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!!!.” Would freezing San Francisco be better for the children, or perhaps the noirish streets of Los Angeles? The children knoweth not.
But what goeth before the dancer, and what cometh after? The dancer has not seen; the dancer does not know.
The dancer does not know the soundman. “Old Ironsides is my kingdom!” cries the soundman. He struts about the room the way a king struts about the room. “A Sunn bass amplifier!” the soundman observes. “I owned the first Sunn bass amplifier that ever came off the assembly line!” The band doubts his assertion, but busies itself with the tuning of its instruments. “A Rickenbacker guitar!” the soundman observes. “I own the only sunburst Rickenbacker ever made!” The guitarist observes his own sunburst Rickenbacker, and wonders about the soundman. “No bass drum in the monitors!” the soundman cries. The drummer regards the monitors. In a quiet moment, the drummer wonders: “Why not?”
The dancer does not know the promoter. “I shall move to Philadelphia!” the promoter cries. There is a man from Philadelphia in the room. He stares at the promoter and wonders. The promoter is a good man, a remixer of fine music. Philadelphia tempts the promoter, threatens to pull him in. Perhaps Philadelphia will be better for the promoter, a fine place to remix fine music for hungry DJs. The man from Philadelphia wonders—-if this promoter moves to Philadelphia, who will book shows in Sacramento? Three-thousand miles to east, Philadelphia cocks her head and cackles. Her shrill scream pierces the American night.
The dancer does not know the other dancers. “What city are you from?” asks a comely lass. “What is the name of your band again?” asks a comely lad. “Why is no one dancing?” wonders a comely lass. “Why is no one dancing?” wonders the comely band. “What is the name of your band again?” asks a comely lad. The guitarist packs up. Someone has stolen three CDs. “Who has stolen three CDs?” the guitarist wonders. The band loads out. “A ‘C’ is average and, all-in-all, I grade this night a ‘C,'” says the guitarist. “No,” insists his bandmate. “I grade this night a ‘D.'”
A lone dancer pirouettes across a vacant dancefloor in Sacramento, Calif. The dancer sees much; the dancer knows much. But there is also much the dancer has not seen and the dancer knoweth not. The dancer may dance, but she dances alone as the band plays alone and we live and die alone. What of this dancer? Stirring in the California night, Sacramento cocks her head and cackles.