NationStates Jolt Archive

[OOC #1]Any nation can post this, even nations w/ no one involved in the show[/OOC #1]
[OOC #2]Introductory phase of the awards, do red carpet interviews...you know the mindless "who are you wearing?" and such.[/OOC #2]

The Setting is beautiful Slippywood, Sliponia--home of the NationStates-Sliponia Music Awards. A camera pans down showing a red carpet with many famous persons walking on it.

TV cameras are everywhere along with interviewers hoping to snag someone important for their show.

~*~Tag~*~

<---Tag----->

TAG for presenter Paul Dussis.

Crimson Sedition arrives, a reporter asks,

"Who are you wearing?"

Confused by this statement, the band goes to the buffet (there is a buffet right? there better be :evil:).

:twisted: :twisted: :twisted:

A black backless dress donned upon her figure as she walked upon the red carpet. It was pulled in the back tightly in a V formation leading down her spine to her lower back. It was gathered slightly there, and flowed to the floor. The front of the elegant dress was shorter, tapering down to the longer layers in the back. A sparkling chain was around her neck, with the letter "K" upon it. Her silvery hair was weaved half up, and then fell in soft waves and cascaded down her back. A few jewels sparkeled through out her hair. Her crystal blue eyes sparkled with the lights, and her pale lips glazed with a soft pink. Titled Ms. Nationstates, as well as an uprising singer, Kenja looked toward her destination. She appeared to be around the age of nineteen, her skin flawless and a soft tan. This could prove interesting... Though she seemed to be sweet, and likely for anyone to assume that her forte was pop, after you spoke with her, many would not think twice about which category she fit into; alternative.

(BUMP?)

Erik Haek arrives from his hotel. He's wearing his Dead Lamas t-shirt.

The group Somnophore exit their plush limo. At the front of the line is lead singer Jason McCartney, followed by keyboardist John Lemon, then guitarist Forge Harrison, brought up in the rear by....by....oh, you know, that guy with the big honkin' nose. Renowned reporter, Amanda Hugnkiss, stops on the carpet for a quick interview.

AH: Hey guys! How you feelin tonight?

JL: Well we're feeling pretty...

JM:*Interrupts, which the other members clearly resent. Forge makes slashing motions with his hand* We're very confident that we'll come through with an award to bring back to our homeland of The Arctic Banana. This would bring a great source of pride to our folks back home. Hi Mum! Hi Dad!

AH: What are you chaps wearing tonight?

Nose guy: Well, we're all sporting a chilly wicket on the patio with Billy-No-Mates in the chinese restaurant, which is all honkin cats, but the tea kettle, in the turtle's bum, don't you know, is boiling over with a small tart.

AH:..........Right. What do you guys have to say about rumors that the band could be breaking up?

JM: Absolutely baseless. Oh, by the way, have I introduced my girlfriend? Meet Yolko Ohno.

AH: Pleasure to talk to you guys. Good luck tonight! Back to you, Chester Flatbottom, in the studio.

A reporter nearly trips Kenja, and she turns around to see whom it is, and wasnt' suprised in the slightest bit. Kathren Renolds, of course...
-What do you want?
- Can I have an interveiw?
- No.
- What about if---
- No.
- but I---
- No.
- How about the---
- Possibly.
-Right then. What are you whereing?
-Clothes.
-WHO are you wearing?
-I tend not to wear people.
-Fine...What designer designed the cloths that you are wearing currently?
-A damn good one.
-But does he have a name?
-Yes.
-What is it?
-A name is what you addresss some one as; first and last, for example; Kenja Shentavo.
- :x Seriously! Who designed your outfit.
-If I tell you will you never bother me again?
-Yes.
-Right then, I already told you. A designer designed my outfit....*strolls off.*
- :shock: :x

Two limos pull up. Six guys pile out of the limos. The three from the first limo are dressed natty - black dinner jackets and the whole nine yards. he three from the second limo are dressed all in black leather, with lots of chains and studs in evidence. The Dead Lamas make their way to their seats.

BUMP

The Sons of Othar exit their limo allready in full Viking gear. Everybody steps out of their way in fear, and they have no problems entering the building without being bothered by the press.
They immediately go backstage, where they will torment and sacrifice a young maiden in preparation of their show.

Kenja watches as the Sons of Othar pass her. She raises an eyebrow and chuckles to herself slightly, before making her way into the building.

A rusty old VW bug pulls up next to the limos, spewing offensive fumes across the red carpet. Celebrities cough and turn their heads to look. Six grubby men pile out of the back of the Bug. They are wearing little more than loin clothes. Their faces are painted in green and red, and their long snaggled hair wiffling in the wind. The driver of the Bug grabs the hanging dreds of one of the men. "Hey, Chica, where's my dollers at?" The man leans into the Bug and hands the man a bag full of coins and says, "Thanks for the ride."
The Six men walk up the red carpet, looking in awe at the bright lights, pale women, and fancy clothes. One of them stops to urinate on a camera tripod to the dismay and disgust of all. The camera man focuses on the man: a member of the U'mbatu Vocalists of the Naked Mole Rat tribe from the Nomadic Peoples of Darkvale in the delectable region of The Chosen Four.

