On ephemeral loan from across the pond: Ruby Throat in Hollywood, California. From a motel with more security cameras than rooms, more Sunset Boulevard street noise than Mulholland Drive silence. A room with a remarkable view of a two-story tall cement wall, taking the place of a dirty Western Ave. The motel itself four-cornered by fast food, junk food, a mini-mall, and a college that looks like a penitentiary.
Katie strayed into the bathroom, humming to herself and putting on eyeliner. Chris casually strummed the guitar, enjoying the view. They seemed to warm up with one another through the bathroom door, without an obvious connection.
Katie finally emerged, averting her eyes with Chris unhorsed from his daydream. We spent a few moments conversing about the weather and video cameras. A few more about the glorified road trip and the empty elation that comes with ending a tour. And after all the dust of congeniality settled, an hour before opening for other bands at the Troubadour, Katie gave a performance that made me question why we don't see more acts this passionate. Ones who go somewhere else when they sing. Ones who would tie themselves to any inevitability.
Curling up next to Chris on the bed, she called a few more ships into the rocky coast.
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