Mute screams and broken applause as The Stone Throwers stumble off stage, the dreary drunken daze that hits the face while brushing past backstage curtains gives rise to faint expectations of enthusiastic encore demands that quickly fade into the next bottle of beer — so to speak — politely asked for over or under the counter, as the case may be. Need one last drink, second last perhaps, so over to the bar, no people to step over this time around. Left feeling only cold. Perhaps that is the idea.
Rewind time, I’m handing packages of hope to various venues of the Valley, my final demonstration, and final destination for the night is here. The doors are still closed, yet not to those of the underground in preparation of the show. Waiting outside for companions and comrades, great white envelope in hand, familiar faces adorn the longview and begin to converse ideas, mind to mind. Most do not recognise.
Inside, ambiance abounds as The Little One takes to stage, though it is the cellist, the somehow strangely enticing one of two, that appears to draw and dispense the greatest gaze. The coffee making lady behind the bar seems disinterested in what I would like to give her, though she eventually takes my package just the same, promising to pass it on, but I have my doubts.
Perhaps she has hers as well, just as all of us there that night singing “na na na na na” in the dark.
