Subject: Rave Olympics
Date: Tue, 20 June, 2011 17:43:34 + 1000 (EST)
From: Rak Razam <email@example.com>
To: It's a Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild World<W6W@piratenet.com>
We were about 50k's past Maree when we saw the first convoy of phreaks
heading out to the Earthdream party, a motley, rainbow caravan of dust
encrusted buses and camper vans, VW's and Bedfords, ferals, travellers
and urban hedonists pirating the airwaves with their digital mantras,
blanketing the quiet earth along the Oodnadatta Track and generally
funking shit up. The big vans and buses were crowned with giant
inflatable objects like bananas and mangoes and blazoned with
anti-uranium logos and activist stickers. We'd been getting reports on
the CB radio for days, up and down the coast from every direction -
these Psy-Trance Cowboys had been rustling the forgotten monuments of
the 20th Century from quiet country towns and tying them to the roofs of
their vehicles like scalps, plastic totems cannibalised from the Giant Ram,
the Giant Koala, the Giant Pineapple, the Giant Homogenised Icons of
White Middle Class Prosperity.
Now here they were all in a row like floats in a post-Apocalyptic
pagan love parade, cruising through the desert at high speed and kicking
up a storm. Yessir, they were riding their groove boxes onto the high
frontier, layered in bass and in search of a WAY COOL PLACE where
everybody can DO Their Own Thing.
"Fuck me gently with ze chainsaw," Bridges said from the back of the van
as we were overtaken by a double decker schoolbus with an inflatable
Godzilla on the roof and gaggle of stoned Germans hanging out the
windows waving. "Now there's something you don't see every day." She was
right. I'd never seen Germans so friendly before. Something was definitely up.
"See if you can get a shot of them on the handy-cam," I shouted over
the rattle of the van as we went over a pothole and everything lurched up
into the air. We had a cache of the latest Ultra-Tech in the back to
film the party - and the Gamez - and provide a continuous internet
uplink for the rest of the world. This was the twelfth Earthdream
Desert Dreaming Festival and the prelude to next year's global chakra
cleansing ritual cum raveageddon. Phine phreaks and klued in people of every
shape and hue were gathering together, nomad tekno adventures from all the
12 Trybes flowing into a rainbow mix snaking it's way through the red earth.
We'd brought the latest Mitsubishi micro-camera contact lenses but the
dust and the bumps along the Oonandatta Track wouldn't let me use
either. The idea was to provide digital downloads over sensechips to the
viewers at home - you would see, hear, smell, touch, and taste whatever
the live reporter is sensing. At the moment it was some A-grade skunk we'd
picked up 800ks back in Adelaide and a mild case of sunstroke from the
"Got 'zem," Bridges pronounced in her singsong Israeli-American
accent. "Lovely establishing shot with ze buses elongating across ze
horizon at dusk." I suppose you want to know what she looks like. I
would, and since we haven't got the equipment working properly yet, I'll
have to describe everything for you.
My assistant, Bridges, is like somebody's sassy little sister gone the
way of the urban disco feral. Enough piercings on her face to set off an
airport metal detector. Dredds wax perfect, dyed blue and red and black.
Big brown eves layered in cheap Killer Loop imitation sunglasses.
Handmade firestick and a bottle of Kerosene and Citronella by her side.
Indian pants from Chakra or Ishkar. Black puffy jacket with a Chinese
Dragon feng-shuing its way across the back. Dusty Monster Boots with six
inch moulded plastic heels. She's also the best damn camera woman this
side of the Nullarbor and can roll perfect joints while driving the van
and mixing MP3's on the Diamondback decks at the same time. Not only
that, but she's the only one who knows now to pilot the ultralight
glider. I'm all legs when it comes to flying.
"Start narration, take one - Earthdream 2011." I'm recording on my built
in throat mike that sends data pulses to our Apple Mac G12 laptop, auto
remixes credits and soundtrack over the footage Bridges is shooting and
transmits the final package via our satellite dish on the roof. We
broadcast pirate transmissions into the world datasphere and get a nice
little pay per view package from inphomation junkies all over the place.
