An Evening at The Lounge.

The Tiger

A room full of smoke and regret. Dust covers all.

Red upon red adorns the cavernous space. The kind of red only witnessed in porn parodies or in inaccurate remakes of ‘Western’ saloons. Neither of which are too far removed from the scene that is beginning to unfold.

The night begins like many before it. Cheap lager and wine flow freely, while Devils (those that can be found on Earth) in their ‘Friday best’ pursue Faux-Angels, who are already growing tired with the relentless advances. Though, deep down they sense a disconcerting inevitably, much like the countless nights that have preceded. The seedy backing-track slowly dissipates as a musician (at least that’s what he appears to be) stumbles onto something that resembles a stage. He steadies himself and settles at a piano that looks more decorative than playable. Last night’s whisky still swims through his skull and he purposely refuses to acknowledge his audience who respond in kind. A mutual tension is established between The Performer and his reluctant listeners. A few chords are struck which result in enormous discomfort for all.

Build A Coffin For Me

With the soundcheck and the first whisky both finished with, The Performer begins slurring a tune laced with self-pity and narcissism. Its message is almost certainly intended to be metaphorical, but there’s a worrying sense that his morbid request is more literal than first thought. Few are roused by this turgid, introspective number and most continue their night unaffected by his presence.

Other musicians slowly appear from the shadows with hope of contributing, but a spiteful gaze makes them hesitate and partially retreat, particularly the drummer. The Performer’s delicate head isn’t quite ready for the harsh crack of the symbol. Once the final chord is a memory, a fresh drink is poured and he acknowledges it with a shameful nod. This is the indicator that the night has officially begun. Unfortunately, the time for turning back has passed.

Prepare the Pipes

Self-indulgence is only equalled by self-pity. The Performer is intent on bringing the room down to his level. Why else would he be doing this? His contempt for the room is palpable and he begins another tune that is clearly more for himself than anyone else unlucky enough to be within earshot.

Away from the stage, a different kind of night is beginning to develop. Sobriety is nowhere to be seen and consumption of less-than-legal substances is not as inconspicuous as it once was. The Devils are revelling in this development.

As the song develops, there’s is a noticeable change in The Performer’s persona. It may be small, but something has awoken within him. The alcohol now coursing through his veins may well be the reason for this rejuvenation. Much of the venue remains nonplussed by his efforts, but one or two take notice and a few stray voices can be heard even attempting to join the chorus. The Performer looks towards the audience for the first time and the tiniest of connections is made. Whether this will last is up for debate.

The Python

This loose unity between ‘artist’ and subject is short-lived. Another song of self-pity results in the tension spilling over from the floor to the stage. A spat ensues that results in the song being cut painfully short, much to the ire of the stage-dweller. Words are exchanged and, this time, the audience are the victors. Enough is enough.

Through clenched teeth, the mob are given what they desire. Well, at least his perception of their desire. The drummer is readied as the Devils and Angels prepare to join in dance. The Performer empties yet another glass in both frustration and anticipation. The bar staff now know that a refill is obligatory. No acknowledgement is needed.

WORMFOOD

Though his head is pounding, the few drinks that have burned their way into his system have resulted in an unnatural energy pulsing through The Performer. The band have moved to the forefront and his jealousy is growing. With difficulty, he rouses himself from his piano stool and begins to semi-rhythmically stumble across the stage, imitating a far more successful performer who has probably left this world long ago.

The dance-floor is no longer empty, but to call it busy would be a lie. Most of the Devils that occupy the bar are still more irritated than enamoured by the performance, but some use the increased tempo to up the level of their pursuit. The Angels’ anxiety rises and control starts to be loosened.

By the end of the song, the room as been transformed and debauchery reins. This is undoubtedly both the peak and the trough of the night. The Performer looks regretful at his misguided rise in energy, but chooses to remain standing, awaiting the beginning of the next tune.

She Has a Way

The atmospheric change within the room has rubbed off on the once-docile Performer. The man is now, failingly, attempting to be unironically sexy. His reddened eyes remain closed for the majority of the song while his hips attempt to shake to the rhythm. Not knowing what to do with his hands, their movements are almost farcically hypnotic as they dance in front of him. Some find the performance unnerving, some amusing. None find it as arousing as The Performer would have hoped.

