumsticks right there, too. Nobody's here yet; surely they're not gonna mind if he just fools around a little before the bands show up for real, right?

So there's the soft tssh of the hi-hat. A thump of the bass drum. Cautiously, like a cat stretching after a long nap, the rest of the kit follows suit, settling into a steady rhythm as Radar gets a feel for the drums -- and Empty Pockets is small enough that the sound carries, no matter where you are in the venue.

[deepbluerevue]

On the other end of the room, in a corner with a so-so line of sight to the performance area — good old Siberia, land of the shitty customers — Grace Holloway leans against the wall with a water glass perched in one hand, eyes trained unerringly on the drum set, and its musician.

She thinks of percussion, and only percussion. Probably was a saving grace — hah — that she was in a brown study until a minute ago, staring vacantly over the room musing on acoustic angles and the general dearth of accompaniment in this little old town. The drums filtered in gradually, little tips and taps rising like a heartbeat until she focused up and saw —

Nope. Percussion.

(The kid isn’t bad at the drums, actually. Not bad at all.)

She watches, and tries not to think, or wonder what the hell she’s gonna say when he’s finished.

[incomingchoppers]

Oh, yeah. Just like riding a bike. The nice thing about playing the drums, instead of the piano or the bugle or whatever, is you gotta throw your whole body into it. When Radar's got something occupying his ears and his arms and legs, it's a heck of a lot easier to ignore all the other noise.

Pretty soon his enthusiasm elbows all the uncertainty aside, and he's going absolutely nuts on the kit. A couple of the staff pause what they're doing, goggle-eyed. One of them bursts out laughing and sticks two fingers in their mouth to whistle an earsplitting encouragement.

Sadly, it kinda has the opposite effect of throwing Radar off his groove. He jolts in surprise, falters to a stop, sheepishly grabs one of the cymbals to muffle it. As he looks around at the audience he's inadvertently gathered, he spots Grace and flushes even redder with embarrassment.

[deepbluerevue]

“Hey now,” Grace calls to the other staff with a smile, well before she can think about it. “Don’t you be interrupting an artist in progress.” Same as she’d say to pull someone’s attention away from any shy performer. She’s done it dozens of times.

And now she’s done it again, and that kid is staring at her.

(— “Love, oh love, oh careless love —”)

The other staff member laughs sheepishly and gives her a wave, which she returns, and then goes back to sweeping under the tables, leaving her loitering like an idiot.

No sense standing like a rabbit before a car. She raises her glass in a half-ironic toast to the drummer.

[incomingchoppers]

It's not a bad thing, the music that always follows Ms. Holloway around. It's kinda nice, actually. It's just -- since Radar figured out why, it makes a little worm of guilt gnaw at his belly every time he overhears. All that extra work she's gotta do because of him.

(He still wants to protest: you don't have to be afraid of me. But sometimes people get scared of a thing for their own reasons, and just saying don't be afraid isn't enough to fix it.)

Awkwardly, with a nervous grin to match, he waves back with one of the drumsticks, realizes what he's done, switches the drumstick to his other hand so he can wave for real, then scoots out of the chair. One of the cymbals clangs as he accidentally elbows it. "Sorry," he apologizes, to... her? To the drum kit? "Sorry!"

[deepbluerevue]

Despite herself, the antics push a little huff of laughter through Grace’s nose. (Even though there’s every chance he already knew she was there, and is trying to smooth her feathers down — ugh — “You've fly through my head like wine —”

— He really is a swell drummer, though…)

“Wasn’t nobody using it,” she points out. “No need for sorries.” She tilts her head. “Especially when you got a knack for it. Who’d complain about that?”

[incomingchoppers]

Radar's grin turns bashful, and he shrugs, quick and guileless. "Well maybe the neighbors if they weren't expecting it to get loud for another couple hours."

He hops down off the stage.

"Last time I played was... gee, probably a talent show back at the 4077th. I just thought it'd be fun for a little bit."

[deepbluerevue]

(“You've wrecked the life of a many poor girl —”)

Grace waves an insouciant hand. “Neighbors oughta be grateful for a free show.” She gives him an even harder look, though her voice stays mild. “An army boy and a clerk and a musician. What can’t you do.”

The water swirls in her glass. “You really finished so quick? Shows won’t be for a little while yet.”

(— “And you nearly spoiled this life of mine…”)

[incomingchoppers]

Radar shrugs again, still with that faintly embarrassed pride. "I can't chew gum and whistle at the same time."

...Is he being serious? Hard to tell, with that earnestness of his.

"I dunno, I figure the bands'd be in soon to start warming up and everything, but... hey." He peers closer. "Are you singing tonight?"