"Welcome to the Middle of Nowhere and another edition of 'It's a Wild
Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild World'. I'm your host, Rak Razam, reporting
live from Lake Eyre in South Australia, where the 12th annual RAVE
OLYMPICS is getting into gear as part of the Earthdream Desert Dreaming
Festival. Contestants are hightailing it through the sunburnt earth of
the Australian Outback after a surreal Scavenger Hunt from coast to
coast, bringing with them fabulous kitsch items of yesteryear as decor
for the Gamez. As we pass the famous Mutoid Waste windmill flower
sculpture, gateway to the desert circus, geodesic DOMEZ the colour of
old Coca-Cola bottles litter the landscape, filtering out UV light. The
DOMEZ take advantage of the coolness of the earth to condense water from
the atmosphere at night to grow plants and shade the soil during the
day, thus encouraging further water collection. It's hoped that the
retention of water by this means will eventually, by transpiration,
create a changed local climate and encourage rainfall. Fluro-canvassed
teepees are also going up with heraldic flags billowing in the wind like
Tibetan prayers. Renegade soundsystems are banging out the latest
Neo-tekno tunes from car stereos and speakers as revellers and the Raverati
start shaking their juju and getting into the groovy."
I put the van on cruise control and let the automatic pilot system scan
the terrain in full 3D topography. It carefully threads our way around
the perimeter of the camping grounds, letting Bridges pan across and
film everything as we go. A beautiful feral family with bones through
their noses and clad in animal skins look up from their camp and smile
as we pass. They've got a fire going in the heat of the day and are
cooking what appears to be a giant turkey all stretched out and
ginormous. It has to be one of the new genegineered ostriches that run
wild in these part. I nudge Bridges and she turns from filming a group
of Swedes with blond angel dredds trailing down their backs to shoot the
bird on the spit.
"The black and red and yellow sunned Aboriginal flag is flying proudly
from the Keepers of Lake Eyre's Permanent Autonomous Zone headquarters
on the main track. The local Arabunna people welcome all travellers and
revellers who respect and revere the earth and thousands of people have
turned out in what appears to be the biggest Earthdream festival yet.
There's vans and buses and cars and tents all around, surrounded by
tacky, giant inflatable totems that everyone has brought, like Easter
island heads recycled for the Nu Skool Mythology. Colossal SCHWAA aliens
and Smurfs, Gorillas and Koalas, paper mache Avatars of every
description litter the desert like a feral Las Vegas - the perfect fluro
As regular viewers already know, the RAVE OLYMPICS is a cross between
extreme sports and anacid inspired dadaist tournament. Contestants have
been battling it out in the desert since the inaugural contests in 2000
designed to counterpoint the Spectacle of the mainstream Olympics,
beleaguered by bribery and drug scandals and gross economic
exploitation. Where the Greeks invented the Olympic Torch, the Ravers
have the inevitable Olympic Scoobie - a giant joint over a meter long
that's passed in relay from person to person in a long and mellow
opening ceremony. When everyone's toked on the peace pipe and unable to
move, the Gamez begin. Giant props have been cyberfitted from the old tv
show, 'It's a Knockout' with trampolines and slides, giant barrels and
fluro sackraces soundtracked with thumping industrial bush musik.
Contemporary events include Sumosuit Wrestling, Doof Twister,
Firewirling, Drum-Offs and the cream of the crop, Robo-Ostrich Racing.
The only rules to the Gamez are that they have to be FUN."
Bridges zooms in on a helium filled blimp, moulded in the shape of a
golden frog with black swirls, the totem of the Psycoroborree crew in
the Mini-Blimp Nerfjousting event. And cut. Perfect.
"What'd you think?"
"Just ze right touch of crass," Bridges replies.
