After the meditating monolith of the fresh-cut summer grass garden, brought on by brother's brew (likened to the effervescent guzzling of sweet-toothed childhood) through Volkische crystalline feminine Folk (twangling many-hummed around the old living room) --we got down to blazing up the night sky, eulogising the Bard with redundant biographical speculations, that ultimate decadent tendency, then cidered off down the street.

Plucking out melodies far in excess of the usual crude strumming, the Dirty Projectors, with their harmonised oh-oh bleeps and ear-itchy beats, had the blatant potential to exceed the room we found them in, that potential therein absorbed by the arched brick enclosure. Words there fell out with that stoned resonance, with that overflowing (characteristic of poetic dwelling) that made talking more a matter of lingering in vague grasping clutches than of actually saying anything --Just so we piped into each other's ears... until cymbals over a grand electric twang fuzzed up one big shimmering sound haze, and drowned all speculation.

Sat there after cider'n'smoke, the potent puffing & potation (clear evidence of gratuitous gluttony) sent the whole vault spinning with an unsteady flick-back response, not rotating but shuddering around a half-circle. Standing up we staggered out for the sweetly tingling orange dark lung fingering night air & stumbled into a wall where the gut switch mechanism clicked and we vomited beautifully in the same tone as the time, the same shade as the bricked night.

Brushing away incriminating specks we fumbled back to the sound. Hovering barely buoyant under blazing saxophones, the Polar Bear was determined to make its big-foot surly way into our head, fazing out all suspicion of failure to bring the night forward into a culminating sense of half-new beginning, which basically meant we could be sick and still have fun (the message was clear, the kids would hear us).

The above Bard's ancient broad shouldered trickster henchman killed Penelope's suitors as we killed the bad vibe traditionally expected to be necessarily consequent on the tumbling world of chunder chunks.

Then we really got into the music.

(After DIRTY PROJECTORS/POLAR BEAR at Taylor John's House)

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