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P-twang, flat, flat, sharp: Joe thought he was going to loose his
mind. She was a very beautiful young woman: slim, bright blue eyes,
warm smile, long almost black hair which fell completely straight, but
one place her talents did not lie was music.
The sign had been outside the bar for a week now, announcing that the
proprietor was looking for new talent to play in the evenings. Joe's
last regular band had found a record deal and were off to bigger
venues, hence he needed someone to fill their shoes. He had thought
asking all the musicians to turn up on the same day was a good idea,
but he was becoming more and more sure that it was the worst decision
he had ever made. That there were so many young hopefuls in the
immediate area had not entered the Watcher's head, now he knew first
hand. The young lady sitting on the stage in blue jeans and a frilly
white shirt, playing--a very broad term in this case--the acoustic
guitar, sounded quite good compared to some of the acts that had
passed through the bar that morning.
The rendition of some poor unsuspecting folk song was at least not as
painful as the young man who had claimed to play the harmonica. Now
that had truly been something to make real musicians very
afraid. There were only two applicants left: the girl on stage, and a
duo who's instruments were a drum and a penny whistle. There had only
been one group through the bar that Joe would even consider employing,
and then only if he really had to.
One more missed chord, or bad note and it would only be fair to put
the people listening out of their misery. There were only so many
pregnant pauses as she tried to get her fingers in the right place,
that Joe could take. It wasn't just the fact that it sounded bad, it
was the abuse of the instrument. His mind was just trying to
formulate a tactful way of getting her to shut up, when the task was
taken away from him. The door literally slammed open and a somewhat
threadbare young man filled the gap.
He was tall, somewhere around six feet, with mid brown straight hair
that fell across his eyes slightly. He was carrying two leather cases
and a back pack which he took no time in depositing on the floor. His
clothes were sturdy and well worn, but he didn't give the impression
of a scruffy individual. His entrance had caused complete silence,
but this didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. In fact, the
expression on his face didn't seem to have even taken this into
account. His eyebrows were raised and he was looking directly at the
young woman on the stage.
"Lass, you're singing in the wrong key," were the words that passed
his lips in a lilting Irish accent.
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