Maybe next time make it June. An ambulance siren in my head contemplated the foam residue along the thin glass surface of my pint. I didn’t come for the drama, never dreamed these nights singing would ever be more than a venue, a few familiar faces, applause, the basic camaraderie of a show but slowly and surely over years our immersion in this variable crowd, some weeks larger, some smaller with their complex interactions, loves and hates, wanting and friendly good time, extending into the night, it seemed to spawn around us, one story leading into the next. A cast of characters randomly assembled, so most of the friends (If I may be so bold as to call them such) didn’t know the others at all, although there were times when hidden associations were revealed in casual conversations, others met by the same uninformed channels. Often when someone dared compliment another’s performance, conversation ensued and the tangle of relationships tightened further, drew us closer.
Lord Malinov, Song of Songs