Dedications and Devotions at the Heavyside Lyre: A Harbor Herald Exclusive!
When one is a reporter, dear readers, one keeps one’s ears open for many a rumor, however strange. Lately, such rumors have all had a melancholy air; their exuberant nature turned cold at the edges, leaves reddening, deprived of the heat of summer to keep them alive. As we don jackets and remember that our breath is now visible, fogging the air as we step outside to behold the stars, evening chatter turns towards the firmament, wondering what lies beyond.
This faithful reporter has heard of a star where angels are regarded as demons; where the Light holds sway, unyielding, unrelenting, giving none of its inhabitants such a thought-provoking view of the night sky. I have heard of a realm of darkness, too, where the stars cannot poke through the draped veil of night, where all is cold and wilted. Yet another star, where disease runs rampant, and the races of man do not gather close for fear of allowing it to spread; where concerts such as Savo Kesslivang’s dedication revue would be inadvisable, tinged with fear.
The elegance of Egrine Fugorier’s establishment, the Heavyside Lyre, is made only more lovely in this reporter’s eyes for the raw emotion that was made welcome on its stage in the form of a perpetually-underfed Miqo’te. The only fear I witnessed was temporary; those from the audience who were familiar with the North Shroud native’s searing lyrics and cutting canniness found themselves called to the stage one after another. However, by the end of each piece, they were given over to resigned merriment, sharing pointed looks with the audience beneath the stage lights, beating a hasty retreat after their turn was done to enjoy one of the Lyre’s powerful cocktails. (Indeed, in the spirit of fairness, this reporter must inform you, dear readers, that she is writing this article under the influence of no fewer than three of these delicious drinks. Perhaps I should offer to cook next time in order to save the surface of Egrine’s bar from bellies full of nothing but drink and the heeled boots that carry them there?)
As a longtime fan of Savo Kesslivang’s, it is easy for me to say that I enjoyed the show. Her shows are always a place where one can find release in the screaming chords of the Black Viol; a good laugh; a new friend or three. However, this reporter would be remiss if she did not mention that after attending the Keeper’s shows for five years or so now, I noticed tonight that she demonstrated real growth as an artist. Her songs, by nature, were largely focused on others; and while some were humorous, others were heartfelt, hinting at the person she must be once the lights dim and the venue empties. Each one calls for connection, and not only between herself and the subject of her song; they are an opening, an offering, for all in attendance to see that person and, perhaps, see something of themselves there, too.
In this time when swirling rumors of a distant plague may fill your ears, dear readers, I highly recommend you seek out Savo Kesslivang and all those she welcomes to the stage she borrows. We are in need of nothing so much as the brief moment of reprieve she works so dearly to bring us.
Hearth and Health,
Idanwyn Lluanswys
Harbor Herald Food and Lifestyle Columnist
Editor’s Note: Neither Miss Lluanswys nor the Harbor Herald are fit to comment at this time about the incident with the opening act, and the stage light that broke her horn. If anyone has any suspicions about what caused it, they are to be directed to your local detective agency.
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