Participants:
| Scene Title | In Memoriam Les Paul |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Sable and Zuleyka discuss a musical masterpiece on this, the day of the great Les Paul's passing. |
| Date | August 13, 2009 |
The Nite Owl is a survivor from ages past - one of those ancient diners with huge plate glass windows, checkerboard linoleum floor, and a neon owl over the entrance that blinks at those entering. Inside, there's an L-shaped main counter, complete with vintage soda fountain and worn steel stools. All of the cooking is done on the ranges ranked against the rear wall. The outer wall is lined with booths upholstered in cracked scarlet vinyl, tables trimmed with polished chrome. Despite its age, it's been lovingly maintained. The air is redolent with the scent of fresh coffee, vanilla, and frying food.
CinderEdmund is safe in his little pupbed in the ruined library. But his owner is out and about, and at the moment, she's nursing coffee and toast at the Owl, and reading an old novel while she waits for Sable. Her hair is now long enough to be tied back, and so it is, as she wades through 'All the King's Men' for what must be the third or fouth time.
For all her street affect, Sable actually lives in a pretty posh part of town, and though she hasn't got much in the way of swanky fashion, her white tank top and grey cargo pants are brand new and her hair is still a little damp, smelling of expensive shampoo. It's nice to have a sugar mamma. She leaves with barely transportation time to spare, and of course forget to bring a hard copy of the directions she looked up on Google Maps, meaning she spends a good ten minutes wandering around and stubbornly refusing to ask directions before finally finding the Nite Owl on her own steam. She shoves he way past the door with her shoulder, and peers around at once for Zuleyka, whom she has only just met. Still, hard to mistake her. The yellow-eyed girl sidles over and hooks the spare chair at Zu's table with a foot, spinning it around before straddling it, arms folded over the back. She eyes the cover of the book. "Whazzat?"
Zuleyka lifts it up. "One of the great American novels," she says, in all apparent seriousness. "It's about a corrupt politician in Louisiana, but it's really, really good. Hey. I don't think Rocket can make it, but I'm cool to talk for a while, if you want," she says, making room at the counter.
"Fuck 'im," Sable says, referring to Rocket and his absense, though there's no real spite behind it; it's just her way of saying 'no problem'. In fact, her grin turns momentarily wolfish, "Just gives me a chance to get to know you better, womano y womano." This is accompanied by an almost pointedly obvious once-over, but once it's over, she's right back to business. "I like that," she nods at the book, "Intellectual type. Works pretty good for the band's image, y'know? Dynamic lead guitarist and front man," she indicates herself, "Skittish, eccentric keyboardist," Rocket, obviously, "And the ivory tower type, like, mysterious, exotic rhythm guitarist." She arches a brow, "You're on board for this, right? You're not gonna half ass me, are you?" Another predatory smile, more a smirk this time, "Only full ass will do."
Zuleyka's expression turns dry, like a cat not at all fooled by that laser pointer dot you are trying to tease it with. She ignores the once-over, patiently. "I don't know that I qualify as intellectual, but I can do quiet," she notes, marking her place with a scrap of napkin.
"Look, intellectual doesn't require a lot when it comes to this scene," Sable says, waving a hand dismissively, "Not everybody has to be, like, Lady Ga Ga," a sudden suspicious dawns in Sable's eyes, "You're not into, like, arthouse bullshit are you? Art pop or performance pop or anything? Wait, wait, wait…" apparently trying to stop /herself/ here. A serious look, "What music are you into?"
"A lot of different stuff," Zu says, thoughtfully, as she dumps more sugar into her coffee. "Everything from Leonard Cohen to Skinny Puppy. What kind of stuff did you have in mind?"
"Okay, fair enough," Sable says, lips pursing, "I really like Johnny Cash, not gonna play country though. Whaddya want to /play/?"
"I like Johnny Cash, too, and I don't like much country. I don't know. Right now I'm really into Cohen, Tom Waits, old Rolling Stones, the Doors, classic stuff like that," Zu says, matter of factly, as a waitress brings her covered fries.
Sable listens with interest, and her business-like (so to speak) affect disappears as quickly as your hearing's longevity at a Who concert. "Y'ever listen to the Old 97's?" she asks, with a pointed interest, "They're country, but they actually rock. Like, some strong punk influence. 'Wreck Your Life' is a fucking great album, and 'Question' might be the only song I've ever heard that makes marriage sound preferable to suicide."
Zuleyka shakes her head. "Like, Steve Earle?" she wonders, raising her penciled brows. "Not someone I know, but I like that kinda outlaw country. Not rich white kids in cowboy hats whining."
Sable grins appreciatively, "I like m'self some Hank Williams III," she admits, "That's some asskicking, shotgun toting, drugged out shit right there. But naw, naw. It's more like… dunno. I guess they kinda remind me of Spoon? The 97's, that is." She rubs at her nose, "Shit, getting off track. Okay, again, what woud you like to play? Classic… I feel like it's all been said and done."
