Rainbow Dreaming

Rainbow Dreaming

Subject: Rave Olympics

Date: Tue, 20 June, 2011 17:43:34 + 1000 (EST)

From: Rak Razam

To: It’s a Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild


We were about 50k’s past Maree when we saw the first convoy of phreaks heading out to the Earthdream part, a motley, rainbow caravan of dust encrusted buses and camper vans, VW’s and Bedfords, ferals, travellers and urban hedonists pirating the airwaves with digital mantras, blanketing the quiet earth along the Oodnadatta Track and generally funking shit up. The big vans and buses were crowned with giant inflatable objects like bananas and mangoes and blazoned with anti-uranium logos and activist stickers. We’d been getting reports on the CB radio for days, up and down the coast from every direction - these Psy-Trance Cowboys had been rustling the forgotten monuments of the 20th Century from quiet country towns and tying them to the roofs of their Giant Ram, the Giant Koala, the Giant Pineapple, the Giant Homogenised Icons of White Middle Class Prosperity.

Now here they were, all in a row like floats in a post-Apocalypitic pagan love parade, cruising through the desert at high speed and kicking up a storm. Yessir, they were riding their groove boxes onto the high frontier, layered in bass and in search of a WAY COOL PLACE where everybody can DO Their Own Thing.

"Fuck me gently with ze chainsaw," Bridges said from the back of the van as we were overtaken by a double decker schoolbus with an inflatable

Godzilla on the roof and gaggle of stoned Germans hanging out the windows waving.

"Now there’s something you don’t see every day." She was right. I’d never seen Germans so friendly before. Something was definitely up. "See if you can get a shot of them on the handy-cam," I shouted over the rattle of the van as we went over a pothole and everything lurched up into the air, we had a cache of the latest Ultra-Tech in the back to film the party - and the Gamez - and provide a continuous internet uplink for the rest of the world. This was the thirteenth Earthdream Desert Dreaming Festival and the prelude to next year’s global chakra cleansing ritual. Phine phreaks and klued in people of every shape and hue were gathering together, nomad tekno adventures from all the 12 Trybes flowing into a rainbow mix snaking its way through the red earth. We’d bought the latest Mitsubishi micro-camera contact lenses but the dust and the bumps along the Oonandatta Track wouldn’t let me use either. The idea was to provide digital downloads over sensechips to the viewers at home - you would see, hear, smell, touch, and taste whatever the live reporter is sensing. At the moment is was A-grade skunk we’d picked up 800ks back in Adelaide and a mild case of sunstroke from the glare. "Got ‘zem," Bridges pronounced in her singsong Israeli-American accent. "Lovely establishing shot with ze buses elongating across ze horizon at dusk." I suppose you want to know what she looks like. I would, and since we haven’t got the equipment working properly yet, I’ll have to describe everything for you.

My assistant, Bridges, is like somebody’s sassy little sister gone the way of the urban disco feral. Enough piercings on her face to set off an airport metal detector. Dredds wax perfect, dyed blue and red and black. Big brown eves layered in cheap Killer Loop imitation sunglasses. Handmade firestick and a bottle of Kerosene and Citronella by her side. Indian pants from Chakra or Ishkar. Black puffy jacket with a Chinese Dragon feng-shuing its way across the back. Dusty Monster Boots with six inch moulded plastic heels. She’s also the best damn camera woman this side of the Nullarbor and can roll perfect joints while driving the van and mixing MP3’s on the Diamondback decks at the same time. Not only that, but she’s the only one who knows now to pilot the ultralight glider, I’m all legs when it comes to flying.

"Start narration, take one - Earthdream 2011." I’m recording on my built in throat mike that sends data pulses to our Apple Mac G12 laptop, auto remixes credits and soundtrack over the footage Bridges is shooting and transmits the final package via our satellite dish on the roof. We broadcast pirate transmissions into the world datasphere and get a nice little pay per view package from inphomation junkies all over the place.

"Welcome to the Middle of Nowhere and another edition of ‘It’s a Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild World’. I’m your host, Rak Razam, reporting live from Lake Eyre in South Australia, where the 12th annual RAVE OLYMPICS is getting into gear as part of the Earthdream Desert Dreaming Festival. Contestants are hightailing it through the sunburnt earth of the Australian Outback after a surreal Scavenger Hunt from coast to coast, bringing with them fabulous kitsch items of yesteryear as decor for the Gamez. As we pass the famous Mutoid Waste windmill flower sculpture, gate way to the desert circus, geodesic DOMEZ the colour of old Coca-Cola bottles litter the landscape, filtering out UV light. The DOMEZ take advantage of the coolness of the earth to condense water from the atmosphere at night to grow plants and shade the soil during the day, thus encouraging further water collection. It’s hoped that the retention of water by this means will eventually, by transpiration, create a changed local climate and encourage rainfall. Fluro-canvassed teepees are also going up with heraldic flags billowing in the wild like Tibetan prayers. Renegade soundsystems are banging out the latest Neko-tekno tunes from car stereos their juju and getting into the groovy."

