At four in the morning, the Red Room begins to throb. The coalescence of sound and light, leaves tangible arcs of matter suspended in the air around us. These ephemeral creatures take hours to dissipate and dance on our retinas for days afterwards. We hang from our bottles of Fink as if they've been cemented in space, and we've snagged on them accidentally like so many novelty balloons caught in the rafters of Waterloo Station. There is only one law that propels us, the Old Law, our private mantra - One Song-One Song. He follows her then it's him then it's me, the genre simple enough to define. I call it electrotechnohiphoptwostepdubstepdancehallgrimeandthattunehemadeonabletonlive. Strcprstskrskrk, it's your song.
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6 comments:
the *genre* made you chuckle? - jeez, you should hear some of the tunes.
Now there´s a fine strapping lad in the full flush of all that is good about life - tunes, fink, stripy tops and that more-goth-than-goth 5am glow.
Wish I could remember what *killer* tune I was about to play, though.
I wish I could remember much more about that night than what's in that picture
I see a man in need of a round of handshakes with Plzen's finest pork products. Bring on the bacon, bastard sons.
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