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It makes me wonder who the song is about.
Finlay’s green eyes have fallen shut as he sings into the microphone. It’s as though the microphone is the subject of his song, and he’s imparting every single whispered desire into it.
And… it’s more festive than I ever thought.
In Finlay’s music, there’s the cold spirit of Lochkelvin. It’s cozy, almost. The kind of music designed to be listened to beside a fireplace, as every regret is unveiled by the crackling flames. It’s a soundtrack for the prickly holly leaves that wind around every wooden surface. The dim candlelight and dark sky with its pinprick of ice-white stars. The frosty emptiness that surrounds the castle, of shadowed mountains looming in the night. How far away we are from the rest of society, locked up and groomed for political stardom with only each other for company.
It’s more meaningful than Li belting out Mariah Carey with frantically jingling bells, that’s for sure.
A hush follows the final chord. It feels as though no one is breathing. And then, gradually, applause builds throughout the hall.
Finlay bows his head to the mic, drinking in the wave of noise. “Thank you,” he says, looking relieved for the first time all night. “Thank you.”
And then he leaves stage right, one less performance until mine.