I put the van on cruise control and let the automatic pilot system scan the terrain in full 3D topography. It carefully threads our way around the perimeter of the camping grounds, letting Bridges pan across and film everything as we go. A beautiful feral family with bones through their noses and clad in animal skins look up from their camp and smile as we pass. They’ve got a fire going in the heat of the day and are cooking what appears to be a giant turkey all stretched out and ginormous. It has to be one of the new genegineered ostriches that run wild in these part. I nudge Bridges and she turns from filming a group of Swedes with blond angel dredds trailing down their backs to shot the bird on the spit.

"The black and red and yellow sunned Aboriginal flag is flying proudly from the Keepers of Lake Eyre’s Permanent Autonomous Zone headquarters on the main track. The local Arabunna people welcome all travellers and revellers who respect and revere the earth and thousands of people have turned out in what appears to be the biggest Earthdream festival yet. There’s vans and buses and cars and tents all around, surrounded by tacky, giant inflatable totems that everyone has brought, like Waster island heads recycled for the Nu Skool Mythology. Colossal SCHWAA aliens and Smurfs, Gorillas and Koalas, paper mache Avatars of every description litter the desert like a feral Las Vegas - the perfect fluro Apocalypse.

As regular viewers already know, the RAVE OLYMPICS is a cross between extreme sports and a acid inspired dadaist tournament. Contestants have been battling it out in the desert since the inaugural contests in ’00 designed to counterpoint the Spectacle of the mainstream Olympics, beleaguered by bribery and drug scandals and gross economic exploitation. Where the Greeks invented the Olympic Torch, the Ravers have the inevitable Olympic Scoobie - a giant joint over a meter long that’s passed in relay from person to person in a long and mellow opening ceremony. When everyone’s toked on the peace pipe and unable to move, the Gamez begin. Giant props have been cyberfitted from the old tv show, ‘It’s a Knockout’ with trampolines and slides, giant barrels and fluro sackraces soundtracked with thumping industrial bush musik. Contemporary events include Sumosuit Wrestling, Doof Twister, Firewirling, Drum-Offs and the cream of the crop, Robo-Ostrich Racing. The only rules to the Gamez are that they have to be FUN."

Bridges zooms in on a helium filled blimp, moulded in the shape of a golden frog with black swirls, the totem of the Psycoroborree crew in the Mini-Blimp Nerfjousting event. And cut. Perfect.

"What’d you think?"

"Just the right touch of crass,"Bridges replies.

Subject: Rave Olympics

Date: Wed, 21st June, - 2011 12:00:05 + 1000 (EST)

From: Rak Razam

To: It’s a Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild World

It was a dry wind and it crept across the desert at noon. It was a nice 28 degrees by the SONY palmpilot’s built in thermostat. Winter in the outback. Bridges and I have taken to the air for a better view of the proceedings. I have a tequila hangover from hell. Bridges looks perfect, as always, the curse of youth. Our ultralight is a converted golf green lawnmower with two seats and a built-in 16 horsepower engine. A pink and white striped parachute like those used in paragliding puffs out ‘ bove us for our wings. "Get a load of THAT,"she says, pointing to a long flat stretch of desert north of the main camp. The Barrelfull of Monkeys Crew have rolled out the world’s longest Twister set, over 100 metres of plastic Twister mats sewn together into a patchwork tapestry of red, yellow, green and blue dots. Like the dance till you drop contests in the 1930’s, contestants are doofing on the spot while twistering in the world’s most bizarre endurance test. Human pretzels twisted into absurd contortions abound. I’ve got the Mitsubishi mini-cam contacts in over my bloodshot eyes and am recording streaming footage of the activity down below. Ravers in spring loaded kangaroo boots bound across the flat desert terrain, bouncing a good three feet into the air.

To the north a crew of pale English travellers in sunhats are grappling with giant plastic marbles around a circle as big as football field. From the air I can see there’s no sense of strategy; the eight foot marbles are simply heaved by teams at other marbles that go ricocheting into one another and across the flat terrain. "take her down for a closeup," I shout over the shine of the engine as we divebomb the players. Bose speakers embedded in the doors turn on and broadcast cheesy old movie soundtracks to cover the sound of the motor.

"Up. Down. Flying Around. Looping the Loop and Defying the Ground. They’re ALL so frightfully keen… those magnificent men in, magnificent men in…magnificent men in their FLYYIIIING MA-CHINES."

