Subcommander T'Pol blinked around the erstwhile Cargo Bay in bemusement.
The Science Department had furnished her with very effective ear protection, which she had brought along at Commander Tucker's insistence, even though she'd had had little expectation of having to wear it. After all, this was a relatively small area compared to most of the venues Humans used to hold musical performances; surely the noise volume would be reduced accordingly?
Well, if it had been, it was hard to notice. She was strongly of the opinion that Doctor Phlox would disapprove strenuously of a decibel level so high that the deck underfoot was actually vibrating – or at least he probably would have done if he hadn't been enjoying the concert himself, presumably taking notes on another alien custom that would form the basis of yet another report. After summing up the situation very quickly when she noticed that even before a note was struck the amplifier hum was startlingly loud, she'd put the ear-defenders in after all, and was shortly extremely glad that she had. Why on earth did Humans feel that music performed live had to be so loud it was bordering on physically painful? She would have to remember to ask the commander afterwards. There was no possible point in trying to ask him now; if she bawled at the top pitch of her lungs into his ear at point blank range, he still wouldn't be able to hear a word.
She glanced at the captain, seated on her other side. From his expression, he wasn't particularly relishing the volume either, though he was somehow maintaining a look of polite enjoyment.
It appeared that most of the younger members of the crew were deriving far more pleasure from the occasion than their senior officers were (though Trip's foot was tapping, and he was bright-eyed with excitement). Although the sound was quite inaudible through the din, almost all the audience were clapping or dancing; the present song had moved the performance into a higher tempo.
Westbury moved across the stage with long, confident strides, caressing the microphone. "I'm so tall, I'm so tall..." Under the mane of dark hair and the soft velvet hat perched on top of it, his dark eyes gleamed. Perhaps it was from the irony of the song, for he was not physically impressive; most of the men of the crew would have overtopped him.
At the end of the first song he had greeted the audience and introduced the other members of his group. She'd had difficulty at first in understanding his accent, which was not one she had ever encountered on Earth; at a guess it was a regional one, and not one from a sub-culture represented in Starfleet. His air was equally strange, a mixture of assurance and inappropriate familiarity with persons to whom he had never even been introduced.
She knew that many popular songs in Human culture had little or no meaning, but the current one seemed to be excelling itself. Its premise (insofar as it possessed one) seemed to center around the singer's uncertainty as to his physical position as much as to his mental one. Still, melodically speaking it was an improvement on the first one, which had apparently been one of Fierce Blue Ascot's greatest successes – a fact announced by the roar of approval which had greeted the crashing, discordant guitar chord in the darkness before the lights came on. The title (apparently) of When Doves Cry had made as little sense to her as the rest of the lyrics, insofar as she could distinguish them.
The already rather low cultural standards of the performance fell still further with the next item. Even given the fact that her years aboard Enterprise had dulled the edges of her capacity to be surprised by Humans, the evident success of a song entitled Sexuality still made her grateful that Ambassador Soval was not present to be included in the invitation. What the ambassador would have made of the overtly suggestive lyrics and the gestures that accompanied them was positively unimaginable.
The singer's costume was bizarre. He was wearing a long, dark blue velvet coat, tightly fitted to the waist and flaring over the hips, plus skin-tight trousers of the same fabric. Under the coat an open-necked satin shirt spilled a quantity of lace around the lapels and revealed that the chest beneath it bore a quantity of hair as well as several somewhat ostentatious gold necklaces.
"Fank you! Fank you!" he cried at the rapturous applause that greeted the end of the song – applause in which she joined politely rather than enthusiastically. "Now, 'ow about somebody tellin' me sumfink you'd like us to do for yer?"
'Bring the performance to a swift and merciful end' was not a polite suggestion, so she refrained from making it, contenting herself merely with the thought that Lieutenant Reed had shown extreme wisdom in making his escape while he could. Fortunately for the singer's ego, however, others were eager to shout out their preferred songs: most, of course, were keen for the band's hallmark song 'Under The Moon'.
Almost as many, however, demanded another entitled 'Leave Me To Bleed', and whether by acceptance or design this was the next on which the group embarked.
Westbury's behavior now became singularly ambiguous. Although he often appeared to be flirting with the female members of the band, certainly his performance now more than suggested quite a different sexual orientation. Naturally this was his affair entirely, and she was completely non-judgmental of anyone attracted to others of their own gender, but he seemed to flicker between one persona and another with quite bewildering ease and rapidity, as much an actor as a singer. In keeping with the words of the song, his demeanor had changed too. His eyes, smoldering in the heavy black eye-liner that swept almost up to the outer edges of his eyebrows, cast sly and sidelong looks at the audience. He prowled across the stage, sensual and venomous.
She had noticed that he wore, and occasionally played, an instrument called a 'keytar' – a combination between a keyboard and a guitar. Part way through the next song he abandoned it, taking up position at an ordinary keyboard. The long slender fingers stroked the keys with unexpected and surprising skill; he could, of course, be miming but the small frown of concentration suggested otherwise. Perhaps, she speculated, he had abandoned his career in the world of 'pop' to concentrate on a form of music that was more demanding as well as being far more aesthetically pleasing to the ear. It would make sense. This song was of a slightly different genre to the previous ones: more aggressive, more raucous. The lyrics spoke of guilt and self-loathing: 'Erase myself – and let go of what I've done...'
The concert wound on to its close, culminating in the performance for which the audience had been baying: the evergreen 'Under The Moon'. A holographic projection appeared over the stage, on which a telephone number scrolled every time the singer implored the object of his affections to call him, and as the song ended it appeared to explode, showering the stage with pieces of silver foil – doubtless, in reality, dispensed from a cunningly concealed container in the gantry above it.
The applause was deafening. There might be only a comparatively small number of people present, but they more than made up for that by their cheers and stamping and clapping. Flushed and disheveled from his exertions on stage, Mr. Westbury bowed and smiled, gesturing to the other members of his group to take their due share of the appreciation. "Fank you!" he called again. "'Been a pleasure!"
He stepped backwards, and three bright fireworks ignited directly in front of where he had been standing, and the lights went out. When the lights came back on, a few seconds later, and the eyes readjusted, he was gone, and so were the members of the band.
Ian Westbury, it seemed, was to remain an enigma.
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