On 2019-12-14, the Representative from Corwood Industries gave a performance at the ISSUE Project Room in Brooklyn, New York. Accompanying him were Sheila Smith on guitar and two local musicians, one on drums and the other on bass. These are some things that I remember from that night.

There were four or five people in line when we arrived. Occasionally a furnace would kick on and hum. I wondered where the musicians were. I stood beside a white table where, later, wine and water would be sold. In front of us was a sliding door: a large, wooden screen which I thought would open outward and into the hall. It slid to the left instead. An attendant said: "The house is open; the house is open."

There were 64 or 72 seats in the room. This iteration of the Project Room was in an old bank vault. The Rep's music stand was in the center with four prehensile mobile lights over it. Two guitars were at its left. Toward stage left there was a drumkit, in the center was a chair for the bassist, and at stage right were a seat for Sheila and stairs onto the stage.

The venue filled up quickly, and I overheard many stories from people sitting in all directions. One person said that he had had a "rough year," that he was surprised to be alive. He had with him a small book of the Corwood album covers, perhaps from the art exhibit that happened somewhere in Europe. Later their conversation turned to Puce Mary and similar groups. An extremely old man sat in a wheelchair against the left wall, hooked up to what appeared to be an oxygen tank. A music stand was flipped upside down just off of the stage, barring entry into a chamber where there was an enormous, round table.

A half hour passed. I went into the hallway and briefly encountered the Rep, who was dressed in what someone next to me called the "Texas undertaker" look. After another break we went back into the room, and shortly the performance began. The drummer was first to take the stage. He was solemn and played by intuition. His movements came from a state of profound interiority. The bassist, wearing an orange sock cap, was the second to emerge. He was more tentative yet also serious, dedicated to marking moments, and attentive to the atmosphere. He waited a long time before plugging in his bass, and even longer before turning on the amplifier.

Sheila came out next, closely followed by the Representative. I don't remember him wasting much time before saying: "I done you wrong by not revealing myself." Throughout the show, he never touched an instrument, yet shook and danced like one possessed. What came through the most clearly that night was a sense of cohesion. The second piece in particular was perfectly timed, with the drummer reporting a rat-a-tat-tat that everyone, especially the Rep, enjoyed very much. As he sat down he grinned and mimicked it with his hands.

After he felt each segment was complete, the Representative would take a seat on a folding chair to signal he was finished. Sometimes he would sit down slowly, at other times he would practically fall into it, usually after a fit of movement. At one point and for the whole sequence, Sheila reached out her guitar to pluck the strings at the highest point of the bass.

The lyrics were chosen at random from the Representative's book, and did not form a suite. One section began: "There's no light behind the sun, just a picture of colors.." And memorably, from the middle of another: "We're duty-bound to stay alive, like the grass under the horse's hoof."

Everyone was receptive to what was played. The end of every section drew some comment from the crowd, a "hell yes," or two; there was enthusiasm, but it remained respectful. Most of the segments were upbeat, and the last words of the performance were a satisfied "Brooklyn, 2019," before the Rep stepped off the stage to a standing ovation and applause.

I was silent as I left the room. As we exited the hall and were about to leave the foyer, I saw someone staring ahead like a blank streak against the humming furnace.