The stage manager gets a nod and the lights of the club dim, leaving the stage area lit. The drummer starts the beat, something upbeat but not too fast, driving but not harrying. Bianca turns from giving her musicians a last smile, swaying to the microphone. The lights make her dress shimmer like an oil slick on ivory, following the shifting music of drums and guitar and keyboard.
She takes the mic in her hands, smiling out at the crowd. Her voice is sweet, warm, drawing, cast out to the crowd like a net.
"Oh, my god, what have I done? Chasing some mirage in my Mojave sun." A pale hand is held out to the audience, quietening. "Don't say every chance is lost- Please, don't say anything at all."
"In sand and thorns, I'm walking forth. Bare and blinking as the day that I was born."
There is the barest upturn at the corner of Bianca's mouth, a hint of amusement to her tone as she lets the audience follow that image a moment.
"Bells in spires of china white- Ring for an Augustine tonight."
Called by her voice, the music rises with a quickening crescendo, breaking like a wave over the rapt listeners, engulfing them in the sound and rhythm and voice, wreathed with the cascading sounds of bells.
"Oh no, I'm breaking down, breaking down- Oh no, Breaking down, breaking down- Oh no, I'm breaking down. Oh let me be - let me be your Augustine."
Bianca smiles, lifting a hand almost in supplication to the captive audience as the wave of sound rushes past, the music calming once again.
"Believe me now. I understand. Faith is both the prison and the open hand."
Yet it is not the religious kind of faith she is referring to.
Or perhaps it is.
"Bells on low - on high Will you ring for Augustine tonight?"
Again, the music rises in an almost palpable wave, pulled by her voice, carrying the audience along in its bell-wreathed current as inexorable as the tide.
"Oh no, I'm breaking down, breaking down- Oh no, Breaking down, breaking down- Oh no, I'm breaking down. Every illusion in-between All the lies that I have seen Oh let me be - let me be your Augustine."
The song, like a spent wave, fades to just the drums and the ringing after-echoes of the final notes. Until even those stop, leaving that moment of silence between the end of the music and the audience recovering its wits enough to applaud.
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Date: 2010-04-20 04:37 am (UTC)From:She takes the mic in her hands, smiling out at the crowd. Her voice is sweet, warm, drawing, cast out to the crowd like a net.
"Oh, my god, what have I done?
Chasing some mirage in my Mojave sun."
A pale hand is held out to the audience, quietening.
"Don't say every chance is lost-
Please, don't say anything at all."
"In sand and thorns, I'm walking forth.
Bare and blinking as the day that I was born."
There is the barest upturn at the corner of Bianca's mouth, a hint of amusement to her tone as she lets the audience follow that image a moment.
"Bells in spires of china white-
Ring for an Augustine tonight."
Called by her voice, the music rises with a quickening crescendo, breaking like a wave over the rapt listeners, engulfing them in the sound and rhythm and voice, wreathed with the cascading sounds of bells.
"Oh no, I'm breaking down, breaking down-
Oh no, Breaking down, breaking down-
Oh no, I'm breaking down.
Oh let me be - let me be your Augustine."
Bianca smiles, lifting a hand almost in supplication to the captive audience as the wave of sound rushes past, the music calming once again.
"Believe me now. I understand.
Faith is both the prison and the open hand."
Yet it is not the religious kind of faith she is referring to.
Or perhaps it is.
"Bells on low - on high
Will you ring for Augustine tonight?"
Again, the music rises in an almost palpable wave, pulled by her voice, carrying the audience along in its bell-wreathed current as inexorable as the tide.
"Oh no, I'm breaking down, breaking down-
Oh no, Breaking down, breaking down-
Oh no, I'm breaking down.
Every illusion in-between
All the lies that I have seen
Oh let me be - let me be your Augustine."
The song, like a spent wave, fades to just the drums and the ringing after-echoes of the final notes. Until even those stop, leaving that moment of silence between the end of the music and the audience recovering its wits enough to applaud.
Yrael loves that moment.