Clooney would probably just charm his way in...

James stopped in his tracks, a little unsure of what to do next. He had the expression of someone who, having ordered a pizza, finds George Clooney standing deferentially at their doorstop clutching a Super Supreme on Classic with no olives. Clooney would probably already be back on his scooter before the person was sufficiently recovered to ask the pertinent questions.
James had the sense he was about to have a memorable experience, and didn't want to be left holding the proverbial pizza and change. He was pretty sure the drummer from the band had beckoned him using the "crooked finger" method. He had noticed her looking at him during their second set, but he figured she was just admiring his hard-to-get Klaxons t-shirt as he shuffled from foot to foot in the second row. She had seemed enigmatic, sort of a cross between a dying octopus and the Mona Lisa, in that while her arms and legs flailed madly during each song, her face remained unchanged, unreadable, elusive. That was her trademark. She never spoke in interviews, despite her band appearing in almost every magazine and on every music television show in the last year. Despite the band's massive successive, she remained a frenetic mystery.
He had downed a few Super Drys by this time, and was feeling a little sentimental. Perhaps it was fate, he thought. Perhaps the poor management of their tour was meant to bring him to her. Perhaps they were meant to play this crappy bar, even though they had filled the Enmore last week. He started walking over to her, keeping it overly casual like someone guiltily looking sidelong at their reflection as they walk past a store window. She seemed to notice, but the sweaty hair clinging to her face made it hard to be sure his movements were being registered.
"Hey, great set," he said, by way of breaking the ice.
The drummer's face initially didn't move, then cracked into a yawn as offensive and prolonged as the Kyle and Jackie O show. The burly bass player stepped between James and the drummer, using his back in the same way the Chinese government uses firewalls. Blocked out like a poorly tranlsated webpage about Chiang Kai-Shek, James turned away, as dazed as someone who had ordered pizza again the next night, and been brutally beaten after George Clooney had invaded their home with a sock full of coins.