Chapter 18: At The Scotsman

Between Here and the Sky- Chapter 6: Bright Young Things

As was customary, the show was merely the start of the night. It was well established amongst members of the cultural fringe that the house Alby shared with his co-conspirator Zach was the lens that focussed the light. All the bright young things- the actors, the dancers, the directors, the comedians and the visual artists- were drawn like moths to the flame. Parties would become events and events would become legends and the most important and vital thing one could ever be doing at the time was to be there. Mythologies would be shared and recounted on the street. The minutiae would flourish for years until they were firmly embedded within the cultural grain.

You couldn’t pause to capture a moment, nor merely let it all flow over you. Every moment had to be experienced in all its intensity. If you were dancing you had to commit every ounce of energy and sweat into each movement. If you were in conversation you had to focus on every syllable breathed, examine it, turn it over to catch every possible meaning no matter how unintentional, and return in kind. As though if you missed a second you would never gain the insights into life offered to you; forever keening forward to inhale the faintest wisps and glimpses of truth and immortality. Follow tangents right to their end, take the cue and run with another. Perfection could be glimpsed at such times, and hearts would find their meter in the dry chill of the night.

The band returned to stage to unplug and pack their instruments and the scientists headed backstage at Alby’s insistence to lay claim to the remainder of the rider. Realising their laziness they helped the band lug their gear and load it into the back of the van.

“You guys are all coming to the party right? Piers, would you mind driving the van to mine?”

“Absolutely. But I am a bit drunk…”

“So are we,” Zach pumped the air triumphantly.

“I’m OK. I can drive,” Yoshi offered and Alby threw him the keys. “Righto, who wants a lift?”

Karl called shotgun, leaving other two to clamber over the instruments and nestle awkwardly amongst the haphazardly packed equipment. Alby, Zach and a couple other band members hailed a taxi as Karl slid the door of the van shut behind the squished silhouettes of Marshall and Piers. As the van lurched out of its bay a synth dislodged itself and slipped across the top of a snare box, angling down and narrowly missing Piers’ groin.

“Fucking Asian drivers!”

“Piss off, whitey.”

He wrestled the unfamiliar vehicle into the drive-through to pick up a carton of beer. Money was exchanged between the front and back of the van via contorted arms and fingers; boxes dug into ribs. They stopped at a servo and Karl ran inside to grab an assortment of pies and sausage rolls from the bain-marie, which he distributed judiciously around the van. The recorded sounds of the songs they had just seen burst from the stereo as they ate and drove across the flat back of the city to the next suburb.

They crept between the lines of cars, inching past the great colonial veranda of the house sagging into a smile under the weight of time. Humanity overflowed through the front door to congregate on the veranda, in the yard, against the side of the house, or in the fig tree amongst the wild oats and sedge of the front yard. A jumble of cars sprawling out across the verge and lawn blocked the driveway. They gave up on the idea of unloading that night, instead turning into a side street and parking beneath the comparative safety of a streetlight. The sheer number of cars encircling the block was a clear indicator that the party was already in full swing. Piers inverted then cracked the lids off four Coopers Green and passed them around the van.

They locked up and walked up the street to the beat of the reverberating bass drum and walked self-consciously up the path bisecting the weeds and up the faded red concrete steps to the weathered timber porch. They felt as though the eyes of those amongst the weeds, in the tree and on the veranda were all turned upon them. One or two recognised Piers as Alby’s brother and payed no more attention, but the rest remained in a state of aloof permafrost until Alby emerged from the hallway.

In the mere minutes since he’d arrived home he had managed to deck himself out in reflective silver pants, a tasselled brown leather vest and a sequined racoon hat atop his head, a renewed glow on his face. He clapped his hands and beamed a bright toothy smile at the newcomers, rushing up and hugging each in turn as they rose to the veranda and introducing them to anyone within range; an ADHD kid on red cordial.

“This is my big brother Piers. Man, I haven’t seen you in ages! How’s work going? You joined the circus yet? We’ll get you doing flips and shit later. The flaming hoops are all set up waiting to be lit.” He barely paused for breath. “Everyone, this guy, Yoshi, is great! Shoosh, everyone, I’m introducing. They’re cool. Yoshi’s cool. The cool geeks. I mean that in the most sincere kind of way, man. And this here is Marshall.”

“And this… sorry man, I’ve seen you around before. What’s your name again?”

