In the corner farthest from the music, Charlie Chaplin and Martin Luther King whisper and nod, their gazes drawn to the floor and past the floor.
Danny Kaye with the lost elegance of Eastern European royalty charms Satchmo into their duet When The Saints Go Marching In. The addicts roll their eyes at the self-referential kitsch of the afterlife. The suicides join the conga line, especially kind to each other as they always are now.
Heaven changed Nina Simone more than anyone. The private lessons - first Mahler then Rachmaninoff -- were immersive. But she still thinks of Selma, more than Doctor King.
She takes the third chair with Chaplin and King during the intermission before Hendrix. She looks down too. She knows what she waits for. She waits for the women to rise.