just as big without any kind of amplification, Abbie's microphone notwithstanding. The song was driven by the cries of the crowd, the pounding of drumskins, my strumming hand slashing down on my guitar, and the whoops and screams of a pack of small children Wilfred had organized into a choir near the front of the stage. This natural accompaniment sounded intense in the same way that the wind hammering at a houseface is intense, or an axe thunking into cordwood, or a freight train shaking a quiet neighbourhood. It was all the more visceral for having been created out of nothing by the crowd. Because of this, the Buduburams were reluctant to let it go easily, and as the chorus looped and looped, I thought that "Horses" might never end. When the song finally began to lose steam, I turned to the drummers and shouted the song's final bar -- " One! Two! Three! Four! " They took this as a metronomical command, and played loudly and more frenetically in an attempt to straighten the groove into the tepid Western time signature I'd requested. I shook my head at them and counted out the song a second time, but my voice couldn't be heard above the drums. I looked at the front row and saw Wilfred slapping his hands together and laughing at me, at which point I realized that it wasn't that the drummers didn't understand my signal to conclude the song. They just didn't want to. I put