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It was a clear and cool Friday evening in Manchester, England, the streets still full of summer light at twenty minutes past seven. In front of me, in an orderly queue that stretched down the pavement in front of the Palace Theatre, were two teen-age boys wearing T-shirts and jeans. They were engaged in a comic routine: after glancing at the theatre's marquee, they would look at each other and repeat a carefully stressed mantra, "We are going to an OP-er-ah, an OP-er-ah." When I asked the boys why they were going to an OP-er-ah, one, lunging forward and placing himself in front of his friend, as if there were television cameras trained on him, replied, "It's Damon out of ...