Mississippi moon beams dappled, smokey blue over the tin roof of a Juke Joint. Bacchanalia swamped postmodernism and dancers writhed like lunatic snakes in the music hall. Torches made of lime and sulphur swept through the moth-flickering night illuminating the young, frenzied faces.
As the evening began, muffled capitalist pin-stripped mobile phones buzzed in the hollows of Tartarus. Bourgeois 'enlightenment' screamed for a pedestal to lock-up their dreams on operating tables. They sort to transmogrify the participants into consumer and then spectator. By breaking their leg bones they could stop the dancing and charge for the malady's resolve. But tonight the lupine howls were on the side of ecstasy. Machine fetishes were drowned in the Wolf River with Jeff Buckley and secret histories let cool steel blades glint, coagulated with incarnadine blood. The salons of Paris were set on fire and Diderot's wig turned to smoke.
The tune that had captured the delight of the new shamans was Kingston Trio's 'Greenback Dollar'
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