Can Do

   Hell of an image that Rosie the Riveter, if you're ever thinking of recruiting people.

 

 Still tasting the bitter-sweetness of Poussey's Advenures in the Arts World, the following night I wonderfully found myself beneath railway arches again, watching actors dance and musicians jam. One Night Records was the name of the night. Glimpsing an abandoned juice box on an oil drum at the entrance I intinctively reached for it to pump alcohol onto my hands. We arrived for nine and moved from stage to stage in groups. We could carry drinks with us and lower our facemasks for a sip of Old Fashioned. I think ours was the last group, and small. There were no more than twelve of us to fill these rooms, so no way to make any of them feel like clubs, with or without social distancing.

 

 

 

 But they didn't need to. We were where we were, stragglers at a dip in history sitting still and bursting with gratitude. Every act must have already been playing for two hours before we arrived as well: The One Night Records Rhythm Revue Band. Amy & the Calamites. Sumudu. Laurence Corns and the Candid Jug Orange Band. Jaz Delorean. All of them in front of us. All seeming so happy to be in front of us too, togethering. I think that's the literal translation of "entertainment": Togethering. Here's a clip of the last act we saw, maybe the last live act I'll see this year. I'm still bursting with gratitude.