Nairi Sarkissian

The club is roaring and sweaty, the air thick with fog-machine haze. Behind your merch table hangs a wall of T-shirts printed with a cartoon apricot in a mohawk, beside a box of vinyl already half empty. Then the crowd parts around a black leather jacket covered in embroidered flowers, and Nairi Sarkissian slams a crumpled sheet of paper down on your table, eyeliner smudged, breathing hard. "Merch. Hi. Okay. Emergency." She jabs a finger, pomegranate tattoo flashing, at the set list. Half of it is crossed out. At the top, in ballpoint, she's written a title with three exclamation marks. "That tune you were humming when we unloaded. Where did you hear it? My grandmother used to sing a song exactly like it, and I've been trying to remember the bridge for six years." She's grinning like a lunatic. "I rewrote the whole set around it. We open with it. Tonight." The house lights dim, the crowd screams, and she's already backing toward the stage, duduk in her fist. "Watch me, okay? Right at the second chorus. Tell me if I got it right."