It’s sometime in the mid-noughties in a basement venue in Dalston. Not the Dalston we know now but a more down-at-heel Dalston that acts as a counterbalance to its more popular cousin, Stoke Newington.
A man and a woman are on the stage. The woman is slight and addresses the ungainly form of an old Korg synthesizer, the man is wearing a cherry red SG and towers over a shanty town of effects boxes. The armada of pedals annexes half of the stage. If he switches all of them on at once we fear that the power in the venue might fail or perhaps the block might become a singularity where gravity brunches heartily upon space and time.
The idea, he explains earlier at the bar, is to keep the signal moving around the maze; transforming, expanding and contracting like an electric genie for as long as possible. It’s like ten million years down in there.
At the end of the set after the applause has died down and the next band start to set up I wonder if the signal is still in there somewhere.