We were watching Mark Mothersbaugh play a solo gig at a very small venue upstate, maybe the dining room of a bed and breakfast. His name wasn’t his actual name in the dream, it was Phil I think, but it was that guy from Devo. He and his band played a set of four songs, each one long and distinctive and represented in a row abstract visual panels, maybe projected on the wall or maybe in my mind. When the set was over he declared he’d play them again in reverse order, and the panels were reversed. He did something else to them too, played them slower, or played them country, or something. S., J. and I were in an adjoining room but we could still hear. I went out into the main space to see. The crowd was mostly kids, as at a birthday party, and they were dancing in circles as kids might do. A few parents ringed the space. When the set was over everybody cleared out except the band taking down their gear. I looked for Phil. He approached me. I felt awkward to be prone in bed, in my bathrobe, as I was in real life. But he sat beside me, apparently not noticing. I was proud that here he was, talking to me. He addressed me with some familiarity, as though he’d seen me before and expected me to be there. He spoke sadly of a woman who’d just died, a musician. He assumed I knew who she was but I’d never heard her name, and felt foolish. I nodded solemnly. I wanted to tell Phil I’d seen him do that weird show at the New Music University—it was actually NYU, a few years ago—but I forgot his name was Phil. Was it Phil? It wouldn’t seem right to tell this anecdote without addressing him by name. We walked in silence through the room and I left to rejoin my family.