When I get into a hole, I go deep – logged into the mainframe like Neo. Unfortunately the red pill, the one that awakens us to the real world, only comes in the shape of work or Twin Peaks. You know, things I actually need to keep abreast of. And even then I’ve found myself thinking it would be so much better if Dale Cooper lost the suit, donned a bucket hat and admitted the backwards talking in the red room was simply because Laura Palmer had been boshing gurners before she died.
Seriously, do you know how much material there is from old raves on the World Wide Web? Gil Scott-Heron famously said the revolution will not be televised but if the ’89 Summer Of Rave is anything to go by then he is completely wrong. From the excitement of hearing ‘Your Love’ for the first time in an Ipswich aircraft hangar, to the girl who wouldn’t stop dancing until she found her car, it all seems to have been captured on film and I’ve been sucked in. Sucked in by the YouTube comments that note the lack of people on their mobile phones. Sucked in by the comments about the white dove pills. Sucked in by the comments of love, freedom and stories of being at the coalface of a new scene. I can’t help but feel as though I MUST catch up.
Enough time has passed that house music’s origins have taken on a mythical status. Chicago, Detroit, Shoom, The Hacienda, Carl Cox, acid house – they are all part of the legacy and everyone wants to “see what it was really like back in the day”. But, fuck me, I’ve taken it to new levels. I spent the entirety of the 2016 Rio Olympics searching Paradise Garage footage on the internet instead of watching any sport. And my addiction has sent me to some dark places. Honestly, people think “For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn” is the saddest story ever committed to history but they haven’t read my “Footage needed: Ron Hardy at the Muzic Box” Tinder bio.