IT'S RACONTEUR MADNESS WEEKEND AT CRACK SKULL BOB!

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It's been a good ten years since I've been to a rock concert, and I'd forgotten that what you go there for is not to listen to music, but to plug yourself into a communal energy field. By the end, I wasn't able to hear actual notes, but that was totally beside the point. I had parked myself at a good vantage point, about ten feet from the stage, in front of this stack of black boxes, which I naturally assumed the roadies had dumped there after unpacking the instruments and whatnot. You already know where this is going, don't you? Because out of that stack of boxes came wave after wave of atomic bomb shockwaves that had as much to do with music as hurricanes do. And it was fine. Afterwards, walking down the street in a cluster of other concertgoers who were shouting things at me, I found myself yelling, "HUH? WHAT? COULD YOU REPEAT THAT?" Finally, after some urgent consultation, one of them came up to me and said, "Dude! We're not saying anything!" The right-on-the-moneyness of these words was borne out by the fact that I'm still hearing all these people shouting in my ears --and nobody's here! Wow, spooky, huh? One last time, many thanks to Cindy and Ronda for dropping tickets from the sky into my undeserving hands.