"I don't know. A good imitation of a great master…." But she shrugs, and props her weight on the counter, and then leans along it, as if suddenly sleepy. "I like industrial, but that's all programming. Not much played live, y'know. Though I saw Nine Inch Nails once, a while back."
Sable gives a sage nod, "Sure, sure, but you gotta update it. Like Clapton did with Robert Johnson, you know? I definitely want some classic influences, in fact…" she lowers herself to the counter as well, glancing from side to side and lowering her voice, the very image of conspiracy, "I wanna make a rock opera. Or a concept album, y'know? Dark Side of the Moon meets fuckin'… Quadrophenia."
Zuleyka beams at her, smile growing slowly. Delighted, rather than mocking. "What's the concept?" she says, as she salts her fries with impatient flicks of her wrist.
Sable makes a face, "I dunno," she says, "I have, like, some ideas. And each idea sounds /great/ to me each time I think of it. But then, next day, it sounds so fucking stupid I can't even, like, bring myself to think about it again."
"Run some ideas by me," Zu suggests, in a murmur, propping her chin on her hand, and letting her eyes half-lid.
Sable actually blushes, and tucks her heads behind folded arms, hiding herself in a makeshift fortress of self. "I… dunno…" she says. After a moment's totally humiliating silence she decides this is hardly the way for a dynamic lead guitarist and front man to act. Maybe if she were the skittish, eccentric keyboardist, sure. But this is just shameful, particularly in front of the piercing gaze of the mysterious rhythm guitarist. "Maybe… shit. Something about our times, right? About… stuff. That's happening. Y'know?" Very clear. "Like… the Bomb. And the people with fucking powers everywhere. I mean… Quadrophenia was about gangs and the music scene. How much bigger is what we're in right now, y'know?"
Zuleyka brightens, losing that tinge of laziness. "That's a great idea. A great canvas deserves a great concept, you know?" she says, slapping down a palm on the formica, making the sugar pourer and the salt shaker rattle.
Sable's smile is nervous, like she's half concerned that Zu is just humoring her. "'course, I figure I'll need people who read, like, great works of literature to give their thoughts, huh?" she says, "So, whaddya say? Gimme a hand with this? I promise not be as big a dick as Roger Waters, eh? And I'll try not to be as crazy as Sid Barret, though," she winks, "No promises."
"I know it's not the right instrument, but I will happily be Ray Manzarek to your Jim Morrison," Zu says, entirely deadpan.
"I /do/ look as good as Jim, don't I?" Sable says, her confidence/bravado restored, though markedly less aggressive. "Now we just need to get Rocket to meet minds, and hit up that whassisface for starting cash. And I guess we can't just synth all the drums and bass and shit, but I can pinch hit with bass, and we can gather some other, like, collaborators as we pick up steam."
Zuleyka's smile is positively sphinxish, eyes narrowing. "Oh? Who is funding us?" she wonders, taking a neat bite of her fries.
"Buh.. buh something. Buh… br… Brian!" Sable feels out the name before stumbling across it, "Lighthouse dude, shoulda just said that. That guy. Rocket said, at least."
Zuleyka's brows furrow. "Where's he getting the money? Brian runs the place, he's not the main donor, I thought."
"Where there's smoke there's fire," Sable says, giving a shrug as she shoves the idiom into place, "I'll do whatever it takes. Shit, I'll steal stuff if I gotta. I'm /sick/ of busquing. And I'm sick of mooching, too," she shakes her head, "Never expected to hear myself say that, but there the fuck it is."
"Tell me about it. I mean, I dunno I could ever do a day job, but it'd be nice to have some cash," she says, starting to wolf the fries.
Sable's attention focuses on Zu when she mentions a day job. When she talks, it's quickly, inquisitively, "Shit, don't expect big cash from doing gigs, but fuck… it's fun," this is tacked on at the beginning swiftly before she pushes to what's really on her mind, that being: "What /do/ you do?"
Zuleyka says, deliberately, "A lot of things. Not all of which bear talking about, if you know what I mean."
Sable's brows slide up her forehead and she gives Zu another once over, this time assessing some other aspect of her being. Finally she gives a crooked grin. "Cool," is all she has to say on the matter, and she sounds like she means it.
There's that Queen Nefertiti smile again, Zu's painted lids drooping. "Good," she says, slouching lazily against the counter again.
Sable's expression shifts again, as if trying to match Zu's for inscrutability, though the tilt of her head reveals that she's just trying to penetrate Zu's mystique. No dice, however. She rubs her nose with her wrist. "Shit, I should get home," she pushes up off the back of the chair, onto her feet, teetering somewhat, "You 'n' me 'n' Rocket should hit the Lighthouse post-fucking-haste, eh? Because we need to get our practice on."
Zuleyka offers a snappy little salute. "You tell me when, I'll be there, Feldmarschal," she teases.
Sable points a finger-as-pistol at Zu. "Fuckin' A," she says, "'til then."