Not music, but theatre. In university I somehow got involved with a small group that did Christian theatre (I was not a Christian) for churches, and so on. The plays they did were uniformly dreadful (like Game Shows where the questions are things like, "For 60$, are you living responsibly?"). Anyway, I eventually fled, and then one summer afternoon, the Director of this company -- who thought of himself as an auteur -- phoned me up and said would you be interested in something serious, and we are doing it for summer stock next weekend in a barn, and it would be a nice time in the country?" Summer Stock! Every actor's experience! So like an idiot I went. The play was something called "The Heat Death of the Universe", indescribably tedious. The Director decided (this was 1971) that what the play needed was some Jefferson Airplane like lava-lamp gels (you know, what they used to have at JA concerts), and an electric guitar group to play at the opening and intermission. We rehearse for two days in this big barn, full of hay. Opening night. It turns out that the audience is two busloads of Christian teenagers from Uxbridge or somewhere, one busload from a girl's teenage centre, and one from a boy's. It is summertime, August. Barn. Nightime. Lots of outdoors nearby. The play begins with an intro from the dreadful electric guitar band. The lava-lamp begins, the lights go down. We come on. About half the audience is still there, making out. The other half has gone into the woods. As the play progresses, the actors who are not on, stand on the end of the makeshift stage, watching a scene out of a Fellini film unfolding in the near recesses of the barn. There are no supervisors, nothing. The play slows down visibly, as we actors forget our lines, stare out at the spectacle, and wonder if our turn will come. The band disappears, presumably with members of the audience. Two thirds of the way through Act 1, two cars pull up. It is the chaperones, who had lost their way coming north (none bright enough to go in the busses). They enter the premises, and proceed to shriek hysterically at the top of their lungs, and demand that the Director stop the play, that he was responsible for this mayhem. The Director (manning the lava-lamp) argues with them, from backstage. A shouting match ensues. The play is halted. The remnants of the audience is semi-detached from each other, and hauled back on the buses, under guard. For the next three hours, students wander back, are pulled out of who knows what, and the band never reappears. Eventually, at midnight, the whole circus drives off.

Cut to next morning. We are at breakfast in the farmhouse. "You know," said the Director,"That would make a great play." I became a security guard for the rest of the summer.

yours, Peter T.