Monaa enter. Not in a car, though. Or any other vehicle. Instead, they have walked all the way from the nearest railway station. Davae Hawl, the band's lyricist and co-vocalist and a famous supporter of his nation's ban on cars, was determined to stay true to his beliefs.

'Besides,' he told one interviewer, 'it keeps us fit, and the more we keep our cardiovascular systems going, the better we'll be at breathing, so we'll be able to handle longer phrases and notes, and hence have less limitations on our songwriting.' The rest of the band laughed at his earnest seriousness. 'Or we can just have Kata [Macaga] sing everything,' he added, fully aware of her impressive vocal range.

None of the band had dressed crazily - Kata and Esa came in similar classic red dresses and the male members of the band wore black suits and matching red ties. To some, it was a surprise that red, as much as black, predominated in the outfits of the band globally famous for angst-ridden songs, notably Jukebox Charts #1 hit 'Because They Hate Me (Why Me?)' which they were set to perform tonight, though banners from fans with messages like 'WE DON'T HATE YOU MONAA!' contradicted this air of misery.

'If they don't hate us, surely we shouldn't do Because They Hate Me?' queried Davae Rogas, the band's drummer.
'But how can we not perform our biggest hit?' responded the other Davae, partly motivated by self-interest (he is the sole vocalist on this track).

It was only the arrival of the U'mbatu Vocalists in their ugly, polluting Beetle that unified the band in the sound of 'UGH!' as they turned away, as if desperate to protect their vocal cords. Hawl held the 'Ugh!' and did a descending scale with that sound, and suddenly the whole band were warming up their voices in front of the crowd...

La la la, nothing going on... buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuump...

Kenja winced as if in pain of the horrible sound. "Argh!" She let out a soft cry. Someone needs to put this horror to an end... She looked back at them, and her eyes flickered silver. "SHUT UPPPPPPPPP!"

Davae Hawl instantly stopped singing and moved towards Kenja. 'Was that us you wanted to hush?' he whispered into her ear.

Kenja brushed back a strand of her hair, setting it back in place. "As a matter of fact, yes, it was." She didn't finch, and her eyes shifted toward him.

Davae apologised. 'It's OK. We should have saved that for the dressing room. Besides, Kata over here [points behind him] is a much better singer than me.'

Kata giggled, not giving away whether she agreed with Davae's self-critical analysis. 'If I sound that bad tonight, you could just as easily sing my parts - after all, you can sing pretty much as low as me. Then Esa can sing your higher bits.'

Kata looked thoughtfully for a second. 'No no, it's OK. Your parts would fall on my register break, so I couldn't sing them well.'

Kenja rolled her eyes. She sighed heavily, her berry stained lips parting slightly, as she began to sing, breaking through the bickering. Her voice was sweet, and melodious. She sang but one line from one of her songs, and looked at them. "Now what kind of music do you exactly sing?" She said, after getting their attention.

'Oh, most of the songs are drawn from personal experience,' Davae said. 'Lyrically at least. Musically, we flicker between the quiet, haunting songs - often just me and Kata singing, Kata at the piano and Esa on acoustic guitar - and noisy, angry rock. We don't pigeonhole ourselves.' Kata nodded in agreement. 'And you?'

"Alternative," she said. By looking at her, it would seem that pop would be written across her face, but that definately wasn't the case.

'Interesting,' mused Davae. 'I always had pop down as the more image-conscious genre. Maybe you're trying to show that you can do glam, as well as grunge? You're certainly doing it well.' By this time, cameras had surrounded Kenja, Davae and the rest of Monaa, hunting for a glimpse of flirtation that would get the papers talking. But Davae didn't display a flicker of anything of the sort.

Neither did Kenja. She glanced at the reporters. If only they could see what I'm capable of, or learn my last name. Either one...then they'd leave me alone... She thought looking at the reporters. "I really have an urge to take out some of these reporters..." her eyes flickered slightly.

Davae moved away and let Kata do the talking. After all, Kata had an element of contradiction in her much like Kenja. She had a classical element to her training, most noticeable in the almost operatic vibrato that characterised her singing, but was not afraid to get her electric guitar out and make a deafening sound. Indeed, this was a role she was frequently found playing in Monaa.

'I could have ended up in silly pop music,' Kata said. 'Probably would have ended up being like Mariah Carey or Celine Dion, because my voice is high enough and powerful enough to manage those songs. But I actually prefer singing low - I find it easier, for a start. But not too low.'

"I still sing high," she replied. "A wide range, though I couldn't be classified as an alto." A reporter, touched her shoulder, and she turned around to face him.
-So, what relation do you have with the band?
-none...I'm just tal---
-What about Davae?! or Kata!?
*THWAP!* The reporter fell back on the ground, Kenja's fist still clenched. She looked around. eep...

BUMP

OOC: damn not being able to get on the Net for three hours during my best reciprocal RP sequence in a while, possibly ever.

IC: ...Davae reappeared. Kenja Shentavo was standing up, looking scared. The reporter was struggling up to his feet.

'W-what happened?' Davae asked, still somewhat confused at what he had missed.

