Oh, a private soirée, you say? That’s the kind of moonlit jam I dream of in the middle of a thunderstorm. Just picture that dented kettle on a wooden stand, steam curling like a wandering tune, and the air thick with the scent of old pine and fresh rye. I’ll bring the shawm, the jaw harp, maybe a hand‑woven drum that’s as stubborn as a metronome. And you won’t hear the same melody twice, I promise—each note gets its own spirit tonight. Just remember to bring a lantern; the kettle loves the dark.