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Around the back of the town hall, along a dim and musty corridor, over a threadbare maroon carpet, the sound came. A hypnotic swirl of beat-less, psychedelic music. And a deep, god-like voice through a PA system.
It grew louder the closer Alice got to a set of double doors left wide open. She entered the darkened room and took a sharp right up a steep flight of steps. They led onto a gallery, wrapping around The Grand Hall—grossly over-advertised.
She stayed low in the darkness of the unlit gallery. Took a sagging burgundy velour seat on the balcony row to the right of the hall. Looked down on a modest stage surrounded by tall, black drapes. And saw Porter Kilbride, standing in a cream polar neck sweater. His sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms.
As the music played, the light shi
