The band I played in, briefly, during the 1980s, has reassembled for a reunion gig. My friend Ralph is on drums, Jeremy is on guitar, and I'm playing keyboards. We are performing in front of a catastrophically unenthusiastic audience at a London pub.

After a while, Roman Polanski comes in. He looks very angry, and tells me that I have killed his daughter--some sort of mix-up over a glass of Cointreau and a glass of medicine in the pub fridge, for which I am apparently responsible. However, I'm too busy concentrating on the dreadful performance we're giving: the three of us haven't played together for ten years, and we can't remember any of our songs.

And now there's a further problem: my keyboard (a Yamaha DX21) has started turning into a pizza. I'm not especially surprised by this--it's one of those standard musicians' hassles--but it's extremely inconvenient. The thing is coming apart whenever I hit a note, and I'm burning my fingers on the mozzarella.

Next day we return to the venue to pick up our equipment. The pub falls silent when we enter, and then the patrons start spitting at us.

I think this dream reflects feelings of musical inadequacy.

EDITOR'S NOTE

Uh... okay. But I play, and wish I played better, and never once in all my musical nightmares (some of them awake, in front of real audiences, when I realize I just haven't practiced enough) have I ever had my keyboard turn into a pizza. That final line seems reductive. Flat. The dream's saying something more and stranger.

--Chris Wayan

SOURCE: The Tiger Garden: A Book of Writers' Dreams by Nicholas Royle, 1996, p.54

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