The atmosphere of 1921 America was a time of contrast and contradictions. On one hand, the country was still recovering from the devastation of World War I and the flu pandemic that followed, and many were struggling with economic hardship and social upheaval. On the other hand, there was a sense of optimism and innovation in the air, as people looked to the future with hope and excitement. The Roaring Twenties were a time of prosperity and excitement, with jazz music, speakeasies, and flappers making headlines and redefining the cultural landscape.

Working at Swingin’ Set, a jazz club located within the scene of Salt Lake City, Dallon was usually in good spirits. He was a singer at the club, and Dallon had a penchant for jazz ballads. But he also appreciated the culture shift, the magnetic appeal of jazz transcending—albeit more limited than his progressiveness sought—certain racial barriers of the time through shared musical interest.

But cursed, mean ol’ moon. Every ounce of warmth was taken away from him right now and replaced with a cold beam. Dallon was heartbroken with how his long-standing relationship ended. So, he took to blaming other things for his heartbreak. Even if it was impossible. Even if all he had left to blame was the moon outside.

Dallon stood close to the microphone delicately in his hand and propped by a stand, his body leant over slightly as he sang. He wore a ritzy suit, and his hair was neatly slicked back, but singing slow and melancholic ballads didn’t improve the gloom that hovered like a cloud over him. But he wanted to stay there singing, and maybe he would forget that he would go home and be alone. But that mean ol’ moon would still be there until he finally learned to confront his feelings.