I dreamed early this morning that I was at a Zappa gig. Some deep funk rocking out from a bass player with six strings, kicking ass, and no sense of stopping and rhythm section like a train…

It was day time, in a huge auditorium. Cathedral-like. Somehow I am involved in singing the previous number from the far side of the crowd – through a mic on a huge long lead. It stops. I want it to go on.

Intermission. The band clears the stage and cleans all the amps and stuff to the sides. White stage. I approach. Zappa is talking to someone. He turns to me. “Your’e on” he says, gesturing to the stage. He hands me his green tank-top and velvet gloves. “If anyone stops you, show them these…”

I grab my guitar. Wondering what to play I head for the stage. Try to figure out how the hell to patch into the PA. Some friends arrive to help me figure it out. We figure it out.

People start to come back after the intermission. I start playing. People are listening. Getting into it. So am I. I am playing covers – beautiful songs from dead people; John Martyn, Issac Guillory, traditional tunes. Celtic airs. I am closing my eyes and singing my soul out…

I notice Zappa and his band have come back in and are sitting front-row, listening.

He catches my eye.

“Now”, he says “Sing your song…”

I wake up.

…