Despite the presence of the monstrous and somber lamentations for a lost past, Roky sounds and looks faintly triumphant, his weighted, beaten figure growing increasingly buoyant, floating. Quieter moments of doubt and defeat would descend—a slow trumpet, meditations on failure—and would be dispelled soon after by crunching exuberance.

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Dear Rock Concert Gods,

I’ve put off writing this letter to you due to my admiration, love, and passion for good music. But it’s time. Please, dear gods that rule our eyes and ears—our hearts and our dancing feet—can you please put a cap on how many a-holes are allowed per venue per show? I’ve been to so many shows lately where the bands rock it to the max while the audience stands staring like a vacuous black hole of suckage. If you plan to grow roots in the middle of the dance floor only so that you can stare at the band with an “I just pooped my pants” expression, please, leave.

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