He's still there. WES cranks out a half-dozen tunes before the crowd forgets all the technology and grooves. The spaceman guitarist lays down crackling, swamp-soaked solos, the cheerleader with the bass makes his licks look easy. He leads his cordless troupe on a tour of the room, brings band and crowd together, they grind and shake and we pick up on the vibe. Go, man, go.
Old ladies start clapping out the beat.
Anything they do now, we dig it. When the guitarist plays with his teeth like Jimi at Monterey, we cheer and forgive him that piece of gear which transforms his Stratocaster into a trumpet. We drink, watch, listen, move, sweat, howl and pray for the evening to last forever. Except for Son House. The crowd is yelling for more.