
A band of old and shaggy men walk onto the stage, one at a time to their instruments and they begin to play something unrecognized. A few minutes later Chan Marshall walks out, holding a mug presumably filled with tea, to cat-call cheers coming mostly from the women in the crowd. She sets the mug down and says nothing to acknowledge the crowd, but sways in semicircles, tapping her palms on her hips until her first verse.
Her insecurity is so available that it cannot be hidden by the darkness on the stage. For a woman of such astonishing talent, she has no idea. There are no press photographers and no stage lights. Camera-phone displays light the faces of the crowd brighter than Marshall's, whose silhouette is all that appears in their photos.






