We don’t know how long we’ve been out here with the tumbleweeds and cacti. Maybe weeks, maybe years. We come to this spot every day in hopes that it will finally happen. You might even say we couldn’t get it out of our head. We stand on the desert floor and wait. And wait. And then we wait some more.

We’re waiting for Jeff Lynne.

Sure, other tours have come our way. Yesterday it was Savatage and Ray Davies and today it’s Jeff Black. We ask them if they’ve seen him. We stand in this desert amidst the chaparral and a strange magic overtakes us. We cry out, “Jeff! Don’t bring us down! Rescue us before we turn to stone!” But does he listen? Does he care?

And so we wait.

Sometimes late at night we look out over these desert dunes and we think we can see him. Sometimes we gaze into the arid sky and we think we see his spaceship, that famous Frisbee-like disk with ELO emblazoned on the top like a fire on high. But as Madame Night turns into Mr. Blue Sky, we find ourselves alone.

And so we wait.

“Ticket sales were soft,” says the grapevine. “They couldn’t provide the high-tech production that the fans expect” goes the buzz on the telephone line. We’re told that there are other bands, like Weezer and Slipknot, but they might as well be on that last train to London, for those tours are not Jeff Lynne.

And so we wait.

What could have happened? You don’t suppose Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds or Southern Culture On The Skids ganged up on him and challenged him to a showdown? You don’t suppose the cops arrested him for rolling over Beethoven? You don’t suppose he was waylaid by an evil woman? You don’t suppose we’ll run out of ELO song titles before the end of this column?

Do ya?