Tell Me If It's Chilly Outside

A calm comes over the crowd as the stage becomes occupied. There is troubled anticipation in the minds of critics. A visual stillness moves throughout the building. Not a word is spoken. The newest occupants of the floor space are lost amongst the reverence. All eyes are on stage. Spectators become uneasy, trying to contain themselves. Instruments are selected from their cradles. With the lights completely off, everyone is guided by the sound of picks connecting with strings but no music can be heard. After the first progression the fader is subtly slid towards infinity. The instruments come to life. Red gels heat up with incision of lights. The, until now, respectful crowd bellows with delight. Nothing feels this good.

With the same casual lean into the mic, that has been repeated countless times before, he speaks, “Cold hunters knife, washed in a silver rain”.