A few of the audience are now, for better or worse, ‘coupled-up’ and this tune proves a catalyst to their courtship. This night is descending much the same as any other. A heavy smell of sin wafts through the room and engulfs all under its roof.

Bird’s Eye Penis

Just as the audience are finally enjoying something that could be compared to ‘fun’, the worst happens. The dreaded words spill from The Performer’s mouth; “This next one is a poem”. An audible sigh is heard, followed by antagonistic howls.

Attention is lost and tension between stage and floor is renewed. The Devils thirstily consume their beverages and return their attention to their immoral conquests. The Performer is strutting around the stage observing events with a look somewhere between annoyance and arrogance. There is now a fire in his eyes that only ever occurs after the optimum level of scotch has reached his veins. He delivers the ‘song’ far more like a Biblical preacher than a contemporary performer. Only the existence of distorted guitars ensure that the delicate bond between Performer and victim is not completely broken.

That, and the repeated use of the word ‘penis’.

Tower of Hate

Reinvigorated by his ill-conceived growing self-assurance, he launches into a number lamenting his, and the rest of the room’s, current circumstance. Despite its lyrics, the upbeat nature of the song manages to rouse the room and the night reaches a crescendo of sorts. The dance-floor ebbs and flows, and feet traverse over broken glass and spilt fluids. Even the Angels temporarily lose their inhibitions and begin to feel a crumb of empathy with the troubled Performer.

The band and their ringmaster have also finally achieved a parity, or something close to it. A few moments of awkward eye contact between those on stage creates a sense of togetherness that was perhaps missing before. Meanwhile, the Devils and Angels are oblivious to this as they are far more concerned with their own delicate circumstances. Time is accelerating fast and this is the point of the night where battles are won or lost. Many of the Angels’ eyes are scouting for exits, whereas The Devils’ are focused elsewhere.

The smallest round of applause greets the climax of the number. The Performer is even tempted to bow or at least take a second to enjoy the moment, but he decides against this and requests one final drink for the evening. He sleuths back to his familiar stool at the piano’s edge, knowing that it’s all downhill from here.

Late Night Bitter Poem

This fleeting feeling of togetherness and unity is cut painfully short once more. The additional drink has left The Performer slouched over his instrument like a slain beast, with a feeling of hurtful nostalgia and bitterness running through him. The rest of the room is forgotten once more and he aims a slow number directly at the ones unwittingly paying for his presence.

The Faux-Angels take notice of the opportunity and glide unnoticed to the exit, silently thanking the drunk for his distraction. The Earth-Devils are far too preoccupied with anger to even attempt to stop the retreat. The evening is drawing to yet another disappointing and unsatisfying climax. A knowing smirk forms on The Performer’s contorted face. The night is almost at an end and with this comes release.

The Dismantling

Though, before leaving stage, The Performer and his band are reminded that their payment is time-dependent. They’re nearly there, but ‘nearly’ isn’t good enough for the proprietor. This causes The Performer great annoyance and, as he sheepishly looks towards the audience, he is reminded of the figurative distance between them.

Perhaps it is out of pity, or perhaps boredom, but he finally gives the room what they want. Just for an ephemeral, final moment, a warmth between Performer and Devil exists. They join each other in harmony, both in the figurative and literal sense. Then, as quick as it arrived, it’s over. The spell is broken, the song is stopped short. The shadows engulf the performers once more.

Realisation that the bar is closing leads to scrambled mayhem. The musical performance is all but forgotten. A distant, hazy and unpleasant memory.

Another night in The Lounge is drawn to a close.

The Monster – An End

Unfinished business. The song that is never completed weighs heavily on the The Performer as he sits in the wings, drowning his sorrows once more. His audience has reduced to just one, but this suits him just fine. They were never of any importance to him anyway.

Perhaps this is the closure he’s always needed. Perhaps this is the last time he’ll grace this stage. He fights back the tears and says a final goodbye to all around him.

However, it is far more likely that he’ll be returning to do it all again tomorrow.