We sat down in the shadow of the monument hours before the show started. People were all around, talking and drinking and falling back laughing onto the grass. When he came out the sun was gone but the lights were on him like hungry puppies. His hand was a spider that made clutchy love to the back of his guitar neck. Some of us went down near the stage and climbed the big black arch, as if being closer would make it easier to understand. One of my friends said one time that Howl should be broadcast from the rooftops, loud as a jet engine, and I couldn't stop thinking about that while I hung from the arch with my back resting right against the loudspeaker. My whole body was the music and the song replaced my blood. But somewhere deep in my mind was the memory of my friend, what she said about Howl, and the tiny cracks in her fingers I could see when she sucked on her cigarette.

Letters from Underground