Daniel Holt's skeptical eyes scanned just beyond his audience as though they were ants and he was a giant. His chest puffed rooster-like, and he could have crowed but growled instead. "You're good at being bad, you're bad at being good," Frank Ocean sang, and Holt's sturdy posture unsettled into a threatening undulation incited by the cynical turn of his wrist. His feet lingered between first position and parallel in their own confused scurry until finally, his torso flew backwards in three violent episodes. With chilled stoicism, a finger reached the tip of his tongue like the barrel of a gun that had found its victim.
The music stopped. Hearts stopped. Holt paused but didn't stop because he had to bow and prove that it was only a performance, that he would wake up tomorrow and rehearse the same solo for his next gig.