The windows of the Festiva Rosa are coated with the dried muddy road mist of a spring day. 3PM - Tsongas Arena - there is a small group of teenagers congregated to the left of the entrance, a small security detail stands to the right. "Look, they're playing Duck Duck Goose!" spouts Herr M, peering at the kids through the filmy glass. We park and place phone call. Permission is granted. We are escorted inside the empty arena and greeted by the green shirt and friendly smile of Patrick, the drummer. We are taken past the stage where lighting crew are hanging large translucent plastic squares and a giant letter W. Into hockey tunnel where people busily stream to and fro like ants. We are given green badges that say V.I.P. Dressing room is blue curtains hiding cinder block cell walls. Colors clash. Red oriental rug and green plastic sofas. A table with copper crushed velvet tablecloth laid out with food and beverage. Guitarist inspects basket filled with crackers and pepperoni and pine cones, voicing mild disapproval. I think of Spinal Tap during lunch with band and soundcheck. Facing the empty seats, I strum most massive chord thru SG attached to a rig the size of a house.

4:30 - Shit, we remember we need to pick up computer at Rich's in Cambridge. Back in the Festiva Rosa with Procol Harum on blown speakers. Richard is not home when we arrive. Kill time with beers at Toad in Porter Square. The bar is nearly pitch black. When Rich gets home we meet his wife's three birds, two of which are friendly, but the third is very angry and violent. The problem bird is named is Mr. Peepers and he is said to emote a piercing screech while mercilessly attacking his enemies(ie. everyone).

7:30 - Tsongas Arena - A large crowd has gathered outside. We bypass the line and head for a side door. Police try to stop us. We flash our badges, and with the policemen's apologies, are allowed to proceed. Backstage, the vibe has changed since the afternoon. Pre-show rituals are in effect. Patrick is alone on the tour bus and the rest of the band are holed up in the bathroom listening to an English as a Foriegn Language tape. We decide to head to the stage area to watch the opening act. Security is everywhere. I'm warned not to take pictures. We move to a No Man's Land situated between the audience and the stage. The crowd seems composed entirely of 16 year olds and the girls make appeals for us to help get them backstage(where they can join in the english language learning). The talents of the opening band rest half in their fashion sense, half in their posturing. Their music is bland. The young audience sings along and we feel old. When the headliners(really old men in their 30s), take the stage, there is a fullhouse. The band plays loud. They have fog machines and synchronized psychedelic mood lights, hanging plastic squares and a giant letter W. The girls are disappointed when the frontman appears with a beard, but they are devoted nonetheless, and they pack themselves tightly against the riot fence, calling out his name. The band gives the audience exactly what they want. They play their hits and do absolutely nothing unexpected. Throughout the show, a steady and orderly stream of clean cut young body surfers move along human conveyors toward the stage and the waiting arms of security.

After the show there is standstill traffic in the garage. People with cars still parked are blocked in by impenetrable gridlock. A girl bargains with me. She offers 6 cookies in exchange for us letting her car out. I suggest it be 8 cookies plus a beverage. She tries to haggle but I won't budge. She accepts the offer and returns to her car and her cheering friends. We honor our agreement and allow her to merge ahead of us in her mom's shiney silver Toyota Camry.