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Upon entering the Bloody Rose club, the sight that greeted them was a large dance hall filled with a lightly swaying crowd on the carved marble floor. As cultural entertainment was still in its nascent stages, the arts were akin to wobbly infants crawling, without the kind of music that could stir one's blood to a passionate fervor.
However, the music that enveloped the scene had reached another extreme, an ethereal percussion sound, resembling the noise of rainwater striking stones. At times it was a gentle drizzle, at others a heavy downpour. In this performance, there were melodious howls, devoid of tune or lyrics, the most primitive of cries. You could feel the wildness and brusqueness within, the origin of language.
