I begin to see water drops splashing on the plastic tape recorder wheels. Drowsy people look up as two more latecomers arrive. Part of the plastic film on the floor has air under it, making a transparent breathing mound as the plastic membrane responds to air currents. Leonard is wearing his performance costume, tie-dyed jeans and an oversized white lab coat. He adjusts the tubes on the bottles to allow the water drops to fall more rapidly. 2/4, the bottles sway slightly. Harold Johnson moves to the empty space and begins to dance slowly. Ray Brenner is falling asleep. I get up and dance with Harold. Ray snores, People giggle. Leonard and the water sounds continue. Leonard closes the tubes one by one until there are no more drips to sound. He plays a pre-recorded tape for Part Two: a collage of popular songs which mention rain. It is a silly musical pasteup in complete contrast to the quiet concentration of Part One. It is brief and lets us know that moments come and go. The environment remains to remind us of a musical experience we can remember later on, long after the enthusiastic applause stops and the curious heads Iift their ears out of Ellis' water drums. Weeks later fragments of audio-visual poetry reappear when I wash my hands or pass the rows of empty trash cans along the city streets. Yes, the rain makes beautiful music in Southern California, when Leonard Ellis is the rainmaker.