A random and colorful group of street performers are posing on the sidewalk in Sniffen Court, a residential alley off New York’s East 36th Street. What appears to be a dwarf in a light gray suit (or conceivably, if less likely, a small boy) is dancing energetically, Dylan like, only with two hands ‘waving free’. A stout circus strongman dressed fetchingly in an over tight black singlet and loose zebra-striped sarong is raising above his head what we must imagine to be a dumbbell as the view we have is cut off at wrist height.

Above the dwarf-child a white-faced man in a dark suit is juggling a number of red balls, his features screwed into a mask of intense concentration. Behind these figures another dark suited man concentrates on supporting a leotarded figure whose body is arced in a swallow dive as he balances precariously in mid air. At the rear of the group a straw-hatted man is stood to attention, arms raised as he solemnly plays a trumpet, for all the world as if he were alone and all around him non-existent.

Not all these people are actual street performers: I am reliably informed through my research that the photographer’s assistant is standing in as a juggler while the musician is a passing cab driver who is earning five dollars for his artistic contribution.

The curious scene I am describing is that shown on an old album cover I have propped up in front of me as I write, one which I loved when it came out and still fills me with nostalgia: Strange Days, by The Doors, recorded and issued in 1967.