[network][Day 138|video|@hotstud_xxx] You Get What You Need [open]

[rubikscomplex]

[There's no pithy commentary from House as is more common for the introductions to one of his piano sessions. It's also on video at the moment because House... can't figure out how to change it to just audio. He really hates this particular effect. So, anyone in Snowhell who has yet to actually see Dr. Hotstud House will get a view of him. He's a haggard, middle-aged man who's looking closer to just plain 'aged' after more than three months in Norfinbury. He has the tablet propped up where the sheet music would usually go, and keeps his eyes down or closed as he begins to play. He mouths some of the words, brows furrowed and body swaying to the music.

He runs through that. And then, because he's not going to be able to play and 'talk' to people at the same time, he moves into another tune before stopping and checking for responses.]

Comments

[devoutish]

[Kind of. Sometimes. Not as well as they'd all pretended it did.]

Let's see - you tell me, eh?

Wading all day through the snow
Never melting to slush
Using the kind of language
That makes John Watson blush
"Who wouldn’t come to Norfin'bry?"
That’s what we all inquire
Don’t we pity our poor families?
Sitting at home by the fire

[jumpthegun]

Oh, bugger off, Solomons. [Talking of language.] We've got... proper music these days. I dunno. We had some drinking songs.

[devoutish]

[Shut up Watson, he's proud of that one!!!!]

Go on, then. For Fiona.

[jumpthegun]

[He's really not a singer, Alfie. But he'll give it a go just to shut the man up.]

There were three drunken maidens
Come from the Isle of Wight
They drunk from Monday morning
Nor stopped till Saturday night
When Saturday night would come, me boys,
They wouldn’t then go out
And these three drunken maidens,
They pushed the jug about.

[plundering]

[They're probably in the same room together, because they're nerds, but Fiona's totally laughing.]

What is that song? Nice voice, though.

[jumpthegun]

It's a pub song!

[plundering]

You go around singing at a lot of pubs? Is that how you get your drinks?

[jumpthegun]

Go around singing? Look, you get a group of lads pissed enough after winning a footy match, they'll start singing anything that comes to mind. That's a classic. Solomons might even know it.

[plundering]

What the hell is a footy match? You playing footsies with your "lads"?

[devoutish]

I've heard it. I don't go to pubs much.

[devoutish]

And how drunk are you when you're singing this one?

[jumpthegun]

Drunk enough. It's either that or pop songs. I like the traditional stuff well enough when i'm into the cups. Don't you?

[devoutish]

What's a pop song?

[jumpthegun]

Popular music. It's a genre like jazz or folk. It's sort of... upbeat? Probably what you'd think of as like theater music in your time?

[devoutish]

Give us one of those, then.

[If you dare.]

[plundering]

Hey, I've only seen John blush once. But nah, it's not working. Nice try, though.

[devoutish]

Shame. I'll try harder next time.

[plundering]

It was clever. You get an a-plus.

[devoutish]

I'm honored.

[plundering]

You should be. It's nice to be serenaded with depressing war songs.

[devoutish]

That's not nearly the worst of 'em.

[He knows some really depressing war songs, Fiona.]

[plundering]

You can't say that and not share.

[devoutish]

[There's a long pause here, because he definitely has a particular one in mind. It's one that seems oddly fitting, here and now.

When he starts up again, his voice is more somber - even a little melancholy. He sings the whole thing through, instead of just a verse or two.]

We meet ‘neath the sounding rafters
And the walls around are bare
As they echo to our laughter
T’would seem that the dead were there

So stand to your glasses steady
It's all we have left to prize
Quaff a cup to the dead already
And one to the next man who dies

Time was when we frowned on others
We thought we were wiser then
But now, let us all be brothers
For we never may meet again

Cut off from the land that bore us
Betrayed by the land we find
The good men have gone before us
And only the dull left behind

So stand to your glasses steady
This world is a web of lies
Then here’s to the dead already
And one to the next man who dies

Here’s an end to this mournful story
For death is a distant friend
So here’s to a life of glory
And a laurel to crown each end

[headjacked]

I don't have any war songs on hand, but I can do depressing! Ish!

[ It's not a timeless classic by any means, but he found it floating around the ECHOnet ages ago. Saved it. Learned the lyrics.

That Troy Baker sure was a talented fella! ]

[plundering]

Hey, you can actually sing. Who knew?