Outside rain fell in torrential sheets as the carcasses of dead umbrellas twitched in the wind. Down a slippery marble staircase was an empty music venue called Rollinghall. The Chinese band Rebuilding the Rights of Statues had attracted a mostly foreign crowd that was still huddling outside under a corner store canopy drinking cheap beer. Anyone close to me knows I don’t care for concerts. Of course I like music, but unless it’s free, I think it sounds better on CD. Especially CDs my friends burn for me.
Although that night I really wanted to put my finger on the pulse of the band. Write a review so acute readers would feel they were standing next to me. So I moved closer to the stage shrouded with polychromatic fog but the body odor of a large man persuaded me to take a few steps back. As I tapped my foot I tried to think of words to describe what I was hearing- hmm… musical and rhythmic? The metrical guitar notes were bisected by periodic drum beats which were all illuminated by the cadenced and recurring political lyrics. There, now that you are standing between the balding spastic dancer and me, clap you hands because the curtain is falling.
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