Medina sings the blues. Behind her, a National Geographic Political Map of the World. The light reflects on the wall, creating a shining spot which covers East Africa, where M. spent almost a whole year. Just as well, I think: I resent the globe in this form, sliced up and annotated. This map makes things look simple: colours, borderlines, names of places; oceans, islands, states. Everything labeled, everything simple, everything too neat. She sings the blues. the soundman calls himself planetman; but the sound is not much better than the political map.
She's a natural performer. She makes jokes with the audience. she forgets her own lyrics but she doesn't get confused. She starts over-melodramatic, but she eases into it; when she sings "I will survive" the audience is all hers; the last song, 'No More, is super-catchy, a sure hit. I wonder if there will come a day when her face will be on bill boards.
It's a small pub off King's Cross. Surprisingly cozy, stacked with book-shelves and armchairs. The crowd is mixed: her schoolmates from SOAS; Muslim connections; housemates like us, and other admirers. Everybody seems beautiful to my happy-eyes, but i'm just in a good mood; even the approaching fight with S. - one that we ended up not having - does not get to me. i just feel funny, hiding in the corner, just hoping no one will insist on introducing all these people to me.