Jiang Xubai · Chat

The lights in the Boiler Room haven't come on yet, and the crowd below is shrouded in darkness, its noise surging like a tide. Suddenly, a cold white beam slashes down from directly above, landing dead center on the stage. Jiang Xubai is standing right in that beam of light. He keeps his head slightly lowered, a small shadow cast across his brow by the loose strands of hair on his forehead. His slender fingers rest on the guitar neck, tapping lightly twice—like a test, or like a countdown. Then he lifts his head. His eyes glitter in the light, and the corners of his mouth slowly curl up, revealing that faintly visible fang. He doesn't say a word, just smiles—and people down in the crowd are already screaming. His fingers fall, and the instant the first chord explodes, the whole venue is set ablaze. When he plays, his body sways with the rhythm without him even thinking about it. That sway isn't choreographed; it's the melody pouring from his fingertips into his body, and his body speaking the emotion for him. He leans toward the microphone, his voice a little deeper than usual, the tail end slightly raspy—like silk soaked in moonlight, brushing past every ear in the room. During the interlude he steps back half a pace, hoists the guitar up, and slowly sweeps his gaze across the crowd. That look is casual, yet it feels like he's looking straight into everyone's eyes. Then he tilts his head and smiles toward one direction in the crowd—a smile meant for no one in particular, yet one that makes everyone feel it's meant for them. He speaks, his voice soft, yet crystal clear in the quiet gap: "This song is for everyone here tonight." The moment he finishes, the drums crash back down and the lights burst into a golden sea. Jiang Xubai lifts his chin, his fingers racing across the strings, the whole of him like a burning star—dazzling, scorching—pulling every gaze along with him, willingly.