The English all look up and cheer as we pass over. A giant marble skittles across the desert from the opposing team like a tumbleweed and bowls them mercilessly to the ground. The clouds hang low and lazy, hugging the earth, the sky a deep blue like the colour of people’s eyes in the movie Dune. Bridges lights a joint and pulls the ultralight up into the blue.

"Day Two and it’s the Winter Solstice here in the Southern Hemisphere. Thousands of tek-heds from all over the world have come together to dance the longest night and feel the pulse of the earth here near her heart chakra. Sunlight glints off solar panelled vans and buses and catches on the metal blades of miniature windmill generators fixed to the roofs. The earth is red and flat all around. The flies are ubiquitous and you swallow at least three a day unless you shut your mouth and open your eyes. Down below they’re putting up the doof, tekno style. Mutoid Waste madman Robin Cook is testing the old giant fire blasters for the party tonight. They’re four cyclical metal pillars arranged around the perimeter of the dirt dancefloor as an elemental anchor that let off belches of flame in perfect syncopation with the bass. The infamous Tekno Ostrich Races are all set up in a protective bioplex ring in the middle of the dancefloor, racing right under the giant fire towers. The genegineered birds stand about eight feet tall and look like mutant turkeys with attitude. They’ve got the graceful curved neck of the pink flamingo but are let down by legs as thick as wrestlers on Megasteroids. They remind me of a one night stand I’d rather forget." Cut.

Bridges elbows me in the ribs as the ultralight veers to the left over Lake Eyre. There’s a crew of full on Israeli tek-heds dancing up a storm by the edge of the water. They’re dressed in full body wetsuits laced with smart fabrics that automatically adjust body temperature and sweat. Their big Monster Boots are fully motorised piezio-electrical walking devices that use the kinetic energy of the walker to power the hardware - which in this case includes water pumps that send moisture and urine back up through micro filters, making it sage for redrinking.

"Zey are ze Calvin Kleins of the desert!" Bridges quips as we zoom in low over their heads.

"Hmmph. More like futro drug dealers."

Zem bootz is made for dancing and that’s just what zey’ll do. One of these days zem boots is gonna walk all over you. Bootz - start dancing!" she sings, tilting the ultralight to and fro.

"Are you stoned and flying again?"

‘It’s ze only way to travel,"she retorts.

I take a deep toke (for the sencechip viewers at home, of course) and marvel at the desert terrain all around. We’re sitting in a sea of blue that stretches out forever, red earth and thumping bass reverberating from below. With the telescopic enhancements built into the Mitsubishi lenses I can see the broad outline of the electric fence over 60ks to the west.Aerial schematics downloaded from a pirate satellite flow into the SONY palmpilot as well as full telemetry of the area. I’m back on-line:

"I can see that the Pangea Mining Company and their private security goons have the perimeter of the nuclear waste area, or the DUMP as it’s come to be called, sealed up tighter than a nun’s proverbial. The electric fence is twenty feet high and a concrete partition extends under the earth another ten feet. It stretches over 100 square kilometres and has to be one of the Seven Great Wonders of Corporate Terrorism. Undisclosed tones of radioactive sludge are buried here, deep in the Australian heartland, shitting on the sacred spots and burning into Gaia’s delicate biosphere."

Bridges gives me a look like I’m dangerously close to alienating our sponsors, but fuck it, a journalist has to have some integrity, right? And integrity’s like virginity - you can only lose it once.

"New telemetry data’s coming through, viewers. Switch to HYPERLINK mode for live satellite feeds in infrared and eyespy frequencies for only $1.95. Satellite images show deep thermal activity in the Forbidden Zone around the DUMP. Looks like the Army’s on maneuvers again."

I cut the link and take another toke. The Military budget has blown through the roof since the Republic of Australia started fortifying the border from Indonesia and the flood of refugees.

"You know ze Vietcong used to play Nancy Sinatra tunes to ze G.I.’s in the field as a brainwashing technique. Ze same track over and over again for days, echoing out over the rice paddy fields and jungle till ze G,I,’s snapped and broke zeir cover."

"what a coincidence they’re permanently patrolling the area around the DUMP."

"There’s no such thing as coincidence," Bridges says, taking the joint back off me.