Subject: Rave Olympics
Date: Wed, 21st June, - 2011 12:00:05 + 1000 (EST)
From: Rak Razam <firstname.lastname@example.org>
To: It's a Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild World<W6W@piratenet.com>
It was a dry wind and it crept across the desert at noon. It was a nice
28 degrees by the SONY palmpilot's built in thermostat. Winter in the
outback. Bridges and I have taken to the air for a better view of the
proceedings. I have a tequila hangover from hell. Bridges looks perfect,
as always, the curse of youth. Our ultralight is a converted golf green
lawnmower with two seats and a built-in 16 horsepower engine. A pink and
white striped parachute like those used in paragliding puffs out above
us for our wings. "Get a load of THAT," she says, pointing to a long flat
stretch of desert north of the main camp. The Barrelfull of Monkeys Crew
have rolled out the world's longest Twister set, over 100 metres of
plastic Twister mats sewn together into a patchwork tapestry of red,
yellow, green and blue dots. Like the dance till you drop contests in
the 1930's, contestants are doofing on the spot while twistering in the
world's most bizarre endurance test. Human pretzels twisted into absurd
contortions abound. I've got the Mitsubishi mini-cam contacts in over my
bloodshot eyes and am recording streaming footage of the activity down
below. Ravers in spring loaded kangaroo boots bound across the flat
desert terrain, bouncing a good three feet into the air.
To the north a crew of pale English travellers in sunhats are grappling
with giant plastic marbles around a circle as big as football field.
From the air I can see there's no sense of strategy; the eight foot
marbles are simply heaved by teams at other marbles that go ricocheting
into one another and across the flat terrain. "Take her down for a
closeup," I shout over the whine of the engine as we divebomb the
players. Bose speakers embedded in the doors turn on and broadcast
cheesy old movie soundtracks to cover the sound of the motor.
"Up. Down. Flying Around. Looping the Loop and Defying the Ground.
They're ALL so frightfully keen' those magnificent men in, magnificent
men in'magnificent men in their FLYYIIIING MA-CHINES."
The English all look up and cheer as we pass over. A giant marble
skittles across the desert from the opposing team like a tumbleweed and
bowls them mercilessly to the ground. The clouds hang low and lazy,
hugging the earth, the sky a deep blue like the colour of peoples' eyes
in the movie Dune. Bridges lights a joint and pulls the ultralight up
into the blue.
"Day Two and it's the Winter Solstice here in the Southern Hemisphere.
Thousands of tek-heds from all over the world have come together to
dance the longest night and feel the pulse of the earth here near her
heart chakra. Sunlight glints off solar panelled vans and buses and
catches on the metal blades of miniature windmill generators fixed to
the roofs. The earth is red and flat all around. The flies are
ubiquitous and you swallow at least three a day unless you shut your
mouth and open your eyes. Down below they're putting up the doof, tekno
style. Mutoid Waste madman Robin Cook is testing the old giant fire
blasters for the party tonight. They're four cyclical metal pillars
arranged around the perimeter of the dirt dancefloor as an elemental
anchor that let off belches of flame in perfect syncopation with the
bass. The infamous Tekno Ostrich Races are all set up in a protective
bioplex ring in the middle of the dancefloor, racing right under the
giant fire towers. The genegineered birds stand about eight feet tall
and look like mutant turkeys with attitude. They've got the graceful
curved neck of the pink flamingo but are let down by legs as thick as
wrestlers on Megasteroids. They remind me of a one night stand I'd
rather forget." Cut.
Bridges elbows me in the ribs as the ultralight veers to the left over
Lake Eyre. There's a crew of full on Israeli tek-heds dancing up a storm
by the edge of the water. They're dressed in full body wetsuits laced
with smart fabrics that automatically adjust body temperature and sweat.
Their big Monster Boots are fully motorised piezio-electrical walking
devices that use the kinetic energy of the walker to power the hardware
- which in this case includes water pumps that send moisture and urine
back up through micro filters, making it safe for redrinking.
"Zey are ze Calvin Kleins of the desert!" Bridges quips as we zoom in
low over their heads.
"Hmmph. More like futro drug dealers."
Zem bootz is made for dancing and that's just what zey'll do. One of
these days zem boots is gonna walk all over you. Bootz - start dancing! she
sings, tilting the ultralight to and fro.
"Are you stoned and flying again?"
"It's ze only way to travel," she retorts.
