Smoke billows outside the front of a dimly lit club; through the smoke, the surrounding buildings appear as amorphous gray giants. A blue, flickering neon sign near the club’s entrance beckons outsiders to enter. The interior offers a reprieve from the city’s incessant humming, which is often inescapable now, owing to all-altitude traffic. Upon entering, someone approaches and takes a retinal scan, silently offering a seat and beverage. Beautiful people in cocktail dresses and coats stand elegantly, holding extendable glass smoking pens and quietly chatting about tonight’s upcoming performance. “I’m not sure what to expect. Normally, they’re on point, but today’s different.” Another person, pensively swirling a glass of wine, whispers, “Do you think they went in blind? Everyone’s good at ‘faking it’ now.” The smoke intensifies as the club reaches maximum capacity, blurring the audience’s movements, morphing them into dulled, stone figurines. Glass is everywhere; windows, tables, bottles, and cutlery twinkle with a bluish hue, reflecting the blue lights positioned around the stage.
“Welcome to tonight’s performance!” says a man appearing from the smoke, wearing a trim leisure suit and holding a cocktail. “I imagine that some of you are anxious to avert from your algorithms, while others seek the thrill of uncertainty. Or…” he pauses, smiling slyly, “or, perhaps, the thrill of witnessing a slip that, dare I say, could spoil your enjoyment of tonight’s performance.” The crowd laughs nervously as the man gestures—spilling some of his drink—towards the stage, “On my right is the pianist and musical chameleon, Dick Hyman.” The crowd awkwardly applauds as the speaker continues, “Dick plays styles ranging from classical to the more avant garde jazz you will hear tonight,” a dark shape at the piano shifts uncomfortably, “and on my left is ‘Spaceman’ Vinnie, whose guitar playing rivals even the more experimental sounds from generative farms out west.” Another hazy figure attempts to wave, but quickly clamps his guitar strings to stop the sudden whoop of feedback emitting from the speakers. The man motions—his drink sloshing about—towards the center of the stage, “Accompanying Dick and Vinnie are the heavenly sounds of Mary Mayo.” The smoke parts to reveal Mary, crouching down, dressed in gold, and wearing goggles; above her crouched figure is a large plastered moon, which rotates slowly back and forth like it was held by a thin piece of string. He adds, “Mary started her career singing traditional Irish songs, but later worked as a performer for clubs, television, and even as a backup singer for the Frank Sinatra Reignited show.” Some of the crowd cat-calls, but quickly silence themselves out of embarrassment. “Enjoy!” shouts the man as he hurriedly backs away, disappearing into the smoke and spilling what little of his drink is left onto his suit. Without looking at or addressing the crowd, Mary slowly lifts her arms, palms facing downwards towards her upturned head; her hand slowly taps the air rhythmically, “1… 2… 3…,” and then the music begins.
The band introduces themselves with a sauntering groove. As Vinnie plays muted guitar scratches alongside a nimble bassline, the two instruments dance around Dick’s metronomic buzzes and beeps. It’s a jazzy romp from the future, but the audience is perplexed, some even leaving within the first few minutes of the performance. After the first tune, the performers immediately transition into the next song, contrasting the introduction’s brighter sounds with a darker, more meditative piece. Above the band flashes the song’s title, “Maid of the Moon”, as Vinnie plays the role of a foil: His quickly swirling guitar tones are in riveting opposition to Dick’s plodding piano arpeggios. During the performance, a hologram projects the image of an expressionless figure, untethered and slowly drifting off into space. The next song, “Isn’t it Odd,” is met with a lukewarm response, some patrons looking at their phones as Dick’s otherworldly embellishments perfectly match Mary’s lyrics about satellites and the strange experience of falling in love. Amidst the performance, twinkling stars are projected on the ceiling, spiraling each time Dick plays theremin-like runs on the Hammond. On “Stella by Starlight,” Dick carries a musical conversation with himself: one hand playing a slower melodic run, the other producing shimmering glissandos. The conversation is musically engaging, stacking multiple harmonies into a rich dialogue. A few of the crowd begin booing, which the band oddly accompanies by playing dismal organ tones at the song’s outro.
At the midpoint, Mary’s concise storytelling on “Imagination” starts winning over the crowd, with her quirky manner of speech singing about how “strange” or “silly” it is to imagine staying in love with another person. Unfortunately, the droid-like chatter from Dick’s keyboard, riffing alongside Mary’s lyrics, is met with pursed lips and more attendees leaving. The chunky “Space Blues in 5/4” has an excellent call and response performance between Dick and Vinnie—the city ambience oddly matching the performance, with the ceiling rumbling as a freighter vessel flies too close, rattling the bar as Dick’s Lowry organ groans and Vinnie’s guitar shakes and rustles. The crowd is further alienated by the soaring bloops and beeps from “Bye Bye Blues,” which bring to mind the chatter heard between drones from lower-level living facilities. Disregarding the crowd’s reaction, the band continues playing music that excites them, slowing things down for the gently swinging “They Can’t Take That Away From Me” before plunging into the bossa nova inspired “Desafinado.” A tipsy dancer slips while attempting to groove to the unfamiliar Samba sounds. The synthesizers turn beautifully sour on “I’m Glad There Is You,” underpinning Mary’s lyrically uplifting, but tonally despondent, sound palette—almost like the instrumentation is at odds with the message: finding pleasure in having someone to distract from life’s blandness over low whines and strangled guitar tones.
The last blurry-eyed attendee leaves as Mary croons about wishing upon a star, with Dick and Vinnie fully embodying interstellar travelers, their musical souls floating somewhere in outer space. The clubgoer enjoyed tonight’s performance and wants to follow or subscribe to the band’s socials. They look at their phone, teetering, attempting to find the band they just heard. Before they find the “follow” button, though, they are distracted by another recommended song flashing underneath the search bar.