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  • We grew up dancing, windows wide open, blasting the music.

    We danced through the 90s, the 00s and now, when you return upriver for the weekend, we drop the needle on vinyl, turn down the lights, and time travel. Talking Heads, B-52s, Blondie, Elvis Costello. Live. Chris Frantz in a cowboy hat in Boulder. Lou Reed between shots of Jack Daniels at Columbia. The French so attentive-intellectual as Christine and I jumped from the velvet seats in Paris. "Don't they know how to dance?," she yelled, her hands like parallel orbs as she took them to rotation, bobbing her Celtic mane.

    "This Ain't No Disco. This Ain't No Party. This Ain't No Fooling Around."

    The crowd bounced the entire floor on the coast of New Hampshire when Fred Schneider sang "Rock Lobster." So palpable. Through the walls of windows, waves crashed the shore. We toasted St. Pauli Girls all the way to Dublin, then back to Boston where she married Setanta and had the spark-eyed baby Selene before graduation.

    The night we got Clem Burke's autograph by the tour bus after the show in Denver, Danny was still Danny. The bouncers confiscated our health food take-out (are they serious?) and his chain (well, makes sense...). It didn't matter. We saw Debbie Harry in her tight little boots onstage, singing "Hanging on the Telephone".

    Sitting by the pier in New York City as the full moon rose amber-red above Elvis on the Imperial Bedroom tour, I realized the man in the moon was actually a woman, screaming.

    Danny became his own anacronym of initials for a name. At the Bruce Springsteen show in San Francisco he told me, "Good thing I'm Type A or we'd never get out of this parking lot."

    Dancing, I gave you "Walking After Midnight" and "Radio Ethiopia". You opened the sleeve to the five album boxed set and showed me Springsteen actually wrote about angels.
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