“Karl. I was at Piers’ party a couple of months ago.” Karl extended his hand, but found himself being encased in a bear hug instead.

“Ah, great man. Karl. Put your beer in the washing machine out the back. Yeah!” And he bounded off down the stairs with his goofy giant grin to find the next thing that sparkled and burst and clawed at his attention. Someone said something to him and he bent forward from the waist like a pair of scissors until his nose almost hit his knees, and clapped his hands together to the rhythm of his own laughter at what you would swear was the funniest thing he had ever heard- a manic angel amongst mortals.

Marshall, Yoshi, Piers and Karl ventured through the throng of loose-limbed dancing youths to deposit their drinks in the laundry. The fraying wooden boards creaked and vibrated from the sensation of movement, and reverberated to the thunder emanating from the sub-woofers bolted firmly through the floor. The unholy menagerie flailed and swayed to the incessant beat, screaming out the choruses, inventing dance-moves, punching the air and grabbed at each other, moving in patterns and shapes against the strobing lights and beneath the glittering mirror ball as god’s shining people.

The boys leaned against a wall and watched, spiriting snacks from the laminated kitchen table and steeling themselves for the onslaught of things to come. Piers started talking to Zach, who was adorned in a shining silver vest and leather chaps as though he and Alby had swapped components of each others outfit, except Zach’s featured the inexplicable addition of a multicolour sequined codpiece. Zach bummed a cigarette from Yoshi and they exchanged pleasantries and laughter over his choice of attire.

Marshall scanned the room picking out occasional familiar faces from the incestuous local nightlife, however most remained foreign. The vast majority of the revellers shared that slightly skewed sensibility and demeanour favoured by artisans the world over who exude that indescribable joie de vivre that comes from creative instinct and having the freedom to explore the more obscure avenues and alleyways of life. They flailed unabashed on the dance floor, uncaring of watching eyes. Debauchery perfumed the air.

            Marshall leaned his back against the wall trying to appear nonchalant and relaxed. The nervous grin imprinted upon his face giving him away. He half involved himself in conversation while the other half watched the girls spinning and jumping in the next room. There was a different atmosphere to any other party he’d ever attended- the music louder, the people more delirious and the electricity of the room crackling and threatening to ignite the shreds of wallpaper hanging curled off the walls and incinerate them all.

He was wooed by the willingness of these beautifully imperfect people to let go of their inhibitions and behave like overexcited children. He was equally nervous and ecstatic at the direction the night had taken, unsure of whether he should run away in fear or join the flailing masses. He wanted to obtain even just a trace of their spirit, but instead remained rooted to the spot, an imprint against the wall, a gawking compromise.

            A nuggetty guy sporting a beret and a waxed moustache marched in from the back yard brandishing a broken off table leg and holding a toy megaphone to his mouth shouting what he figured to be a rousing speech at his cabal of friends on the dancefloor, who punched the air and joined his chants proclaiming the need to revolt against the bourgeois aristocracy of the front lawn. Judging the frenzy, the megaphone man pointed down the hallway with the table leg and barked his orders for attack. The onlookers watched and laughed as the revolutionary forces ran off down the corridor towards their fated foe, eyes gleaming with the thrill of the game.

            Those not involved followed closely to watch the pitched battle unfold outside. Combatants fought in slow motion, puffing their cheeks and swinging exaggeratedly at one another. The targets of the attack- a circle of their friends that had been quietly chatting a moment earlier- were all too eager to play along, exaggerating their facial expressions and reactions to coincide with the slow moving fists directed at their faces and bellies. Those holding back on the veranda laughed and pointed at the highlights.

Megaphone man reached out slowly to grab at a young woman’s breast, only to have her counter with a slow knee to the groin. As he fell she prised the megaphone from his hand and held it aloft in triumph, only to have someone else- a traitor within her own army- tackle her around the midriff, hoist her over his shoulder and bodyslam her into the grass in glorious slow motion.

Taking his lede, all the combatants started fighting with whoever was closest, whether friend or foe, with the aim of claiming the symbolic megaphone as their own. The bodies of the defeated formed a pile in the centre of the yard, until only two remained standing, both with one hand clutching the prize. His fist arced slowly towards her cheek as her fore- and middle fingers extended towards his eyes. They timed their movements to connect at precisely the same time, and both tumbled theatrically on top of the groaning pile of corpses. The megaphone spilled out onto the grass out of reach.

