Between sleep and waking I have a recurring dream about the end of the world and how it will take place in a far off time that will look like a futuristic, smash and grab fantasy of 198O’s Miami. In a world populated by Armani cyborgs and lipstick smeared femme fatales who drive chrome plated Ferraris through neon drenched streets paved with gold and mirrorball mosaics beneath the shadows of great emerald pyramids erected to celebrate the Nu-Orda, and a colossal mountain created from circuit boards and wires, on top of which the spirits of Cowley, Moroder, Cerrone, Soccio and O live on worshipped as deities. In my slumber I envision that as the end of days impending arrival draws nearer a mega zeppelin will be created to take the faithful few away from the infidels, and that those who’ve ever bathed in the crystalline tears of Valerie Dore or worshipped at the feet of Sylvester, or devoted lives to trying to decode the walking puzzle that was Amanda Lear, that they will be rewarded with a magnificent final farewell in the sky.
I dream that to kick off festivities the skittering morse code electro of ‘Rock Me’ would invade every corner of the airship bouncing from wall to wall, a malfunctioning Madonna-bot freestyling over a hyperactive Egyptian Lover cut, inducing everyone to shake their bones free from abandon and reminisce of a time when latino girls, with broke down drum machines and synths bought for them by shady men with cocaine money would turn their teenage tales of woe about boys who never loved them enough and boys who loved them way too much into heartbroken anthems, cries in the dark of the disco that would become dance floor classics for similarly sad souls who simply wanted nothing more than to dance to forget the boys who never loved them and the boys who loved them way too much.
As the night continues on eyes will have rolled into the backs of heads to the transcendental throb of ‘I Feel Love’, P-A-S-S-I-O-N will have been chanted like a mantra possessed of the power to unlock the riddles of ancient mysteries, and ‘I Need Somebody To Love’ will have compelled revellers to fall to their knees and wail in rapture like worshippers at a temple.
Tucked in amongst the greatest of holy hymns, blood red lasers fired out into all directions would be used to announce the creeping and sinisterly serpentine vocals of Nadia Cassini, as her words of romantic caution take life and sinuously dance their way around the party, slinking into the hearts of men with uncomfortable coldness, reminding them of the seductive terror that her black magic brand of sexual psychosis once instilled in them, the kind of feeling of fear they’d also come to strangely miss.
And as the clock ticks down, ten minutes left to go, and the misleadingly dystopian commands of Lisa’s robot MCs penetrate the spaces in between the shunting, the hi-NRG synth gallop like frenetic electronic voodoo will have assumed an unbreakable stranglehold on the lovers of the nite, whipping everyone into a penultimate mess of sweat and blood and entangled limbs, all souls praying as one that when the arrival of the white horse, the red horse, the pale horse, and the black horse is finally glimpsed, all hearts will be fit to burst with joy, and that before any wrath can be bestowed upon them, bolstered on by the intense crescendo of sounds racing towards the end of the end, all will have already exploded into a beautiful and magnificent storm all of their own.
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