Her sense of drama told her to remain still a heartbeat or so longer.
Long enough for the audience to go still, too. Long enough for everyone to start wondering, but not long enough for them to begin rustling. Long enough for her to infect them with portent.
Then she crooned the opening words of Three Dog Night’s famous song: “Eli’s Comin’.”
Two words. They sailed out there in the Misty Cat and filled the whole room, and she pulled out that last syllable into a crystal-pure note that soared like a warning, sung in a way that made it sound like it was much too late to save yourself. Eli was comin’.
And he was going to destroy your heart.
It was a singer’s song—emotional, even histrionic, crazy high notes, room to growl and scream for vocal acrobatics. It was hard and fast and had a killer hook—and Monroe about beat holes in the box and the bar stool.
And she sang the whole damn thingstraightto Eli. Did not take her eyes off him.
She KILLED that song.
When she brought it to an abrupt end, the crowd screamed approval.
She didn’t pause to bask. Although she did notice that Eli slowly removed his arm from behind Bethany and crossed both of his arms over his chest, almost like bandoliers. And his face was expressionless.
She was on a mission now, whether it was worthy or not, though if pressed, she’d have to go with not. She didn’t care: it was untold relief to pour out her frustration and fury and angst and lust, turn it into the kind of fuel that made an audience wild. She segued into “Featherbed,” the song she’d been singing out behind the Plugged Nickel just before she bit a guy, the first song she ever wrote about Eli. Its huge, ringing ethereal chords were the perfect fit right there in the set, and when she was done, the audience cheered it as if it was an FM radio classic. She half suspected they’d cheer if she burped into the mic right now, but she wasn’t about to split hairs.
“Thank you!Thatwas one of my own. And speaking of something of yourown...”
She segued right into the chiming chords of Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way.”
And maybe it was a little on-the-nose lyrics wise. But suddenly, without realizing it, she was both wooing and waging war with song tonight. And maybe it was unfair, but she didn’t care.
Monroe slammed into it on the stool just like she had when she’d annoyed Giorgio with it the other day, squeezed the flour sifter and used it as an ersatz cowbell during the verses, alternating that with the box and the stool, and it was just brilliant.
And then suddenly Glenn loomed in her peripheral vision and flashed five fingers at her.
Five minutes.
And then she had a reckless inspiration.
Under cover of ecstaticwoooooingshe bent down to Monroe and said “this one’s new... Think... it’s kind of like... She patted out the rhythm for him quickly. “Almost a bolero. Kinda like Led Zep’s ‘Kashmir.’”
“You start. I’ll get it,” Monroe said. He was glowing with success, and his dyed black hair was plastered to his head with sweat.
She trailed her fingers over that D sus 2, then the G, and with the anticipation of that haunting, martial intro, her hips moved into the rhythm, showing them all how that song was going to make them feel.
Monroe kicked in after a few bars. He used his hands, humping out a muffled rhythm on the box, turning it into a sort of tabla. And he had it exactly right.
The audience was instantly captivated. It only got better when she opened her mouth to sing.
Are you afraid to touch me, darlin’?
Are you afraid you’ll burn?
You’ll have to get in line, darlin’
You’ll have to wait your turn
Yeah everybody wants me, darlin’
But one day you’ll finally learn
I only ever wanted you