Paul Constant

Next to the fountain at Cal Anderson Park, someone with a saxophone plays "Charge!"—doo doo doo DOO doo DOO!—and, as if in response, a man with a tuba walks over Teletubby Hill. From the other end of the park comes the drum corps. There's an air of excitement for the first big public showing of Orkestar Zirkonium, a Balkan-influenced brass marching band. The majoratrix, a bold young lady with a faux-fur coat and jaunty red hat, waves her pirate flag and we march up the hill, playing a cartoonish song, roughly 30 people strong.

Satellite Lounge is the first bar we burst into. The horn section plays two spirited klezmer tunes while dancing around each other. People climb on tables and shout along with the music, and the nonmusicians invite everyone in the bar to march with us. We head up to the Elysian and do the same thing, and then down the street to Comet Tavern, playing all the while.

The majoratrix guides the band into Pike/Broadway QFC, and they play a joyous song through the aisles, around the produce department, and then out. "You're the best majoratrix in history," I swoon. "Thanks," she giggles. "It's my first time." By the time we march down Pike Street into Six Arms, where the band takes over the mezzanine, there are well over a hundred of us, and we've all got stupid smiles plastered on our faces and most of us aren't even drunk yet. Dancing in the streets will do that to you.

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