It was some kind of psychological effect, Alex knew it was, but she couldn't for the life of her remember the name of it, probably because she was still trying to stay afloat through the chaos of "The Execution Block." The effect was how everything Ed (Ted!) did seemed familiar now, but she hadn't recognized any of those little Ted-isms before: the quick step up before a solo and step back after the solo, the way he hung his guitar, higher than some metal players (the fellow from Korn came to mindβshe'd have to remind Ed they existed sometime just to see the look on his face), but not as high as many people she remembered from Berklee, the fucking waistcoat. It was all so perfectly Ed, but she only noticed how Ed it was now that she knew this Ted Marubini was, in fact, the Ed she had dated for four years (give or take). How? No idea.
She silently cursed the soundman for somehow making her beloved Steinberger's crisp output a deflated-sounding mush. On the one hand, it DID mask her shitty intonation, but she had a wild guess that her intonation would be better if she could distinguish the notes, rather than a mash of BVVVVVVVVBLZZZZZZZZZZBRRRRRPPPP. It was garbage. Not to mention how exhausting every show was. So many angry people, so much sound, so much to remember to stay in time and in tune with everybody else. At first it was novel, even exciting. Now...she wasn't sure.
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"Thank you San Francisco! We are Sturm, hope to see you again! Good night!" The cheers, admittedly a little underwhelming, proved Lionel's bluster right: it had been a good show, all things considered. Sure, the sound had sucked, which he was 90% sure had thrown off at least part of The Execution Block's closing duet, but the crowd didn't seem to give a shit and enjoyed them, which was good. Now if we can just get better than that shitty demo...