The Cracked Actress spins her selection. All these records are much loved, the heirlooms of former lives. Soundtracks for other times and for this time to, from Bobby Conn to Caliphone, Tarwater to Tortoise. It is early in a bar where it is always late. On the wall there is a pair of antlers mounted in a red spotlight, they cast a gothic shadow.
Here comes the Hip Priest, Hans, whose mad dance is an act of benediction for the music. No one knows when the tremor started, when the voices became insistent but Hans must dance; he shakes with music, a palsy of glossolalia, secrets shared in the language of angels.
See a Passion play, Christus, The whole family gathered for a mock-crucifixion. How touching. On the Culture Channel, “Kultur Quikies” the charms of the Museaminsel at night are sold. The presenter interviews the actor who will play Christ, traditionally nicht eine schauspieler, nicht eine Profi. He says, “the role requires much discipline and a sturdy steel hook.” At once I think of Peter Pan and the falling blade.
Hans, in his old stained suit, speaking in tongues again, his greying hair a wild afro.