I take a deep toke (for the sensechip viewers at home, of course) and
marvel at the desert terrain all around. We're sitting in a sea of blue
that stretches out forever, red earth and thumping bass reverberating
from below. With the telescopic enhancements built into the Mitsubishi
lenses I can see the broad outline of the electric fence over 60ks to
the west. Aerial schematics downloaded from a pirate satellite flow into
the SONY palmpilot as well as full telemetry of the area. I'm back
"I can see that the Pangea Mining Company and their private security
goons have the perimeter of the nuclear waste area, or the DUMP as it's
come to be called, sealed up tighter than a nun's proverbial. The
electric fence is twenty feet high and a concrete partition extends
under the earth another ten feet. It stretches over 100 square
kilometres and has to be one of the Seven Great Wonders of Corporate
Terrorism. Undisclosed tones of radioactive sludge are buried here, deep
in the Australian heartland, shitting on the sacred spots and burning
into Gaia's delicate biosphere."
Bridges gives me a look like I'm dangerously close to alienating our
sponsors, but fuck it, a journalist has to have some integrity, right?
And integrity's like virginity - you can only lose it once.
"New telemetry data's coming through, viewers. Switch to HYPERLINK mode
for live satellite feeds in infrared and eyespy frequencies for only
$1.95. Satellite images show deep thermal activity in the Forbidden Zone
around the DUMP. Looks like the Army's on manoeuvers again."
I cut the link and take another toke. The Military budget has blown
through the roof since the Republic of Australia started fortifying the
border from Indonesia and the flood of refugees.
"You know ze Vietcong used to play Nancy Sinatra tunes to ze G.I.'s in
ze field as a brainwashing technique. Ze same track over and over again
for days, echoing out over ze rice paddy fields and jungle till ze
G.I.'s snapped and broke zeir cover."
"What a coincidence they're permanently patrolling the area around the
DUMP," I muse.
"There's no such thing as coincidence," Bridges says, taking the joint
back off me.
Subject: Rave Olympics
Date: Wed 21st June, 2011 6:56:11+1000(EST)
From: Rak Razam <shazaman@netspace,net,au>
To: It's a Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild World <W6W@piratenet.com>
"It's four minutes to race time and some ultra smooth electro disco funk
is rippling out on a cloudless night. There's falling stars everywhere
and outside the ring thousands of full on doofers are getting down and
dirty to the beats. It's not quite a full moon, but state of the art
laser and holography techniques have lit up the sky anyway with moving
pixilated pictures. The giant , baktun glyphs of a Mayan calendar turn
lazily against the stars. Aboriginal Wandjina chalk men hundreds of feet
high groove like albino stick figures to the sound of a thumping 4/4
Psy-Trance beat. Even the ghosts are dancing. Indian, Mayan, Aborigine,
Hollywood - all the Old World kultures are represented on this swirling
maelstrom. Fluro string webwork hangs over the main dirt dancefloor in
sacred geometric patterns within patterns, fractaling inwards in a UV
mandala. The patterns are like phosphene imprints on the eyes that allow
viewers to find their own message and open up deeper connections. The DJ
arena is in a Cone of Silence like bubble made of aerogel plastic to
protect the decks from dust. The BPMs are tweaked to literally turn on
the crowd with their hypertrybal vibrational frequencies.
Surreal and absurd tekno sculptures transformed from urban junk litter
the landscape: gestalt car robots that rotate and move, Harmonic
Generator Coils that light up like the inside of an electric light bulb
but thousands of times as big and bright. When filmed at high speeds
they melt into a glowing double helix reminiscent of strands of DNA. The
tekno wizard himself , Robin Cook, sits at his giant Fire Organ with a
puckish grin on his face, playing the keyboard and creating musical
flame. As the fire rips up the tubes the organ lets out sound as tongues
of flame lick out. The tubes glow red and orange and then finally white
hot from the heat and have to be left a while to cool. Further out from
the centre, party shamen groove around four burning mechanical pillars
crowning the dirt dancefloor in more flames. Black light projectors
create hypnagogic patterns on the ground, flashing on and off in binary
streams. It's like a Christian Fundamentalists version of Hell crossed
with a tekno-pagan explosion.
Thousands of people are stomping on the earth, dressed in rainbow skins
and smiles. They've come in costume for a grande Masquerade and really
funked themselves out. Cybercrusties in the loudest SKINS known to
humankind dance alongside mutated performers in ultralight exoskeletons.