The onlookers cheered and applauded as the participants unpicked themselves from the tangle of limbs and staggered to their feet to take their bows. They jostled and bumped each other with spirit and a couple of friends started to wrestle, legs, arms and bodies clashing and thrashing as they tried to pin each other to the ground. Others stood around laughing and cheering their champion.

Occasionally Marshall would escape on drink-finding missions through the ranks of the crazed young things, the back of his mind willing them to engage him in their world. He would cast furtive glances across the floor, trying to catch the flicker of an eye and an opening into their world- the manic, idyllic world of fervent youth. Smiles would flash across the room, but Marshall couldn’t determine whether these were directed at him, at others, or just thrown into the general milieu of delirium sparked by a cocktail of alcohol, drugs and adrenaline. In the end he would always err on the side of fear. He put his head down and shuffled through to the laundry room.

As he fished a couple of bottles out of the ice in the washing machine a pair of pretty young things accosted him as an object for their own entertainment while they waited for the toilet. Visually, they were the antithesis of each other. One tall with long wavy red hair, her figure accentuated by a black and white bodice over the top of her shirt; the other short, brown and square, an Andean peasant in a floral vintage dress.

“Guys have to pee out the back. Don’t be thinking you can just push in,” said the brunette.

“Oh sorry, I’m just getting drinks. It’s all yours.” He was flustered at the accusation at first, holding up three bottles as evidence, before he realised from their smiles that they were just messing with him. He felt his cheeks start to glow.

“I should think so. A gentleman should know his place.”

“Oh…” Marshall scuffed his right heel against the concrete in mock shame. “Can’t I go in with you? I’ll just pee between your legs. It’ll be both fun and efficient.”

Both girls laughed, delighted by the boldness of this new face before them, and his willingness, without much persuasion, to play along and build upon their own little games of imagination.

“Oh, we were already going to do that anyway,” said the redhead. “She has incredible aim.”

“Yeah, just open them up and away I go. I could piss through the eye of a needle.”

They all laughed, but as the moment arrived for Marshall to introduce himself the toilet door suddenly opened. Zach appeared in the doorway, his lips and cheeks smeared with a particularly vibrant shade of red. He stopped abruptly and widened his eyes at the small group around the door. His eyes darted about as he tried to close the door behind him, but the girls protested with squeals as they chocked the door open with their feet and shoulders. He tried desperately to assure them that nothing untoward was happening, that he had naturally just used the toilet, but the truth wasn’t obscured for long, as the brunette bob of his girlfriend Donna peeked through the gap. The girls shrieked and fell laughing against the wall as Zach stood sheepish, sprung, and Donna tried as demurely and naturally as possible to readjust her cream shirt, and tried to rub lipstick from her boyfriends face. Realising that he was sprung Zach tacked right. He clasped Donna’s hand firmly and drew her towards him, catching her with his free arm, dipping her low, and planting his lips passionately to hers as though drawing the last of the air from her lungs. He declared loudly and clearly “Cheers, love” before exaggeratedly wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

A cheer swelled from the onlookers. Donna’s face deepened to the colour of her lipstick. She punched Zach’s arm playfully, yet still with enough force to be taken seriously, and dragged him away from the throng. Buoyed by his success Zach offered up his free hand for a high-five, declaring unabashed, and with a sense of drama and finality “We so totally just had sex!”

Marshall accepted the raised palm with a newly opened beer as the girls stumbled past him into the bathroom. “Sorry, there’s not enough room in here for you as well,” said the brunette as she paused while closing the door.

“Awwww, no fair”, he whined, “I guess I’ll have to go outside, then.” He grabbed another beer to replace the one donated to Zach, twisting the lid off and tossing it in the sink as the door clicked shut. He negotiated the step into the living area. To the right Zach was already in the kitchen laughing with a couple of comedians and pouring undefinable mixers into two large plastic tumblers, one for himself and one for Donna, who by now had returned to her clan on the dance floor.

A circle had formed, and members were taking it in turns to see who could spin the greatest number of times in one movement. Each attempt brought machine gun bursts of laughter from the other participants as they staggered and fell from the inadvisable union of alcohol and inertia. One particularly tall and gangly guy, upon completing two-and-a-half turns, set off at a perilous angle through a gap in the circle, between a couple of singing girls and, despite caterwauling franticly to remain upright, lost his battle with gravity and plunged headlong towards the doorframe. Inexplicably, a stray beach ball lodged between his head and the lintel, saving his skull from being split down the middle. A mixture of gasps and roars of delight erupted from all onlookers.

