Updated: Apr 28, 2018
The slide of an electric guitar. 3 men in black suits. Slow. Bluesy. Then she walks out. Red lips. Smoke trestling upwards from between the soft part of her mouth.She wafts into the room. Mystery and lace. Cloves and leather gloves. Her fingertips brush the lapel of a bar patron's shirt. An uptick at the corner of those painted lips. Blink, and you miss it. Gone like the vine of smoke evaporating behind her. The bass hums to life as the lead guitar rumbles and the drums pulse. Her skirts gently swish as she pirouettes past another patron and sways into the middle of the floor. She's poised. Bewitching. Suddenly the cymbals crash and those lovely stems of hers are on the floor. Splits. Flawless. The guitar beckons and she twitches, catlike. She snakes up the lead guitarists' leg as the pace quickens, then lunges to the bassist and tears open his shirt. She isn't done yet. Her eyes have only just begun to light up in flames.
Producer Olivia BellaFontaine.