Friday, July 1, 2016

Drummer, Fiddler, Whatever.


I dreamed I was organizing this huge touring musical installation -- several hundred improvising musicians, all dressed in black, occupying these 3-4 story buildings for a full day, open to the public to wander through. We had just successfully completed a dress rehearsal in our base of operations -- not certain where -- and I was consulting with my field agents about the last few venues to be nailed down. The tour was mostly in Europe, but seemed to focus on islands and peninsulas in Scandinavia and the Eastern Mediterranean. One of my scouts was saying that they had found that the cities on the west side of various geographical areas were riddled with tourists and bad vibes and were more expensive (though that didn't seem to be a concern) but that the east side was relaxed and open and more mysterious, and that they had found appropriate buildings there. We agreed to book those places. One of the musicians came by, and it was Philip Seymour Hoffman (as himself) saying what a great time he was having playing drums. I was thinking maybe I should invite him to join one of my smaller, more continuous bands, and that would stop him from ODing.