Musings on the strange state of elevator music
by Bryan Davis
Earlier this year I went to a Pink Martini show. A serendipitous moment whereby I had no real plans to go but was downtown in Durham, N.C., enjoying dinner out with my wife, and we decided to go for a walk toward the arts center. I was supposed to have been in DC that weekend for the Swervedriver concert but droves of public transportation-hoarding cherry blossom watchers had decided to buy up every last seat heading to Washington. I remembered that Pink Martini was playing here in town that night since a friend had told me that he would be going.