The orchestra, led by a frizzy-haired peroxide blonde, meanders through the lapsed tunes thrown together in the mix master overture. To anyone my age, at least, there is still a certain wistful persuasion in their obviousness, like tinkling notes half heard across a lake on a summer afternoon. “Lucky in love, lucky in love, whu-ut else madders if you’re lucky in love?” “The sunbeams that shi-ine, they’re yours they’re mine.” Then, with a warning wail like a fire alarm from the saxophones, the orchestra thumps into “The Varsity Drag”:
Here is the drag,
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