Waiting for activation. Backstage Rae breathes through her nose, adjusts her bass. C#, B, E, A. Nothing Ray Vaughan would break a sweat over but that’s not her job. The band, her back-up, a vomit word for something so essential, adds what she can’t to what she certainly can, which is roar. She does fret though. The lights dim and her skin falls to the floorboards. What’s the difference between talent and noise-in-tune? She tries not to think about it, playing her diaphragm from here to there, along the vocal ruler, making it sound how she thinks it should. But it is a bar and between the notes comes every other competing sound. Foot stomps and voodoo howls, glasses that miss, bouncers that don’t, Mr. Money and the weekend wife, Ms. Too Drunk To Dance But What The Hell. Ahh Saturday.