Wake-up time trills as sparse free drums accompany during an air raid in the Spin Zone. As the centrifuge chair does its job, our ears collect incidents over time, patches from the sermon on the Tom, where Alvin the Chipmunk spoke through the crush of a storm on the void side of the tape. Promoter hands the lead guitarist a canceled check. The guitarist fails to notice and continues to plug away as his greasy dark hair noodles to the floor, sweeping the black paint, attracting dust from 1972. Everything slows down in the gateway to the stars, an eerie warp of a retro time warp. The red side of the paint is given enough lube, just enough not to dry up, to keep it going through the action of deconstruction. Small rubble and trance mount and tumble.
The alarm sets it off again, into the Twilight Zone, where the mumbler has replaced Rod Serling. Chromatic guitar rides the sideways carousel. Turn the camera back to its original place to turn the carousel back to its original place. Beatbox percussion trickles as support system, affected by “Come Together” or maybe “Don’t Come Around Here No More.” Shrill tones like the high diapasons of an Italian score mix with stoned Hollywood-Vietnam guitar and the occasional tom. The tones play nice together, holding hands with their eyes closed, at the cliff, preparing to jump into yet another side of the void. Conductor taps the stand; nothing the conductor does or says will silence the theater-goers’ smart phones. They are buckled in, ready for simulated stimulation + three dimensions. The hard science spits dust and rough edges. The seats rumble once the ghost starts tackling the cajón. There’s a constant sense of alarm: is this real, just a test, or part of the fantasy, the price of admission?