I enjoyed the set that moved like the life of the dancer living-room ornament versus the primal, sometimes instinctive part of man - man without the varnish, as it were, the illicit humour branded into the characters who keep up the appearance of happiness for the audience scenes danced just as if in a collage that overlaps itself a puppet that gently deconstructs the panels (the set) just as Sonic Youth killed their idols to string their own way to the full the Sonic Youth world of Mike Kelly, Paul McCarthy and Raymond Pettibon that moves and stamps on the spot like a procession floundering walking from the deepest dream the dream of deconstruction, of disruption and eternal shifting the steaming beat of the disorderly and the disordered straight from the belly to the spectator's throat a performance that's really there but moves somewhere else like a song that boomerangs back from its very own feedback and back to the essence does not let itself be bullied in words even though they stand abandoned in the shadow of experience and whatever that may mean for every private individual.