"Hey!" yells Dave's voice from under the stairs. "Those guys are from Thrashhead, they could probably play better than anyone with one hand tied behind their backs!"
Having finished healing the poor patron's face (and ducked under the next beer stein), Dave stepped out from under the stairs again, the shadows clinging to him like spiderwebs and only reluctantly sliding off under the assault of the light. He clasps his hands nervously, and is clearly ready to flinch away from any more thrown missiles.
"Mr. Killthrust, sir, I'm very sorry about the name. It was... just... the only poster I have of you... well... it doesn't say Killthrust, sir. It's got names for all the band members, but... I'm sorry, sir."