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Wayne Krantz (g) James Genus (b) Josh Dion (d) Wayne Krantz, James Genus, and Josh Dion’s last set before the pandemic was the kind of night that could only happen in the West Village—intimate, electric, and just a little off-kilter. It had that late-night, underground vibe, like everyone in the room knew they were witnessing something special, but none of them had any idea how soon everything would come to a screeching halt. Krantz’s guitar was smooth and sharp, like a jazz virtuoso who’s been up all night at Cigar Box, playing with that delicate balance between confidence and chaos. Genus on bass held down the groove with that cool, in-the-pocket feel—like he’s strolling through Washington Square Park, not rushing anywhere, but always on time. And Dion? His drumming had the kind of relentless energy you get from the city itself—unpredictable, powerful, but with a sense of controlled madness. Then, as if the universe was giving its own little nod, the flashing police lights from outside started streaming through the windows, casting surreal blue and red streaks across the room, syncing up with the music in a way that felt a little eerie, a little prophetic. The vibe in the bar was so palpable you could almost feel the city’s pulse, like it was holding its breath, waiting for something. Nobody in that room knew it yet, but this was the last moment of "normal" before the world would flip upside down. And for one final night, they played like it was business as usual—but there was a quiet sense that this moment, this music, wouldn’t be repeated. It was a West Village sendoff to the pre-pandemic era, wrapped up in a groove, a flash of red and blue, and a collective sigh that nobody knew was coming