Monday, May 23, 2005

Electronic Fantasies



I have this insatiable urge to knee hop around Europe as a vagabond musician of the electronic ilk. Instead of a case carrying my acoustic guitar, three doobers in my pocket; I am a sheik, young, straggly haired Netherlander with a record satchel, one pair of black jeans, half a pack of Dunhill lights, and a t-shirt sporting a picture of headphones on the chest area. This is vital: every up and coming youth euro-trashy DJ needs a shirt with headphones on the chest. And the Dunhill’s.

And I’m fabulous; the girls from Spain flock around my booth after my set becomes a dereliction of the past, relegated to the realm of DJ history. Those Andalusian’s, their black hair and midmorning blue eyes. It is a pity my Castilian is imperfect (no pun intended: seya, seyas seya, seyemos, seyais, seyan. Repeta en esponol ninitos…) because I would spout off Llorca to these club bunnies and seal the deal. But alas, my records get around better than I do. A mud stuck needle spin, a beat and an on/off switch.

I meet this girl in a hostel in Amsterdam; her hair green and paisley –don’t ask- and she sings when she speaks. I told her I didn’t speak sing, and she just laughed, a singy laugh. We ate cornbread at a small bakery and smoked hashish at Lobo’s on Avenue 10th. The cornbread was too sweet, nothing like a Tallahassee mother’s dry loaf, grit knit, with the ham hock juice pre soaked into the griddle. Her name was Martha, she belted in Dm7. I didn’t know that chord, so I fled to Austria.

…Where I find out that the Love Parade is cancelled. What good is it being a Bohemian DJ youth in Europe, when you can’t attend the one million+ person rave, held street side, day/night/repeat. Those damn Prussian descendants, they certainly know how to make a stiff beat. The only thing anal about the German DJ’s are their boyfriends…

And then to Istanbul, to catch a standing room only set by the illustrious, world traveled Sasha, who at this very moment sported a T-shirt with a picture of a young John Digweed on it. They were separated at spin, and the process is one that often finds backsliding record-envy lusting. But my electro-wanderlust takes me through the gate to the Middle East, onto the heart of Zion, Israel.

My gentile heart beats three BPM’s faster in the land where sand can be sold to outsiders for serious sheckles. If the dirt is holy, you should hear the beats. Never have I seen so many red heads, outside my 8 months in Ireland. But this is different, Irish wield bottles, these chosen few yield holy headcovers.

I hightail it through the Mediterranean, slowing my roll long enough to get lost in the Balearic region, making a pit stop on Ibiza. Cut to Spanish girls, this time thans-clothes, con-drugath, and with a true affinity for euro-y Bohemian type DJ’s. I pull out my subtle sultry set, Spanish Guitars, Savath, Savalas, so sweet. Sandy skin, soda bread sliced waist, saddle lips and sad eyes; their gate with the pain of the last Moorish king- expelled. Nonetheless, they wield a madruga de passion, temblaban con anticipation, un kilometro de pleasure. Drug use is on the rise for youth’s age 19 to 25 in Europe? Tonight it might.

But nothing can shake from me still the simple pleasure of conversing with those sweet young folk in Brixton, England, who like cadaver’s wait coldly in the mire while I infuse bloodwarmth into their blue veins; my beats the antibody to rigor mortis. A castle and a glade wait anciently behind my cigarette laden mouth, the pondering spirits of royalty toying with eternity, all while a breakbeat collapses into a tireless breakdown, only to build itself back again, and again. I see mile high turrets flanking my heavenly high view, and meadows filling in the gaps of vision. OH GREEN! Fields of hallow nature stock, untouched by the meaninglessness of the universe.

And then I travel home, to that Nether land beyond the spirit’s realm. Home of nether kindred and sole soul’s. I think of king’s and divest thoughts of snowy northlands to Ibiza heat Emblazoned on my mind. But I find a Nether Kindred, by the name of Inga, who speaks my Nether Language, and sees where the needle has pierced my vinyl. She asks me questions about my journeys to heathen lands, to Zion, and to the foreverandeverness of the tomorrow lands. She says to me “I want to be a firefly to real passion. What is some random night of excitement you crave?”

And to her I simply reply “To spin the vinyl; an accord to passion, forever for a moment, in the sound’s groove- the wake of deep blue waters, the color of Southern Sun, the contemplation of perfection in a moment, the dream of true connection, the infinity of green pastures, flanked by castles and turrets, leaving a sight of the heavens narrowly emblazoned in the center of my view.
And the track plays the words out- the narcotic drumbeat and Elysium synthesizers destined to fade back into the finite marrow of the world limbs.

1 Comments:

At 7:20 AM, July 25, 2005, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Who is Inga, Barko, you Adamesque namer? Is she real or fictional? Do you know a woman who is a "firefly to real passion" or is she a fantasy?

 

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