Party Crasher


Strange But True Harp Stories

Someone was supposed to be there at the loading dock—that’s what the booking agent said. But after repeatedly punching the intercom unit with no reply, I knew I wouldn’t be entering through these particular State House bowels.

Phoning the booking agent yielded no assistance—his part was done and over. Left on my own to find an alternate entrance, I reload the harp and back out dangerously fast, speeding through a parking garage gate. Rounding the corner, I spot a wide berth of glass doors through which a very well-dressed group of individuals is marching in. I pull up short, grab my bag, bench, and music stand, and follow them.

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