"This is it! This is it!"

"What's it jack?"

"Our big break!"

The grin on Jack's face appeared too much to muster, as he bounced excitedly from side to side around Whitney.

"This is totally it. This place will be the stepping stone for us. It'll be what the Cavern was to the Beatles. Long hours, god awful pay, playing for unappreciative audience who just wanna get wasted. I'm telling you, we play a couple of gigs here and our music is out there!"

It was hard not to be infected by Jack's enthusiasm, Whitney returned the smile and playfully punched him in the arm. "Our music will be nowhere if you don't help me set up the monitors" she teased.

It was getting late, the band would have to start soon. Whitney brushed her long brown hair out of her eyes. She quickly darted her blue eyes to the bar, only to avert them a second later. Yep, she was right. He was. She was sure that the bartender was watching her, she could feel his eyes on her. He made her uncomfortable, the whole place did.

It was a lowly bar hotel in LA called The Valentine, one that housed a lousy PA system and acoustics, but it was one that brought in a fair share of people on a Saturday night and that's what she wanted. Exposure. Fame.

The whole band wanted it too. Whitney had started an original band back last year, Fool's Irony, back with Jack and his brother Tom, who wrote most of the band's material. After what seemed like rehearsing for months straight with no luck, the Valentine's owner, the old and quiet bartender had accepted their demo they had sent around and contacted them for a regular Saturday night gig. It had seemed to good to be true at the time, but Whitney felt oddly stilted and nervous as she had stepped into the bar, and it certainly didn't help that the bartender would stare at her unblinking, as though mesmerised, from behind the counter.

"Let's get this show on the road" she muttered to herself as she plugged her lead into her guitar.

-------

"This is our last song for the evening, I hope you like it" Whitney said into the mic a an hour later. "We all up here feel it's our best, its called "broken frame". Thanks for listening, we're Fool's irony"

She took a moment to check her guitar was in tune, and moved her pink glossy lips to the microphone. She nodded at Tom, who counted her in on his drumsticks.

Then nothing.

Tom looked at Whitney confused.

Whitney had missed her cue. She was looking blankly at the audience like under some kind of trance.

The attending audience, seemingly completely unaware of the bands existence up to this point, suddenly all locked on to Whitney, sensing something wrong.

Whitney, frowned slightly, took a breath and tried to start again.. but nothing. Nothing came out.

A member in the audience yelled out something indistinguishable which set a ripple of laughter through the bar.

Jack adjusted his bass uncomfortably, looking concerned.

Suddenly she whipped her eyes open wide, her hands clenched the microphone stand tightly, and her lips began to move.

"I'm feeling mighty lonesome…. I haven't slept a wink" she sang in a soft sultry jazz voice, something that seemed to emerge its way from deep within her tiny frame.

Everyone in the bar suddenly stopped what they were doing. All eyes were on Whitney. The waitresses stopped what they were doing mid-step. The freshman in the corner stopped their jeering and were open mouthed, the intoxicated sleaze-bags on the bar stools suddenly perked up.

"Black coffee…. Feeling low.. as the ground" she sang slowly, with expertise vibrato echoing through the air.

The whole bar was fixated on her. For the full 5-minute song, they were engrossed, they were hypnotised by the lone singer, singing a song of pain and regret. It was almost too much for them. As it ended, Whitney somehow managed to stumble off the stage, dazed and confused. Some of the sleazebags burst into tears, a waitress held her head in her hands and sobbed uncontrollably. The audience sat there and did not move for hours, drowning their sorrows in alcohol and cigarettes. They eventually shuffled out the door, shaking and with distant eyes.

3 of them killed themselves that night.