(a.k.a. Dancing to the End of Love)
This dance must have been written by a man.
Or men, if you look at the liner notes its a collaboration between two Israelis, Inbal Pinto and Avshalom Pollack.
So it starts with a single electric light bulb. And a group of people waiting for a train, or waiting for Godot.
Men start launching themselves horizontally and are caught mid-flight by other men. They bump and tangle forming a beast with six legs and two faces. Two women watch, wafting on the slightest breeze.
Then the star of our dance enters, carrying a suitcase. Weighed down by the weight of it all. But the suitcase contains the great mystery, and all the dancers must examine it when it is opened. Then when the protagonist lays down to sleep after his labor, his psychedelic dreams are revealed to all.
Then he's caught in a tangle of chairs. Maybe office chairs. Marx never liked assembly lines, even in this dance. His future lover becomes separated from her woman, also on a chair. The separated women becomes carried away in the embrace of three men, switching from one to another. Like I said, this dance must have been written by a man.
Then the star of our dance, still entangled by the bourgeois chairs, is embraced by his future lover. She interlaces her self around his neck in an embrace that suggests tenderness and submission. Like I said, this dance had to be written by a man. Our star then takes a seemingly endless walk on top of a conveyor belt of chairs with his lover draped around him. Such is the life of a factory worker.
All this leads to the seemingly poignant happy ending. Our star, still supporting his new lover, watches with admiration as his new lover, still embracing him, reaches up to extinguish the single electric bulb.
Like I said, this dance had to be written by a man.
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