The artist relaxes on stage under the amber spotlight. His head gently bobs as he plucks the steel strings of his vintage acoustic while his left hand glides effortlessly along the fretboard.
Out in the darkness, groups at tiny cocktail tables sway to the catchy preprogrammed rhythms while nursing their obligatory two-drink minimums.
And up above, bathed in an artificial green glow, a pair of middle-aged engineers stand guard in the control booth, fiddling with matching remote controls.
“You just missed the fifth fret again, dummy,” one whispers.
“You think any of these dopes noticed,” the other hisses. “Or care?”
The Weekday One Hundred 