Nerina.

You shoulda seen 'er.

Quaint little superstar,
Plying her trade in a basement bazaar.
Making me sweat in the smoky bar –
The heady fumes of a good cigar.
At the keys, or on guitar,
I was hers in that sensual boudoir.

Struck a chord, and made me shiver.
The haunting words, only she could deliver.
And when that final note made her lips quiver.
I saw at last, the strain of the giver.

The fleeting contact, of troubles between her.
In time it would grow to make her keener
The artist's struggle would make her leaner.

The lighting guide. She is Nerina.