LCD threaded fabrics glitter and swirl animated GIF pictures across
countless bodies - the crowd has become a canvas. My brain wants to shut
down just looking at them. Oh, these wandering Sadhu fools, all of us in
different head spaces all the time, billions of possible permutations
fuelling the party, the look, the flavour, the KODAK MOMENTS."
And that's only scratching the surface of it. Bridges is dressed in her
Cyber-Sinderella outfit - black mesh tank top, evening gloves and veil
with thin strips of silver polymer strapped strategically round her body
like surgical gauze. She's datamining the crowd, interviewing a few
choice jewels while I get ready for the race. I pull her away from a
Maori warrior with full tribal tattoos etched across his body and
spilling up over his face. He smiles, revealing a set of metal teeth
like the villain in Moonraker.
"CACTUS?" Bridges repeats with a sly grin.
"Of course. When in Rome and all that. A full blown power lunch with
Mescalito is de rigeur for all desert journeys," I explain.
"The viewers at home expect only the finest experiences, Bridges," I
chastise. The Cactus has been on the boil all through the day since
dawn. It's viscous green-grey texture looks like snail roadkill mixed
with bitter phlegm and the taste is even worse - if you can get it down.
I did - barely, and the taste of Satan's ballsweat dogs my every breath.
"Just swallow this and chase if down with some lemonade," I say, handing
her a two litre water bottle half filled with green cactus discharge and
distilled juice "But you must be quick because I can already feel it
"Shame I've got no lemonade," she says and winks, chugging down the
juice. Her eyes ping open as a shudder visibly moves over her body.
"Oooh, zis is very, how you say, hot shit stuff!" She takes a big swig of
tequila from her hip flask and starts to sway a little.
"C'mon, I've got a race to call and you've got some cheating to do. The
fastest land mammals after the cheetah are waiting and you don't want to
make an ostrich mad. Those beaks are deadly, y'know."
The OSTRICHES are lined up and being groomed on the inside of the
bioplex ring that separates the dancefloor from the race track. The big
birds move like catwalk models, poised and taking delicate steps,
bobbing their long necks up and down as they go. They've all got phutro
names like a cross between racing dogs and Psy-Trance DJ's:
2>Frequency of Bliss
3>Tryptamine Meditation Ensemble
5>Chakra Flowers in Spring
9>Eden Hashish Centre
Human jockeys have been phased out to make way for hyperadvanced robo
Furbies - modified versions of the robotic kidz toy that talks and moves
and has a memory cache of 100GB. They look like hairy gremlins strapped
in their miniature saddles, gripping the reins with tiny motorised
hands. These lil'critters can be programmed to perform small chores
around the home and some smartarse has modified them to ride Ostriches.
They're remote controlled by contestants outside the ring, making it the
perfect sport for lazy, drug addled ravers. Bridges and I have cooked up
a little personality algorithm for our Robo-jockey based on 80's
testosterone movies. Basically, it reprograms them to think like Rambo,
Indiana Jones and the Terminator all rolled into one. It'll be the
perfect denouement to the Rave Olympics, but part of me worries that it
won't be long before they can do everything we used to, and on that day
humankind will be obsolete, replaced by a Japanese Tamabloodygimmick.
Fuck me, I'm getting maudlin.
The ostriches are doing the once round as their numbers are called and
they're weighed in. "Look closely at the ones that poop," I tell
Bridges. "They'll be lighter in the race and have an advantage over the
rest of the flock." As we watch, a few of the giant birds gingerly
release their droppings as they walk along. A gorgeous transsexual done
up as Madonna in her Sex phase comes and cleans it up with a little
broom and shovel.
"Her tits are better zen mine," Bridges pouts as I drag her to the DJ
booth where I'm calling the race from.
Everything's shimmering like the horizon at noon as the cactus comes on
strong. Just looking at the names of the birds makes me feel like I'm
tripping. Bridges is controlling her robo-jockey on ostrich number 7,
Feral Cheryl. We're filming on the handy-cam and cross linking with the
Furbie throughout the race. "Be a love and roll me a joint," I ask her
as the fire organ belts out a fiery clarion call and it's all happening,
hold onto your sanity, here we go!
