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It’s been a long weekend. It’s rained a lot. I’m sunburnt. I’ve eaten more than my dietician recommends. Of course, to deal with all of this, I’ve had to drink a lot. For my health, you understand. Keep my fluids up, so to speak.
So, we’ve reached the last set if the night. I’ve exchanged my gumboots for dancing sandals. Mistake? Yet to be proven. But after four (yes, four) long days, my feet are singing a song of praise. And that means, Faber has the sole advantage of finding me with my feet unbound. Not even the superb Horse Meat Disco had that honour.
So it’s a damn good thing that this guy fairly fucking rocks. We have three turntables, a mixing desk, and a keyboard. It’s hard to say from where I am, but it looks like he’s using them all.
This is hard house. Hard enough to close out the festival in style. No girly limp dicked handbag to be seen here. Good thing too, the floor in here is an inch deep in mud. Or at least rain. Whatever. I ain’t eating that donut you dropped in it, three second rule or no. Tell you that much for free. And you shouldn’t put your handbag in it either.
Boring. By name and lyric that is. Not by sound. Nope. That’s the most exciting boring track I’ve been privy to. Nice mixing. No cheese. Not yet anyway. The vocals are picking up. Might be in the post. Let’s hope he doesn’t deliver. Or should that be hope he does? Aw christ, I’m confused. Listen, don’t think.
Yeah, that’s the secret. Listen. Don’t analyse. But whatever you do, don’t listen to me. Just ask my doctor. He’ll tell you. Now go away. Dance some. It’s easy here. Leave me alone.
Photos by 中島たくみ
