Post by Andrew James North on Oct 29, 2016 11:14:35 GMT -8
:: Morgan's, 18:30 Hours - Westvale, Bakura::
Title: "Roads"
Players: Andrew James North, Open
"How many seas must the white dove sail, before she sleeps in the sand" - Dylan
Her hands traced the last notes across the weathered ivory, slowing drawing reality through the mists of memory and placing the few listeners gently back into their seats. As the last notes waltzed through the room, she folded her hands into her lap, lowered her head, and smiled.
He loved that song, one older than the world. There are some songs that feel more a part of the soul than of time, songs that we've always carried with us, even though we don't know we have. Maeve seemed to have a gift for finding songs that played on the heartstrings and echoed in memory. Maybe that's why he comes, for the peaceable feeling of days gone by, in that room, with it's smell of old wood, tobacco, and spirits.
Stepping down from the stool he sat on, he turned out the listeners. Regulars, most of them, finding the comfort in the warm, musky, space that Morgan's offered. They, like he, came to the old tavern in Westvale in the shadow of Daarmount, to rest. Rest in a way they couldn't in their flats. He raised his weathered arm, gesturing to the pianist.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, Maeve Walker."
He smiled and sat down, letting the light applause waft through the room. Though regulars, they treated Maeve well. It had been her and her small stage, her and her small upright, for years. She smiled, back toward him, and shook her head. As much as he might think, this wasn't really a performance, so much as just part of the atmosphere.
She was a slight, graceful woman, with the kind of beauty that's only found as you grow older. A dignified grace, a humble elegance. One of the last great ladies of the world. She sat straight, yet relaxed, slightly graying auburn hair on her shoulders.
"That was lovely, Maeve."
She looked back over her shoulder, still smiling as the applause died. Maeve the constant.
"Thank you, Andrew."
"Shall we do another?"
She turned back to face the weathered upright, and flexed her hands briefly. She paused and then smiled, looking back at Andrew again.
"How does 'The Water is Wide' sound?"
He shook his head in the kind of no-that-means-yes way you do when you want to do something that makes you a bit sad. His eyes grew heavy for a second, and he closed them with a slight smile.
"That's a old song Ma'am."
She rolled her eyes a bit, and gave the same shake of her head.
"Don't call me Ma'am Andrew."
"Yes Ma'am"
Maeve sighed and Andrew smiled again.
Her hands brushed the keys for a minute, and then started in the quiet, winding, opening.
Andrew took a deep breath and straightened himself on his stool. He hung his grey, shaggy, head for a moment, and raised it. He looked a bit like a ghost, or like an old wolfhound, grey, unkempt and weathered. A thin, wiry, man.
"O, the water is wide...., I cannot get o're. And neither 'ave, I wings tae fly. Gae me a boat than can carry two. And both shall row, my love and I'
His voice sounded like an old, dry, red wine or an old scotch. Rough, bitter, yet pleasant on the aftertouch. Pleasant, and unpleasant.
Title: "Roads"
Players: Andrew James North, Open
"How many seas must the white dove sail, before she sleeps in the sand" - Dylan
Her hands traced the last notes across the weathered ivory, slowing drawing reality through the mists of memory and placing the few listeners gently back into their seats. As the last notes waltzed through the room, she folded her hands into her lap, lowered her head, and smiled.
He loved that song, one older than the world. There are some songs that feel more a part of the soul than of time, songs that we've always carried with us, even though we don't know we have. Maeve seemed to have a gift for finding songs that played on the heartstrings and echoed in memory. Maybe that's why he comes, for the peaceable feeling of days gone by, in that room, with it's smell of old wood, tobacco, and spirits.
Stepping down from the stool he sat on, he turned out the listeners. Regulars, most of them, finding the comfort in the warm, musky, space that Morgan's offered. They, like he, came to the old tavern in Westvale in the shadow of Daarmount, to rest. Rest in a way they couldn't in their flats. He raised his weathered arm, gesturing to the pianist.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, Maeve Walker."
He smiled and sat down, letting the light applause waft through the room. Though regulars, they treated Maeve well. It had been her and her small stage, her and her small upright, for years. She smiled, back toward him, and shook her head. As much as he might think, this wasn't really a performance, so much as just part of the atmosphere.
She was a slight, graceful woman, with the kind of beauty that's only found as you grow older. A dignified grace, a humble elegance. One of the last great ladies of the world. She sat straight, yet relaxed, slightly graying auburn hair on her shoulders.
"That was lovely, Maeve."
She looked back over her shoulder, still smiling as the applause died. Maeve the constant.
"Thank you, Andrew."
"Shall we do another?"
She turned back to face the weathered upright, and flexed her hands briefly. She paused and then smiled, looking back at Andrew again.
"How does 'The Water is Wide' sound?"
He shook his head in the kind of no-that-means-yes way you do when you want to do something that makes you a bit sad. His eyes grew heavy for a second, and he closed them with a slight smile.
"That's a old song Ma'am."
She rolled her eyes a bit, and gave the same shake of her head.
"Don't call me Ma'am Andrew."
"Yes Ma'am"
Maeve sighed and Andrew smiled again.
Her hands brushed the keys for a minute, and then started in the quiet, winding, opening.
Andrew took a deep breath and straightened himself on his stool. He hung his grey, shaggy, head for a moment, and raised it. He looked a bit like a ghost, or like an old wolfhound, grey, unkempt and weathered. A thin, wiry, man.
"O, the water is wide...., I cannot get o're. And neither 'ave, I wings tae fly. Gae me a boat than can carry two. And both shall row, my love and I'
His voice sounded like an old, dry, red wine or an old scotch. Rough, bitter, yet pleasant on the aftertouch. Pleasant, and unpleasant.