"Okay, they're moving in and we're all ready for a start. They're at the
post'ready'there's the light - and they're OFF! Tron's Revenge is away
well followed by Ambient Head and White Noise, with Chakra Flowers in
Spring on the inside track close behind. In fifth place is Eden
Hashish Centre and Oscillating Wavefront, with Feral Cheryl and
Frequency of Bliss three lengths back and Tryptamine Meditation Ensemble
coming up the rear. Ambient Head has taken the lead by half a length
from Tron's Revenge at the turn of the field as White Noise, Chakra
Flowers in Spring and Oscillating Wavefront battle it out in the centre.
Across the track is Eden Hashish Centre skittling past Feral Cheryl and
Frequency of Bliss is back on the inside followed by Tryptamine
There's nothing finer than watching a flock of 8-foot-high, 350 pound
flightless birds being piloted by small robot jockeys while on
mescaline. Colours shift and swirl as angles distort and everything
takes on a strange kind of surreal logic. Robin Cook's going OFF on the
fire organ, playing some thumping deep bass that's being picked up by
radio receivers and broadcast over the local area. People are listening
to the race and the doof as far away as Port Augusta. I tap into the
Mitsubishi lenses for a second to see what the viewers at home are
seeing and am bombarded with cyber edged speed line manga visuals
breakbeating and slipping all over the place. Optic nerves pinch and
zoom as the digital camera in the Furby's eyes relay the race from a
bird's eye view roadrunnering across the simmering desert terrain,
kicking up clouds of dust as they pass under the fire pillars on the
edge of the dancefloor. Roadrunner the coyote's after you. Roadrunner.
When he catches you you're through.
"Tron's Revenge is coming down the straight and behind him Chakra
Flowers in Spring. Two lengths back is Ambient Head followed closely by
White Noise and *LOOK OUT* here comes Frequency of Bliss up the side -
she's zarting fre and fro and look out for the beak on that one, she's
plenty mad today! And Oscillating Wavefront and Tryptamine Meditation
Ensemble are fighting it out in the middle as they go round for the
final lap. Eden Hashish Centre is trying to get up the side and two
lengths away at the rear is Feral Cheryl, who seems to be having trouble
with her rider. The Furby is out of it's saddle and it looks like 'oh
my God it's jumped onto the tail of Eden Hashish Centre and is clawing
it's way towards the other jockey!"
I chance a quick look at Bridges who has one eyebrow cocked and a grin
bigger than Texas plastered across her face. The fire organ's squeeching
and squelching out ultra low hertz sounds that travel up my spine and
explode somewhere in the back of my head. The crowd is cheering wildly
and dancing around the ring.
"And as they travel down the straight Chakra Flowers in Spring has taken
the lead with 300 metres to go, with Tron's Revenge half a length behind
and White Noise in third place. Getting a run on the inside is Frequency
of Bliss in front by two thirds a length from Ambient Head and
Oscillating Wavefront. Something's happening with the robo-Furbies as
Feral Cheryl's rider has knocked off Eden Hashish Centre's jockey and
the bird's running wildly across the field. Oooh, look out, she's
collided with Tryptamine Meditation Ensemble and both birds are down!
The rogue Furby is jumping birds and dispatching their riders to a fast
death under monster ostrich feet. It's ruffling feathers and holding on
for dear life to Oscillating Wavefront and the panicky bird is speeding
forward, past Ambient Head and Frequency of Bliss, past White Noise and
Tron's Revenge. The two Furbies are wrestling at the reins of
Oscillating Wavefront and slamming the bird into Chakra Flowers in
Spring. She's not happy about it and her beak is flying out and savagely
pecking the unsaddled Furbie. Jesuspaghetti! he's loose and flying
through the air. Chakra Flowers in Spring is going to hang on and win!"
What happened next is pure post modern psyber-haiku. It appears that at
a certain frequency of sound transmitted over radio, precisely
duplicated by the fire organ belching out it's flame music, Furbies
explode. Who was to know? The lil'killer robot burst into flames and
showered metal and fur all over the finish line, the other jockeys
disintegrating in their saddles one by one like a string of firecrackers
in the night.
Betcha glad you choose the REMOTE VIEWING option, huh viewers?