Marshall grinned and bent down to help the bewildered fool back to his feet. The other twirlers, by now howling maniacally and with tears welling in their eyes, flocked over to rub his head for luck. He kicked abstractly at the beachball and flushed with embarrassment, restoring his cheeks from their pallor. Marshall raised his beer towards the receding back and negotiated his own way back down the hall, past the bedrooms and outside to the veranda.

Marshall returned to the circle into which his friends had merged, which was now engaged in the serious political discourse of reaffirmation of ideology. They were glad to be in the company of other, like-minded individuals, but each privately knew they lacked the tangible conviction to back up their words. It would serve as all inebriated political discussions do, as a means of saying, “Look here. I share your beliefs. Please like me. I want to belong.” Karl looked across at Marshall and rolled his eyes. While they both agreed with much of what was being said, they couldn’t find it within themselves to take it seriously. They had talked at length about these themes before and come to the conclusion that no ideology holds all the keys to nirvana. Each has its merits, but the vast cacophony of mankind rendered each individual ideology redundant. There was no accounting for personal beliefs.

Marshall smiled distractedly at Karl’s sardonic contribution to the false debate. His mind was elsewhere, enchanted by its brief foray into the inner sanctum of the artists; relieved that he hadn’t been shunned, that his presence hadn’t given brought about muted whispers from the local hierarchy. He caught himself wondering what it must be like to be one of them; to be a creative force, a contributor to this tight-nit little community. He imagined their lives different, more exciting, more complete. He desired to possess what they possessed.

Between Here and the Sky- Chapter 4: The Cellar

Looking at the clock in the bottom corner of his screen for the thousandth time that day Marshall declared it to be time to head to the pub. He shut down the computer for the weekend and checked that his drawers were locked before throwing his satchel over his shoulder and crossing the corridor to Yoshi’s office. Together they did the rounds of the department, picking up those who were keen and a few who were not so keen but didn’t want to create a scene by refusing.

They left the building as a mob, Yoshi skipping ahead while Marshall called Piers to let him know they’d already left. They procured a table in the beer garden under the shade of the oak trees as Marshall went to the bar and bought 2 jugs of Golden Ale to kick things off. Karl and Leigh lambasted him- Karl for not getting Amber Ale, and Leigh for getting beer in the first place. Leigh went to get a bottle of red as Karl and Marshall started pouring out the beer.

By the end of Happy Hour the group was down to its core members of Marshall, Piers, Yoshi, Karl and Leigh, the others making their excuses and heading home for the weekend. Marshall had his arms around Karl’s hulking shoulders at one end of the table, going over the details of his latest breakup, while the others entertained themselves with their plans for the forthcoming Postgraduate Student Association cocktail night.

According to Karl the breakup had been due to his inability to go to Leigh’s mother’s 60^th birthday party, and that if he couldn’t commit to something so small, yet so meaningful to her, then what was the point in staying together? In her mind it meant that Karl was afraid of commitment. He had tried to dissuade her- that he had an important timed experiment that had to be done- but she wasn’t listening. So that was that. Karl stared vacantly into the froth of his beer.

The relationship between Karl and Leigh stretched back some years to their time in student politics, when Karl had been VP of the Student Guild having formed a coalition with the not-quite-as-left-as-him Labor Party. He was loathe to call himself a communist and risk being tarred with the same brush as the campus socialists involved in circular group-think and handing out copies of the Socialist Weekly outside the Reid library. Despite his personal manifesto being in a state of continual flux, like-minded people still seemed to be pulled into his orbit like moons around a planet. If he had the self-confidence to match his formidable intellect he would have been a danger to any impressionable fresher looking to shift their ideology from the right-wing dogma of their middle-class parents. As it was he was tearing himself up with Leigh.

Leigh, an avowed Green had been one of the normal members of the Guild Council. She spent much of her time at these weekly meetings trading glances with this larger-than-life character over the polished wooden table while their peers drafted pressers condemning the actions of Japanese whalers and declaring the campus a safe haven for refugees. They discovered a shared source of amusement trading in underhanded and cynical comments while everyone else seemed too caught up in their own moral seriousness. Before long Leigh found herself in Karl’s flat, naked, after several hours debating the Northern Territory Intervention over a cask of rough red. Even from the start their relationship was built on seismic fault lines. They were both as bad as each other.

