the water on concrete. the water on sand. the water on fire. smoke.
the wind. the salt. the bride boat coming. dave in the water.
old man. einstein on top of his house.
it was a balmy smoggy late-autumn evening in los angeles, 1145pm on a friday, crammed into a borrowed car with ken and pete and paul and sam—friends two years my senior—racing down santa monica boulevard, the car’s reckless speed amplified by some crazyloud electronica [remember that genre?] blasting from the stereo. doomp d-d-d-d-doomp doomp doomp. doomp d-d-d-d-doomp doomp doomp.
far. black place. walls. blue chair. morocco. hamburg. paris.
the pieces of the puzzle are waiting. the water of the dark boats gliding.
what is this?, i ask the cool kids from the backseat. this is amazing! it’s like my brain has synchronized itself to the music! nobody can hear anybody, as the music is so skull-shatteringly loud. ken eventually replies, duuuuuude it’s pearl’s girl by underworld. we screetch into the parking garage, down like 9 levels and skid into a parking spot. we hustle up to the cinema, buy tickets and find seats just before the show starts.
dave is floating. and old man einstein crazy in his attic. crazy.
my supercool mentors dragged naive fresh-to-california-from-smalltown-indiana eric to the midnight showing of a freshly-imported british indie film called trainspotting. this was the only cinema showing the flick, and even then, only a single screening. halfway through the flick, ken explains to me that trainspotting’s anthem, born slippy is also from underworld.
this electronica stuff was so fresh, so new, so energetic, so symphonic, so me. in high school i rocked out to green day and nine inch nails and r.e.m., and this techno stuff was kiss-my-teeth new. sure, in retrospect it all sounds a bit naive and uncultured and uncool, but at the time i had never heard such delicious cacophony. karl hyde’s crooning mesmerized me and the syncopated beats turned my highschool marching band appreciation of rhythm upside-down.
these things sent to dance across the room. eye watching from your bed.
returning to you.
so, here i was, 18, excitedly driving around places-you-only-see-on-teevee like hollywood and beverly hills and santa monica with these supercool older boys, being mentored about what-life’s-like-in-europe and dude-you-gotta-check-out-warp-records and oh-you-mean-you’ve-never-been-to-cantor’s-deli?! that whole first year at university i spent hanging out with these so-called bitter juniors… they were exciting, they were wise, they had cars, they knew all about los angeles life and, well, one of them fancied me.
almost every night we were out till the wee hours, driving up to mount wilson to watch the sunrise or santa monica to chill on the beach or hollywood to cause trouble or tommy’s for some heavenly chiliburgers [they wipe the grease onto the bun so that it sticks together better]. i slept in till dinnertime usually [missing most classes] and didn’t make friends with anyone from my year [nobody to do homework with]. i have no idea how i passed my classes, but, dammit i needed to experience los angeles, and, well, i was smitten with a boy.
everytime i hear underworld, i think back to that night in hollywood. a few amazing underworld concerts later, a few hundred cds purchased, a few hundred club nights out all around the world, and i now easily consider myself an electronic music afficionado, a proper music journo, a critic, a budding deejay and, well, an electronic music trainspotter.