[deepbluerevue]

(Being unable to whistle without spitting out whatever’s on your tongue is generally how the mechanics work. UGH. “Love, oh love, oh careless love…”)

“I am indeed, sir,” Grace says placidly. “Won’t take me but fifteen minutes to warm up, and I haven’t yet found me a drummer, so the kit isn’t spoken for. You go right on ahead, if you like.”

(“You've made me break a many true vow…”)

[incomingchoppers]

"You don't have a drummer yet? Really? Gee, I thought they'd be lining up to perform with you with how good you sing."

It's plausible he knows that just from going to Empty Pockets himself, right? Still unsure, he edges back toward the drum kit.

"Do you, uh... wanna practice while I'm playing?"

[deepbluerevue]

There isn’t a performer alive who doesn’t take up praise like a crow with a dropped penny. Grace still would’ve hoped to be over the way she can’t help a little smile, can’t help but think, he seems fine enough, doesn’t he? Never mind the place he likely heard her singing was in her head.

To his credit… the corn-fed tadpole doesn’t retreat entirely. Hallmark of a musician? Someone who knows she’d do a lot to get a good drummer on-side?

(Does it matter?)

“What a swell idea,” Grace says, rolling her shoulders to loosen up her throat. “If you can do something bluesy, that’ll work, but do what you’re feeling. Warming up ain’t complicated.”

(“Then you set my very soul on fire…”)

[incomingchoppers]

"Bluesy," he echoes, thoughtful. "Sure, yeah, I can do that."

Radar settles back in at the kit and picks up the drumsticks. In the back of his head, the warm melody of Grace's singing blends with the appreciative hum of a compliment received. Maybe she's not so mad at him after all -- or maybe he's just gotta keep being extra-nice to her until she's not scared anymore. He can do that, too.

He taps out a metronome beat, one two three four, then sways into a lazy blues shuffle he heard on the radio years ago.

[deepbluerevue]

True to his word, the stripling rolls out a mellow rhythm. And if there’s one thing a real performer needs, it’s the capacity to work with what you have.

The music in Grace’s head blurs, replaced with the heartbeat-thud of a tempo, laid down like a parquet dance floor, block after block slotting together to make a base. Notes wait in line, neighbors in their scale groups all poised to move, ready — breathe —

(F3, A3-flat, B3-flat B3 C4, E4-flat, F4, back down —)

Blues scales trot all the way up to G5 and down again, scatted sounds making her lips move nimble. Back up again, this time riffing around the steady beat, ribs flexing outward to power the song

[incomingchoppers]

Radar doesn't tend to make music as part of a band. He noodled around on the piano in the officer's club here and there when Father Mulcahy wasn't playing, and he's done the same at Dahlia's house sometimes (though Kris is way better at it -- Radar always gives them first dibs). Talent shows where he could drum alongside someone's guitar were few and far between. The less said about that horrible out-of-tune bugle that literally earned him rotten tomatoes to the face, the better.

Here like this, though, he can really let the music surround him. He listens with his regular ears and not-so-regular ears both, lets it catch him in its current, and as it sweeps him along, it feels like Grace's singing moves his drumsticks all on their own. Radar knows just when to slow a beat to match the syncopation of the blues; how to add a shimmer of cymbal to complement her voice. There's none of the crazy showmanship of his earlier solo, nothing to distract from the true star of the show. Like always, Radar's at his best when he's playing support.

[deepbluerevue]

As Grace warms up, her already-rich voice smooths out, goes supple and warm as her muscles stretch and wake. The notes come easier, more fluidly, the high and low ends sounding better-supported instead of strained.

(It feels like singing along with her own brain, something close to that perfect state of flow with a band that knows each other. Almost unsettling: she’s poised to feel out the quirks of a new player, and she just doesn’t ever need to.

He’d be perfect accompaniment. She’d hardly even need to think about it. Damn.)

She winds to a stop. “Well,” she says. “I sure do feel properly prepared, now. Just what the doctor ordered.”

(“All my happiness bereft…”)

[incomingchoppers]

Radar ends with another shimmering ripple on the cymbals, lets it drift away into a gentle punctuation to Grace's singing. He beams. "Yeah? Wow, you sound good even when you're just practicing. That was fun!"

He folds the drumsticks into his lap, tapping his toes like an excited kid.

"...You know, uh." With tentative hope. "If you want me to stick around for the show too I can. I just gotta make a couple more deliveries and let my girlfriend know I'll be a little late getting home is all."

Velvet Ambrosia and Silk Set

[amourtician]

Anzu makes not no frequent habit of patronising Velvet, Ambrosia and Silk's bar, but he does make a regular habit of it — at least once a week. It reminds him of the teplitzas — gay bars and discotheques — back home. All the more so when there's a show on.

After her set, Anzu approaches Grace to offer her his compliments.

"Thou hast quite a voice, darling," he says, instead of introducing himself.

Actually, he's also surprised to hear something that sounds so much like Occidental blues. Not that he's much of an expert there, but neither is he unfamiliar.

