(note from the hollywood bowl)

In the middle of the third song we hit the opening act tipping point. The crowd had done the respectful thing, but now they started to chatter and laugh, showing each other photos and ringtones. Some shuffled down the rows to go buy tiny plastic cups of red wine. A few wafts of weed floated over the bleachers.

The trio clustered in the center of the large stage, bent over their instruments, seeming to play for each other more than anyone else. Perhaps they were nervous, forehead sweat leaking from more than the aggressive lights. The crowd couldn’t tell. Or didn’t even try to; attention was gone. They had lasted as long as they could.

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