I am with Keith. We watch a performance artist. He busks in the street, banging a cymbal. The same rhythm over and over. He drives people mad with his repetition.
Next he improvises over Queen’s ‘We Are The Champions’ to a queue of people at an ATM. He sings ‘We Are The Bankers’, and plays a solo on the ATM machine.
He moves on to imitate anti capitalist protestors. He is many, he is legion, and he wears an anonymous mask, but on top of this is a cut out mask of the face of a protestor.
I like the fact he is impartial. Keith and I go to his house to play some music. We talk about William Obeabor, and I offer to play keyboard for a fandango he is working on. He looks dismayed. I used to be in his band, but it all fell apart after I left. I feel sad about this. They relied on me too much.
Keith and I walk home over a frozen canal, skipping stones across the ice to listen to the sound.