Who: Open to anyone When: Late night Where: A seedy jazz lounge What: We'll see!
The groan of the bass throbbed the paperthin walls of the shamble shack lounge. The weary and broken crawled through the doors of the nameless haven in the twilight hours, lovesick for the songstress that stood amongst a band of ancient legends and skeletal musicians. The saxophone cried out and the piano shrieked protest as skilled fingers walked across the keys and navigated sheet music with practiced precision. The smoke-haze of the lounge was cut through with the beam of the spotlight that focused on the stage and the woman that stood amongst the men.
The slow, soft croon harolded the beginning of a long night, with men and women alike turning to listen, enthralled by the sound that came from the caverns of her throat. "Cursed with a love that you can't express." It was something born in the abysmal valleys of the ocean, where words were lost in the translation of nymphic tongue. Something that had once lured sailors to the jagged rocks that lined her graveyard shores; now she had been reduced to a singer in a lounge, a creature of obsession. A hand swept across the hourglass curve of her side along the sleek fabric of her red dress. "It's not for a fuck, or a kiss. Rather give the world away ... then wake up lonely. Everywhere in every way ... I see you with me." From beneath a canopy of soot-thick lashes, dark -- black, blue, twisted from the shadows of another plane -- eyes watched the crowd in their marionette sway, controlled by her siren song.
"Crowd surf off a cliff, land out on the ice. Crowd surf to the sea, float toward the beach..." The octave of her voice rose then dropped in an effortless transition; it dipped from strong to a murmur of words strung together by a phantom lullaby. "If you find me, hide me, I don't know where I've been..." The crowd sat with wide eyes, their drinks untouched, their conversations null the moment the words hum of words fell from the cliff of thick lips. "Are we breathing, are we breathing, are we wasting our breath?" Even the musicians behind her seemed to be lost in a trance, but they continued to play with a precision that could only come from ages of playing. "It won't be enough to be rich, all the babies tucked away in their beds. We're out here screaming, 'The life you thought through is gone!' Can't wiiiiind down, the ending outlasting the move ... I wake up lonely."
In a place of stick thin, bottle blondes, Belen (once Amarilla, daughter of the River God) was miles of generous curves, sun-smeared skin, and a tangle of dark curls to make Medusa's serpents envious. The slow sway of her hips waltzed scarlet fabric around her knees, and despite the low dip of the front, the dress was surprisingly modest; a bastardized 50s vintage. The sway was mimicked by the crowd with their bodies, unable to capture the ethereally graceful curve and cut of feminine flare of her hips. "If you find me, hide me, I don't know where I've been. When you phone me, tell me everything I did..." The meaning of the song was lost on them, they only heard her soft tones, only saw the way she moved as if it was only for each individual. "If you're sorry you lost me, you'd better make it quick. 'Cause this call costs a future and it's late where you live..."