[deepbluerevue]

The smile he gets in return is warm as a hearth, the happy look of a performer in a responsive venue. “Why, you’re very kind to say so!” She props her chin on a hand. “How was the set, would you say? I’m a bit rusty.”

[amourtician]

Anzu cocks his head to one side, watching Grace.

"I'm not no expert, darling," he confides. "Wrong side of the world, alas — I was born in the Pale of Settlement, in Vilna. But not all of thy set was altogether alien to me, nu? Except maybe the language. The blues are sung in Gaelic and in the languages of the Western Franks ... ah. Nu. In languages deriving from those, at least."

"But I found thee not at all rusty, if such's thy legitimate worry, and not merely an artist's tendency to perfectionism!"

[deepbluerevue]

As the other man talks, Grace’s expression shifts from confusion to curiosity, before landing on pleased intrigue. “Ah, you caught me,” she chuckles. “I suppose I am a few months warmed up by now, aren’t I? But it’s still good to hear I’m giving my audience their attention’s worth.” She tilts her head, letting inquisitiveness sparkle in her eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard blues done in — Gaelic? We must be from pretty different places. Almost always I’ve heard it sung in English. I was born in the American Midwest — St. Louis, you see — but I was always told the blues was born in the Deep South. Not like that, where you’re from? ‘Vilna’, you said?”

[amourtician]

Anzu's innate sense of decorum and dignity calls on him to keep his poker face and smile at Grace like he knows what she's talking about. But ... on the other hand, he's not at court. He hasn't been in a long, long time. He can afford to lose a little face.

So he betrays a moment's confusion, slackening his grip on the details of what his face is doing.

"I'm afraid, darling, that we're from worlds different enough that I recognise thine not ... though, ah. I suspect the reverse may not hold firmly."

Absent-mindedly, he drums his fingers on the table.

"Vilna is ... oh, I believe the tzar had it last, nu? My family came to the Occident as part of the retinue of Dovyd HaReuveni and half-Menasseh, all the way from Abyssinia. Which, ah, might mean nothing to thee even if thou wert from the same place as I, or it might mean something."

He smiles, apologetically. Maybe Grace had hoped he'd know what she was talking about — and having to disappoint her feels ... well. Bad. It's irrational, he knows, neither of them had input on where in the universe they'd been born, but knowing it's irrational does not make the feeling dissipate.

[deepbluerevue]

On the contrary, Grace looks more and more fascinated as he elaborates. “Uh huh. I can tell you we do got an Abyssinia, though folks’re calling it Ethiopia lately, from what I’ve overheard. There used to be ‘czars’ in Russia… and I ‘spose we’ve got an Occident, too. A little like, a little unlike, where we’re both from, huh?” If she notices his preemptively-apologetic mien, she doesn’t seem to pay it much mind.

(Where she held court, there were different rules.)

“I like that,” she adds, leaning back a little with a thoughtful expression. “The blues coming up even in a different place.”

[amourtician]

"Some things seem to be universal, darling," Anzu says, warmly. "Know'st thou, my bridegroom and I rather despaired of meeting other Jews here, too. But we really needn't have worried, nu?"

He's on something of a fishing expedition here, trying to figure out if one of the surest assumptions of his life prior to this sojourn applies here – more out of curiosity than anything. At least within the confines of Vsemlada and most of the Occident, many of those who look like him are likely as not to be Jewish. The further Westwards one moves, the less that assumption holds, which is why Myrdinn had tried to pass him and Eli off as being vaguely Occidental, born in a foreign land, educated in the Rhineland.

[deepbluerevue]

It’s a little unclear whether Grace spotted the hook in question. “That is good luck. There weren’t none the first time I was on this old isle, but now I’ve met Ms. Birnbaum so far, lovely woman. And yourself!” She flashes a smile. “I don’t believe I’ve met your beau, I’d sure love the opportunity. There weren’t Jews around where I came up, but where I’ve been living has a lot more. I’ve gotten used to coming along with neighbors, I suppose.”

(Well, that’s not completely true. There had to’ve been congregations in St. Louis back in the ‘30s, that’s just maths, but if there were any Jews in the Hooverville, she doesn’t remember meeting them. Rapture might’ve taken a dim view of public religious groups, but those shiny golden early years were full of friends and acquaintances throwing shindigs for Passover and parties for Purim, neighbors holding the Sabbath when she lived in the Athena’s Glory building. A couple times, friends extended invitations to hang around at minyan, and of course she went. There were fewer Jews in the Drop when she first got booted there, then more and more as things got worse uptown.

Fewer celebrations too, she realizes, as the Family got tighter-knit, these past few years. She hadn’t thought about it at the time. Hadn’t thought much about any of the narrowing. When was the last time she went to adjust Isidore and Josef’s heating on a Saturday?)