The drama Karl and Leigh wrote together was at simultaneously irritating and amusing to those caught up in their web. They were wonderful and engaging people and both thoroughly enjoyed a long night out, but their acquaintances were never quite sure of the status of their relationship and, not wanting to bring the topic up in conversation, would ignore the entire thing until someone informed them of the pendulum’s swing.

The evening had reached the fork in the road. Either they could take the low road and continue in the current quixotic frenzy and be written off by dinner time, or they could take the high road, put the brakes on and make a night of it. In the spirit of democracy they argued the merits of each option before putting it to a vote. Leigh voted for annihilation, but it was all for nought. Piers, Marshall and Yoshi were intent on making it to the gig, while Karl agreed predominantly as a means of pissing Leigh off. She rolled her eyes and poured the final dribble of the wine into her glass.

They finished off the last of their drinks and gathered their bags from underneath the table. The boys tried to convince Leigh to come out with them and enjoy a night out on the town, Karl even lowered his lance in reconciliation, but she offered her excuses and made off into the night. She had designs on going around to her best friend’s house with a couple more bottles of wine to curl up on the couch in front of the heater and bitch about life. All the time being surrounded by the boys had built up so much pressure inside her that she needed to vent.

Piers called his brother and got him to reserve another couple of tickets on the door. The four of them would split the cost of the fourth. They caught a taxi into Northbridge and after paying wandered through a back alley into the heart of what passed as the local version of Chinatown. A young spruiker, probably the daughter of the owner, welcomed them into a room where the tables were wedged tightly around each other and the walkways were choked with a gridlock of food trolleys. They approached the maitre de with the number of people to be seated, took a number and loitered out the front trying to topple each other into piles of rubbish bags that lined the redbrick wall.

At the call of their number they slid back inside and around a plastic-covered table and steeled themselves for the onslaught ahead. As the gleaming metallic carts came around they selected an array of baskets filled with various steamed and fried dumplings and giant plates of deep fried squid tentacles battered in garlic they took glee in calling ‘curly fries’. A couple of pots of complimentary green tea were delivered to their table to help wash it all down, rehydrating and preparing them for the night ahead.

It only took them 20 minutes to gorge themselves to the brink of coma. Their eyes glazed over and their jaws hung slack from the mountains of MSG now lining their stomachs. They loosened their belts, slouched in their chairs, stared at the ceiling and smiled contentedly, blissed with the state of the world.

While they were in their fugue the staff bustled around them like birds, clearing away empty bowls, cups, baskets, napkins and plates. A freshly printed white bill was placed deliberately in the middle of the table, a message to ‘pay up and get out so we can do another sitting’. They each put in $15 for the pleasure of the experience and, groaning their appreciation, slid back out into the aisle and waddled out the door.

Hit by the blare of the shouts and noise of James Street a sudden fear overcame them. The fog of MSG lifting from their eyes and they looked out of terrified eyes. Their urge was to dart back the way they came and regain their composure before figuring out a plan to skirt around the sinister heart of Northbridge. Instead they steeled themselves and lifted a façade of nonchalance so as not to let their illusions of masculinity be perceived. Not uttering a word of the fear each was silently battling, they strode purposefully up the street weaving in and out of traffic intent on not making eye contact with strangers, and making it to the other end undamaged.

They were headed towards a regular haunt on the fringes of the city. Nights at The Cellar were typically filled in equal measures by magical musical gems- those that shine so bright you think they will explode- and miscarriages- trashed equipment and bandmates turning on each other mid-song. It acted as a lone beacon to those youths disenchanted with the shiny lights and plastic sounds, the drunken brawlers, the smeared skanks and the strip clubs that pass as popular entertainment. It offered the opportunity to immerse oneself in a counter-culture amongst the painfully cool kids with their tattoos, piercings and avant-garde fashions. But more than that, a place to go to forget yourself, to forget your inhibitions and just act as though you are the only person left in the universe. A place of freedom. To dance without worrying about the eyes of others judging your every move. Because no one was there to care about what anybody else did, so long as there was a spirit and mood created to carry them through the dark of night.

