ABSTRACT
San Francisco 1997. After the last performances ever of Club of No Regrets there’s a party on the stage-a party that gets quite out of hand in a mixture of alcohol, exhaustion, exhilaration, and other things. I don’t have pictures of the fire people started with bits of the set, the props and costumes at 3 in the morning, or of the smoke and sparks from the fire rising up and curling over the freeway overpass. I don’t have any pictures of the company going straight to the airport at 7am, not having slept, still jumping, looking forward to 11 hours of flight.
