As hundreds of people descended on Salem, Mass to ogle the gewgaw shops, take the Hocus Pocus tour, have their tarot cards read, I boarded the train to North Station and arrived at Boston Common around 11:30AM. Demonstrators, streaming in from everywhere, formed a huge gathering on the parade ground. A hundred yards from the large stage I found a shady spot on a hill just below a tall Civil War monument, and waited. Thirty minutes later, Boston No Kings got off to a bad start.

The sound system was (and remained) buggy. The MC’s were disorganized, and found it difficult to cadence a rousing chant. One fellow, likening himself to a young Al Sharpton, leaned heavy on flamboyant bluster. In a raspy voice he shouted endless cliched riffs. Well intentioned, I thought, but unbefitting the occasion. Brother, a word of advice: Keep your day job. Drink plenty of fluids. Get plenty of sleep.

I’m sorry to say the initial music acts caused the hair on the back of my neck to wilt. They were childish really, but thanks to the unreliable sound system you could barely hear them; a blessing, since one silly act begat another.

For the adults in the crowd, a spoken word rapper appeared to wail whatever unconscious signals popped into his head. Reeling off his sonic rhymes, there were far too many, he could have been cited for SUI— Shrieking Under the Influence. Next up, a mismatched duo crooned soul ballads so off key Marvin Gay would have blushed himself invisible. Two misguided lads performed what can only be called Calypsofied Gospel. The delicate military phrase “What the fuck, over?” came to mind. A high-spirited young woman led a choir of high schoolers in a call and response number better suited for Sesame Street Gone Wild. What were the organizers thinking when they assembled this menagerie? Where was Buffalo Springfield’s rousing “For What It’s Worth,” or David Bowie’s magnificent “This Is Not America?”

During one of many lulls between the wearisome acts some enlightened soul released a store bought caricature balloon of Donald Trump. As the aerial monstrosity ascended skyward, in a rare moment of unity, the crowd unleashed a magnificent cheer. As I stood there, waiting fruitlessly for the continuous electric moment which occurs in successful massed gatherings, a tall slim youth bearing a handmade banner attached to a long wooden stick passed by. Instead of the ubiquitous memes or illustrated slogans affixed to cardboard, this elegant fellow had one resounding message, “Revolution.”

All through the first lifeless hour the several hundred people around me on the shaded hill were impressively patient, applauding politely the middling music, the less than skilled speakers. Occasionally the audio system perked up, an MC found his cadence timing, the crowd roared in reply. But then the vitality lapsed, and whatever energy had manifested swiftly petered out.

Finally Boston Mayor Michelle Wu spoke; her dignified words, infused with feeling, lifted everyone’s spirit. But then, sadly, came more agonized music, and I realized that instead of a political rally meant to uplift, to unify and focus our mass attention on what needs to be done and how to do it, for two hours I’d been standing in the middle of an amateur talent show desperately short on actual talent. Enough, I thought. I’m hungry. I have to pee. It’s time to head out.

I walked fifty yards, reconsidered, and retraced my steps back to the tall, impressively phallic Civil War monument, upon which a half dozen young people had managed to establish themselves triumphantly on its upper ledge. In front of the monument were an impromptu team of trumpet players and drum beaters, who made excellent music as an excited and ever changing crowd looked on. Nearly everyone held signs, and several people masqueraded in inflatable frog, chicken and dinosaur outfits. I grinned with delight as colorful dinosaurs frolicked with pastel chickens, and was mesmerized by the sight of a long-haired, cheerfully bleary-eyed old man who danced a graceful, teetering wavy dance, hula-hand motioning to passerby to come join him. Was he stoned? Drunk? A retired hippie reliving his youth? All the above? He was fascinating.

I found a spot and stood there, taking it all in: the dashing lead trumpet player keeping up his sterling rhythm. The wiggling inflatable people, the old hippie, the gleeful passing parade of young and old demonstrators, all so spontaneously alive, so opposite the well-intentioned but dreary performances filling the main stage. There was no instructive rousing here, yet for twenty minutes, before moving on, I at least enjoyed a continuous electric moment.

Had I stayed another hour, I would have heard Senator Markey and Senator Warren give their respective speeches. Once home, I watched them online. Markey was faultlessly uplifting. Warren, perhaps less so, but together they inspired.

The organizers of Boston No Kings—ACLU, Mass 5051, Indivisible—had months to prepare the October rally. Yet even with its sizable crowd, never mind the dreadful music, the event seemed a missed opportunity. As Julie Carrie Wong has written in The Guardian, “There are very good reasons to hold family friendly protests away from the threat of riot cops, but different contexts require different tactics….Without the implicit threat of state violence, without the bravery of offering up a comically unprotected body as a target for real violence, tactical frivolity can devolve into little more than entertainment.”

Clowning, she says, is a de-escalatory tactic, and de-escalating ICE, DHS and National Guard violence directed at immigrants and other maligned groups is required, but is it the right tactic for nationwide protests against Trump? Put your inflatables on the line to peacefully disrupt violent ICE deportations, but be prudent when using tactical frivolity.

“When millions of people take to the streets demanding that our leaders and institutions stop capitulating, the message should not be mistaken for anything other than deadly serious.”

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