This Way Out

It would be interesting to follow Terence Winch around for a day or a month or as long as one could to see what neighborhood he lives in, what world he inhabits. It must be much like the one the rest of us live in, yet slightly different, slightly off kilter, a little larger or dimmer or looser than places the rest of us live. The people he meets and dances with and talks to and drinks with are almost like the people the rest of us know, but not quite. One might have the impression of being forced to look at things through the lines on tri-focal lenses, so nothing is quite in focus and it seems one is seeing two images as once. There is trickery in this place, or maybe just in Winch’s words. That must be it. It’s his words—the choices he makes, the syntax he uses, the humor that is always present but only sometimes apparent. His vision of The Cows is nothing short of, well, wild-haired genius. Band Practice his way can only happen after 3:00 am. There’s something here for everyone, but only if everyone knows where to look.