"They bug me," she said simply, cracking her fingers. Apparently appearances can be deceiving. Very deceiving. "And ask too many questions." She said in explaination.

A long white limousine pulls up to the red carpet. Immediately as the attendant opens the door, the gorgeous Sierra Schweet emerges, her tiny, shoulderless purple silk dress seemingly only held on by its own tightness, her blonde hair hanging freely to her shoulders. She flashes a sweet smile and waves as Teresa Stonehill-Stoermer of The Burn's In Brief (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/posting.php?mode=quote&p=2241992) darts to the edge of the velvet rope, microphone in tow.

"Sierra, you look FABULOUS!" she shouts over the madding crowd. "Tell me, whom are you wearing tonight?"

"Oh, ME!?" Sierra chuckles, feigning modesty quite horribly before offering a quick spin and quite flagrantly adjusting her ample cleavage. "Well, this little number cost me twenty-two thousand dollars and was designed specially by Claude Mizzamoot himself! You know, he told me he only does special orders for the most FABULOUS of people, and well... what can I say except that I am..."

"...THE TRAPEZE ACCIDENTS!"

As if pulled by a magnet, the reporters flock from Sierra (who is left jaw agape and muttering to herself down the carpet) toward the large blue minivan that has pulled up behind the limousine. From the back sliding door of the van emerge The Trapeze Accidents, led by drummer Todd the Modd arm-in-arm with cello player Jane B. Jane. Shortly following are keyboardist Santos L. Halper, guitar player Warner, and, finally, bassist Yorick arm-in-arm with vocalist Rede Cornucopia. Compared to the rest of the celebrities on the row, the group is rather crudely dressed: blue jeans, flannels, and T-shirts appear to be the order of the day, although Santos has gone so far as to add a tie to the front of his deep blue Magilla Gorilla Killa (an early SLAGLandic heavy metal band) T-shirt.

"Guys! GUYS!" Teresa shouts, muscling her way to the front of the group. The Accidents all recognize her at once, sending waves and high-fives her way. "You look... normal! And Santos, LOVE the tie, man! Whom exactly are you wearing there?"

"Well, uh... let's see..." Santos replies, turning around to the back of the tie as the microphone is thrust in his face. He points the back of the tie toward the camera, where a thrift store barcode is prominently displayed beside the tie's tag, upon which the word "TOMMY" is scrawled in black permanent marker. "Looks like a Tommy."

Teresa laughs warmly. "So what sort of performance can we expect from you guys tonight?"

The group converses a bit among themselves before Warner speaks up. "Well, you know... a little of this and a little of that..."

"Yeah, just a little brief set we put together," Rede chimes in. "Nothing big or fancy, but definitely not without some surprises."

"Yeah, we love surprises, man," Yorick adds. "They rock, yo." He sarcastically flashes the metal fingers as Teresa turns the microphone back to herself.

"Well, we love surprises, too! Thanks, guys!" she calls as the band makes its way down the red carpet.

The U'mbatu Vocalists of the Naked Mole Rat tribe grow tired of these boring red carpet affairs. Long ago seated and hungrily watching the onstage dancing girls, they grow restless as lesser celebrities whine about their relationships and the media. They start a chant: "Start the show! Start the Show! Or we'll go! Or we'll go! On the carpet! On the Carpet!"

"Start the show? Or we'll go?" Kenja remarked. "Then go." She chuckled slightly, the girl seen clearly now to possess a sharp tounge. She looked at the others. "Some of these people amaze even me."

At that point, Kata appeared. 'You were saying...? About... your voice, or something like that. And what the hell happened?'

"Reporters ask too many questions. I can't stand them..." she looked at the one she had hit, lip now busted open. "Anyway...what were we talking of again? I forget..."

The Trapeze Accidents pass by Monaa and Kenja, noting one rather unconscious reporter lying behind the velvet rope as they pass.

"Wonder what happened to him..." Yorick mutters, glancing back at the reporter.

"Probably just some self-serving diva bitch who hates reporters," Rede snickers. "There's always one who thinks she's above celebrity status."

"Damn," Yorick chuckles. "Hey, isn't that Monaa?"

"Sure looks like it," Todd answers. "The angst kings themselves. Hey, are they up for the same award we are?"

"Nah..." Santos replies. "They got lumped into the miscellany." Santos turns back and waves gaudily. "HEY, GUYS! Uh... MONAA GUYS! BREAK A LEG TONIGHT!"

Davae turns his head round to the Trapeze Accidents, and notably to Santos. 'You too. If that's fitting for singers.' Kata, being an actress, was the most pleased at the wording of the good luck message.

Davae turned to Rede and started whispering in her ear. 'What do you expect from Kenja? She's a soprano.'

Davae turned to Rede and started whispering in her ear. 'What do you expect from Kenja? She's a soprano.'

Rede turns back to Davae and smiles. "Yeah... I heard some of her music down in a place called the Post-6,000 Club," she whispers back. "Quite... yeah. Precisely. Bein' pulled away here. Good luck to ya!"

And with that, the band entered the arena, their experiences in the Post-6,000 Club now only a distant memory.

*BUMP* I guess... though this one does seem to have met its end.