East London, Sunday afternoon. I am at a custom-built concert hall with thousands of people including eight members of my family, for ABBA Voyage. After the hit, ‘Dancing Queen’, the whole place erupts. My eighty-year-old father whoops; my sister-in-law claps, and my five-year-old niece bounces in her seat. My husband, however, sits rigid and still. He won’t move a limb. It is because the singers are not the flesh-and-blood ABBA he grew up with but avatars, projected likenesses. The only r...
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