The first three quarters of your life was a dream, and you’ve woken up in a lounge bar, drunk and confused. David Lynch is yelling directions at Don McGlashan, Marty McFly is giving MGMT a free lesson in advanced pinball, and Bill Haley is arguing with Bill Callahan about the relevance of meaningful lyrics in popular music. In the corner is a small stage with a red curtain and an old silver microphone. The band is playing a murder ballad, backwards, and you know the words even though you’ve never heard the song before.
