Live: One Night Only
Based on this [mock]Rolling Stone article created by Alderaanian-bear
If this isn’t what you had in mind, I completely apologize.
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The interior of the most popular music lounge in New York City was lush in a way that only an old building with great architecture could have pulled off. Far from the simple, almost southern influences of The Bitter End and the hedonistic modernism of Le Poisson Rouge, this place was a marvelous study in architectural symmetry, and perfectly married details like sprawling wooden staircases with LED lights strips under the lips of the stairs, and an old crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the great music hall alongside the track lighting that lit the stage. And the drink menu fit the elegant air of the lounge, with only the best bartenders on hand to mix the perfect classic cocktail and a staff mixologist to serve the VIP clientele with drinks made with exquisitely-paired spirits and some scientific ingenuity.
The patrons of the bar came for different reasons. Tourists were directed to the Time Machine because the bookers did a brilliant job of attracting the best talent for rare, unplugged performances. The locals liked that the tourists didn’t ruin it, because the bouncers at the door could sniff them out of a crowd, letting just enough of those over-eager newcomers in to grow the legend but not enough to ruin the carefully cultivated ambiance of exclusivity. And still more locals – the more famous locals – loved it because the VIP area was second to none in the city. Typically, celebrities and public figures had an area to themselves that was far away from the stage, designed more for hobnobbing than listening to the musical talent. Instead, the VIP bar at the Time Machine was the one with the best view of the stage, and was kept isolated by careful blocking on the main floor and an intelligent consideration for mob psychology. It was the one place in New York where a celebrity could be seen in public without privacy, safety, common decency being overridden.
But for Helena G. Wells, the club held a completely different allure. Two years ago, in that very room, she had fallen head over heels in love.