Nightclub bouncers lay in wait for the disorderly teens to descend from the suburbs. They hurried past and made it to The Cellar as the queue was dwindling and people were filing into the outer courtyard. An unorganised line had spread out across the bar as patrons waited impatiently for the staff to tend to their whims. A couple of guys were plugging cords into their synthesisers on the stage inside. Marshall, Piers and Karl got beers with which to recommence their drinking, while Yoshi rued his ancestry and got a pint of water. Small clumps of people randomly dotted the floor of the room, some sitting, some standing, a couple dancing. They assumed their positions towards the back of the dance floor nodding and shifting their weight almost in time with the beat. After a couple of songs they grew restless and returned to the concrete garden to perch on stacks of wooden pallets while they waited for Alby’s turn to take the stage.

An interval between the acts gave the fashionable latecomers a chance to arrive and lean nonchalantly against the walls of the club. Finally the MC summonsed everyone to crush into the dimly lit room. The scientists were washed forwards to end up around the paisley-printed pillar in the centre of the room by the tide of people eager to secure a good vantage point. By the time the house lights went down the room was full, with barely room for the small women to squeeze through to the front and they clutched their beers close to their chests.

A cheer rose to greet Eye’s Quittin’ as they strode through the black velvet curtain to the stage. They shouldered arm and scrunched up their sleeves nervously while they awaiting the drummers signal to begin. The drummer, decked in only Wayfarers and torn denim shorts attacked the snare with a machine gun staccato attack before launching into a relentlessly complex pattern of toms, bass and snare. The bass joined and swirled intricately around the drum rolls. The guitars fed around each other and through all manner of effects pedals- one buzzing and sawing a rhythm, the other trilling and picking out a melody. Jarring counterpoints melted into slick harmony and back again. Timings morphed and stretched the rhythms, melodies and counter-melodies seamlessly. Breath was paused. The banter at the bar surrendered to the intensity on stage. Those closest leaned in to breathe the music; smiles splitting their faces in half. The room was on the brink of falling apart into a billion tiny fragments, held together only by the collective strength of those on stage and the rapturous and glowing faces hanging on their every sound.

Alby and his co-vocalist Zach stalked and preened out in front as though this was what they had been put on this earth to do. They traded front-man duties, the other taking up station at either at the series of pedals and switches on the floor, or beating the second drum kit on the side of the stage to within an inch of its life. They were loud and relentless, pushing the music forward into new and vital places. Feet were moved, hearts were raced, limbs were flailed, brows were wiped. Eyes from every direction burned and illuminated the stage.

The drummer appeared as though overcome by some unseen force that would launch him through the bass drum, across the stage, through the crowd and out the door at any moment, tracks smouldering in his wake. The audience dared not look away for fear of missing the offer of enlightenment radiating from the stage. They were statues during the eerie, woozy troughs, and flailed as though decapitated through the soaring crescendos. They would do anything the music commanded them.

They played the album straight through from start to finish, intricately weaving one song into the next without pause to create a single, overwhelming symphony. They left the stage bathed in layers of reverb, the lights softly breathing through the smoke to the instruments flung haphazardly across the floor. The audience roared their appreciation, and as the drone of feedback subsided Alby and Zach returned to stage. Zach plugged in the acoustic guitar strapped over his shoulder and Alby bent and picked up a trumpet from between the drums. Zach elicited the nostalgic sound of crackling vinyl from an effects pedal and began to pick out a simple two bar melody, and Alby coaxed an achingly pretty sustained note from his muted horn. The three other band members calmly walked on stage, huddled around a microphone and together softly began to breathe the chant ‘it’s all alright’. One by one their voices broke away from the central line, folding harmonies around each other and enveloping the silenced audience in a cloud of bliss. Marshall closed his eyes and soared above the room, swooping and soaring with the music. A perfect dénouement; a cool rain after a hot day.

The band took their bows and sustained applause escorted them from the stage. Out back they were quiet, smiling blissfully and patting each other on the arms for a job well done. Out the front, Marshall’s chest burst with pride over what he had just witnessed, Karl joined the line for merchandise, and Yoshi continued to nod his head in dazed appreciation well after the floor had been cleared. Electric murmurs swept through those in line as they waited to pick up a copy of the album, before dispersing into the night to bury it in their stereos in a desperate attempt to relive the night.