Subject: Rave Olympics
Date: Wed 21st June, 2011 23:11:11 + 1000(EST)
From: Rak Razam <email@example.com>
To: It's a Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild World<W6W@piratenet.com>
"It's going OFF!!! Bridges says, smiling and smiling and smiling.
"Ain't that the truth." We're tripping round the desert doof hanging
onto the slender thread of sanity. Everything's raw and dusty like the
party itself. We're 80ks from the nearest town and having the best damn
time of anyone in a 1,000 square kilometre radius. We're building a
Harmonic Wave Beacon, y'know. Orchestrating all the dancers into a
whirling dervish of altered states of mind like the Sufis do. Turning on
the chakra pathways up the spine through sight sound and dance. Building
ze DOOF. The Psy-Folk Funk Quartet are sampling in tambourines and
Dylanesque whisky breakbeats to the musical proceedings. We're grooving
down by the central bonfire, surrounded by thousands of ravers, dancing.
And dancing. And dancing.
I guess there's no other way to tell it but like it is, Y'hear!
"For the sake of the viewers at home on your live satellite feed I'm
switching to autopoetic lapis MODE. For only $2.95, you too can upload
the sensory datafeed in full immersive VRscope" I babble, letting the
lyrics melt into the transmission>
boom boom ! booming right back AT CHA boom boom
booming right back atcha! Right back right back right back atcha!
right back right back right back
right back right back
Booming right back right back right back atcha. Everything smearing
together - music and love and light - higher phreakquencies of
vibrational NRG are bouncing building beaming right back atcha in the
doof, boom booming boom booming
grooving red desert dust under feet beat booming right back right back
atcha, its all coming down, drowning in it, what finer place than right
here in the middle of nowhere with Bridges and the Psy-Folk Funk Quartet
cooing the light phunktastic, bouncing beatbox'd funking groovy red
devils, smiles all around, splashing in the dust and there's all these
kids in furs and skins going off, rolling around in big tractor inner
tyres, and there's a big black bundle of dog padding alongside with a
plastic boomerang in his jaws, just moseying along so fine if you
please, and its all like a dream, like doof a vu, a frozen moment and I
wonder if its all as simple as this, as feeling good and dancing to a
wicked bass and having the right people around you, all in the same head
space, all in no-time>
right back atcha
and a booming
beatbox'd bass phades in and out and into another Old Skool track, white
men turn up the treble, <boomin> black men turn up the bass <right back
atcha>. Rhythms and lyrics overlap and I smile the same smile that's
flitting from face to face, blossoming through the crowd, becoming a
Psy-Trance phase space.
Man, I'm TRIPPING.
Programming code is flooding the central processing centres of the
brain, I'm MeLTinG>>> There's a Coca-Cola sky and everything's inverted
like a Photoshop filter as the rainbow serpent rises through us. The
beat goes off the scale as it boomboxes right back atcha and everyone's
caught in a karmic feedback loop, rising and inverting, fractaling
inwards. Boundaries shifting melting overlapping. Twister mats scattered
across the sand as far as the eye can see, desert doofers phunking it up
like there's no tomorrow!
And the drummers are drumming and the twirlers are twirling their
firesticks in the early dawn light as the longest night comes to a
close. People are juggling flaming bowling pins and grooving to the beat
and the twirlers are going off into hyperdrive> double sticks crossing,
lightsabring the air, the smell of citronella and magik quicksilvering
through. Open mouths and smiles fall through the crowd like dominoes, a
hard 4/4 Psy-Trance beat boomboxin bass through the earth and all the
way up your spine, tingling kundalini. THE TWIRLERS SHALL TWIRL AND THE
DRUMMERS SHALL DRUM and the MUSIC MAKERS shall make music, and
the DREAMERS shall dream. And the Doozers dooze, always building. Moving, doing,
never getting to the end. And the journeymen shed their skins and settle
into the trip.
The Trybes are coming home, the rainbow serpent is rousing to the bass.
* originally published in Alternative Australia: celebrating cultural diversity
Edited by Alan Dearling, ISBN 0952331640, out April 2000 at alternative bookstores.
"crammed full with tribal wisdom, feral attitude and hippy shit..."