We have seen and not heard the impassioned, old standard importunings of the thickening and not quickening, doddering but not quite pottering, graying but not yet decaying Dimsomaniacs and Fraggophiles flush with what little anticipation is possible in middle age, having forsaken pay that, this being the United States, may be more hard boiled than hard earned, for an evening in a darkened room to hear music doomed to be damned by the absence of essence but not, thankfully, the presence of pheasants.

We have gasped as so Our Mighty One endured the craven violations of Those Who Do Not Know and Those Who Assume They Are Not Known and Those Who Flash and Those Who Steal and Those Who Ask What’s the Big Deal; and Those Who  Can’t Shut Up and Those Who Really Should Sit Down; and Those Who Boot and Those Who Poot and Those Dumb Enough to Ask Norbert to Autograph Items That Only Remind Him of How He Was Screwed Out of His Royalties.

And we heard our noisily suffering hero, a Fragg so battered and sore, flee behind the dressing room door, and implore, with both feet on the floor: "Nevermore!"

We have cringed as the dastardly music press tarred our Norbert as an English reproductive organ that rhymes with ick, and a piece of German luggage (a Deutsch bag? Vas isht doss?), and not because of the quality of his performance, but because Norbert graciously placed himself and his fabulously photogenic Pillar of Winkly Twinkly Electronic Magesty in such a location as to permit a fully visible performance for each and every belfry bat and fly-on-the-wall, not to mention those small, twitchy, flea-infested rodents common to small venues, who, upon scenting the ossifying ozone and tell-tail aroma of refried repertoire, freely strut and fret their hour on the stage, and are soon gone.

Finally, we have watched Norbert face the music, as it were, and give himself permission to be pissed. What was the result of this emotional micturition?

A bout of doubt. Having produced (or been a vehicle for the production of) so much superbly necessary music, and having lived more years than Shakespeare, Norbert Fragg once again directed his gaze past the Cheap Seats to the very Gates of Paradox, asked the Powers That Be why the hell he was making music in the worst of all possible worlds.

And, verily, that Power of Powers, who, from his Most Exalted Height (where a very good view of the performing Fragg was also possible, once one gazed past the bats) didth gazeth down upon the Suffering, Summarily Pissedeth but neither Puissant or Pissant, Fragg, and spaketh unto him:"Cela est bien dit, respondit Candide, mais il faut cultiver notre jardin." ("Excellently observed," Candide replied, "but let us cultivate our garden."--François-Marie Arouet "Voltaire")

And thus Norbert Fragg went home and did that very thing.