Press rewind in the quantum mechanics cassette player and ascertain the lineage of that island in the midst of the Mediterranean which is Ibiza, before it became the destination for hordes of pumped drug tourists and women made of Bronze, before the baggy balearica posse spread across its golden beaches, and in a moment of lazy fever such as those which are known to prevail in places where the year is but another cycle in a neverending summer, and malaria not such a distant memory, weaved the tail-end of 70s progressiveness into the rising tide of dance hedonism.
What is it about this place which makes it such a vortex of fringe human emotions, the event horizon for communities straddling the neon thin line between oblivion and illumination?
Rewind further into the times before the purifying wave of Christianity spilt the panoply of minor and major Gods from the altars of every house, even earlier, when those Gods still had no face but were nevertheless manifest, hovering between the pillars of light shining upon human and animal sacrifices within primitive circles of stone designed with a lore inherited from the priests of Crete, the cults of Cybele and the refugees from Atlantida.
These circles of stone, and the cyphers of old blood traced in the sand lie now hidden under stratum after stratum of geological detritus, layers of concrete and the weak buildings which the people of the future made. But their magick still lives, emanates from under the earth like invisible will o’ wisps with a musky scent which only the psychically attuned, perhaps also imbalanced, can feel, attracting them irresistibly like moths to the flame.
This is its music.
Dark forces and sidereal pathos, Gavin Russom has done it again, this time under the guise of Crystal Ark, it had to be DFA. The City Never Sleeps, how could it? It’s too busy pulsing to the analogue soul tempest that this sorcerer commands from the peak of an obsidian monolith.
Believe it or not, there is a moment when the last song is played and those who had sipped from the chalice until its bitter end are herded outside of the discotheque, to prepare and leap across the chasm which will take them back to the beginning of the spiral, so they can live the same night again.
Floors are scrubbed, and glasses washed, cash counted and bundled, the last of the living leaves locking the door behind him. A heartbeat, two heartbeats, the echo of music still seems to reverberate across the vast room, in the darkness. And then the lights come on, to project their morse code of light over floors still wet, and suddenly, the pulse, the ghost beat. Dance music shrouded in white, somewhat muffled in its transition past and back from River Styx, the pianos which would have made hands rise the air treble corrupted, which is befitting because it is corrupt hands that rise in the air to celebrate, it is the wraiths of dancers long gone whose silhouettes you can discern in the midst of the emerald fog blowing from the scented smoke projectors. When everyone else is gone, it is their time.
Uruguayan label International Feel have been releasing glorious slices of pure cosmic disco from some time now, their omission from this site is sinful to say the least. Rocha’s Hands of Love (Fingers of Sand) is their latest. Inside, you can find Gatto Fritto‘s version wrecking our spirits once again, this time with a pumping piece of haunted disco.
(The image above was taken from Blog.Sans-Concept)