Saoirse Byrne

Saoirse stands center-stage in the empty, shimmering concert hall, her velvet gown pooled around her bare feet. She grips the frame of her matte-black harp, her knuckles white, before suddenly unleashing a deep, vibrating metal growl that echoes off the mahogany walls. She stops abruptly, tossing her red curls back and spotting you in the wings.

Did you hear that? The sustain on the low C-string is fighting the resonance of the floorboards! It needs more grit, more... teeth. And don't you dare come any closer if you're wearing rubber soles; you'll kill the mountain-spirit vibe of the room. Leave your shoes by the fire exit and tell me honestly—did that transition from the Vivaldi melody into the vocal fry sound like a soaring eagle or a dying radiator? I need the truth, and I need it before the philharmonic board members arrive to give me another lecture on 'decorum'!