There is something about Busby Berkeley that out-vulgars vulgar and lands up in its own mad, disturbing, dark, satyr-play, faintly erotic poetry. Everything curls together, all the golden girls are solid fool's gold, waves of movement are like dream patterns rolling over you. The Andrews Sisters picked up something of this dark gloss. It's the underside of the American dream emerging as the top side.
I'm reading tonight - I forgot to mention - at The Bicycle Shop at 8pm with Ágnes Lehóczky and Andy Mc Donnell.