Seeing is Believing
IF I HADN'T seen it with my own eyes, I might not have believed it myself. The two men who called themselves the Spaceheads were glowing. I don't mean the airy glow of an expectant mother, or a spent, breathy postcoital glow, or even the histrionic green glow of science fiction radioactivity. This was a divine glow that emanated from the centers of these men, these Spaceheads, as they played music no man or woman had ever played before. It was remarkable. They knew it, too, and they smiled the smile of transcendence without a hint of guile. In an age when culture is threatened with drowning beneath oceans of hyperbole, and the masses are desensitized to the most profound of human epiphanies, to witness a startlingly unique musical experience was absolutely incredible.
Your pelvis just isn't itself, and the walls can't help sweating, and the tentacles of that odd-looking creature behind you feel kind of right as they clamp to the swing of your hips. The groove churns to fluid and then to hot mist as the perspiration sops your brow and your underarms and between your legs and steam rises from your body. And you dance and you dance and you dance until your feet bleed and you make it all the way, clear to Mount Olympus or Avalon or Nirvana. Of course, the bouncers at the Bottom of the Hill and the Make-Out Room may stop you on your way ("No ins-and-outs"), but your ass can move just as recklessly inside the walls of those fine establishments. Oh, and San Francisco: I better see your asses move.