Subject: Rave Olympics

Date: Wed 21st June, 2011 6:56:11+1000(EST)

From: Rak Razam

To: It’s a Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild World

"It’s four minutes to race time and some ultra smooth electro disco funk is rippling out on a cloudless night. There’s falling stars everywhere and outside the ring thousands of full on doofers are getting down and dirty to the beats. It’s not quite a full moon, but state of the art laser and holography techniques have lit up the sky anyway with moving pixilated pictures. The giant , baktun glyphs of a Mayan calendar turn lazily against the stars. Aboriginal Wandjina chalk men hundreds of feet high groove like albino stick figures to the sound of a thumping 4/4 Psy-Trance beat. Even the ghosts are dancing. Indian, Mayan, Aborigine, Hollywood - all the Old World kultures are represented on this swirling maelstrom. Fluro string webwork hangs over the main dirt dancefloor in sacred geometric patterns within patterns, fractaling inwards in a UV mandala. The patterns are like phosphene imprints on the eyes that allow viewers to find their own message and open up deeper connections. The DJ arena is in a Cone of Silence like bubble made of aerogel plastic to protect the decks from dust. The BPMs are tweaked to literally turn on the crowd with their hypertryal vibrational frequencies.

Surreal and absurd tekno sculptures transformed from urban junk litter the landscape; gestalt car robots that rotate and move, Harmonic Generator Coils that light up like the inside of an electric light bulb but thousands of times as big and bright. When filmed at high speeds they milt into a glowing double helix reminiscent of strands of DNA. The teckno wizard himself , Robin Cooke, sits at his giant Fire Organ with a puckish grin on his face, playing the keyboard and creating musical flame. As the fire rips up the tubes the organ lets out sound as tongues of flame lick out. The tubes glow red and orange and then finally white hot from the heat and have to be left a while to cool. Further out from the centre, party shamen groove around four burning mechanical pillars crowning the dirt dancefloor in more flames. Black light projectors create hypnagogic patterns on the ground, flashing on and off in binary streams. It’s like a Christian Fundamentalists version of Hell crossed with a tekno-pagan explosion.

Thousands of people are stomping on the earth, dressed in rainbow skins and smiles. They’ve come in costume for a grande Masquerade and really funked themselves out. Cygercrusties in the loudest SKINS known to humankind dance alongside mutated performers in ultralight exoskeletons. LCD threaded fabrics glitter and swirl animated GIF pictures across countless bodies - the crowd has become a canvas. My brain wants to shut down just looking at them. Oh, the wandering Sadhu fools, all of us in different head spaces all the time, billions of possible permutations fuelling the party, the look, the flavour, the KODAK MOMENTS.’

And that’s only scratching the surface of it. Bridges is dressed in her Cyber-Sinderella out-fit - black mesh tank top, evening gloves and veil with thin strips of silver polymer strapped strategically round her body like surgical gauze. She’s datamining the crowd, interviewing a few choice jewels while I get ready for the race. I pull her away from a Maori warrior with full tribal tattoos etched across his body and spilling up over his face. He smiles, revealing a set of metal teeth like the villain in Moonraker.

"CACTUS?" Bridges repeats with a sly grin.

"Of course. When in Rome and all that. A full blown power lunch with Mescalito is de rigeur for all desert journeys," I explain.

"The viewers at home expect only the finest experiences, Bridges," I chastise. The Cactus has been on the boil all through the day since dawn. It’s viscous green-grey texture looks like snail roadkill mixed with bitter bhlegm and the taste is even worse - if you can get it down. I did - barely, and the taste of Satan’s ballsweat dogs my every breath.

"Just swallow this and chase if down with some lemonade," I say, handing her a two litre water bottle half filled with green cactus discharge and distilled juice.

"But you must be quick because I can already feel it coming on."

"Shame I’ve got no lemonade," she says and winks, chugging down the juice. Her eyes ping open as a shudder visibly moves over her body.

"Oooh,zis is very, how you say, hot shit stuff!" She takes a big swig of tequila from her hip flask and starts to sway a little.

"C’mon, I’ve got a race to call and you’ve got some cheating to do. The fastest land mammals after the cheetah are waiting and you don’t want to make an ostrich mad. Those beaks are deadly, y’know"

The OSTRICHES are lined up and being groomed on the inside of the bioplex ring that separates the dancefloor from the race track. The big birds move like catwalk models, poised and taking delicate steps, bobbing their long necks up and down as they go. They’ve all got phutro names like a cross between racing dogs and Psy-Trance DJ’s:

1>Tron’s Revenge

2>Frequency of Bliss

3>Tryptamine Meditation Ensemble

4>Ambient Head

5>Chakra Flowers in Spring

6>Oscillating Wavefront

7>Feral Cheryl

8>White Noise

9>Eden Hashish Centre

Human jockeys have been phased out to make way for hyperadvanced robo Furbies - modified versions of the robotic kidz toy that talks and moves and has a memory cache of 100GB> they look like hairy gremlins strapped in their miniature saddles, gripping the reins with tiny motorised hands. These lil’critters can be programmed to perform small chores around the home and some smartarse has modified them to ride Ostriches. They’re remote controlled by contestants outside the ring, making it the perfect sport for lazy, drug addled ravers. Bridges and I have cooked up a little personality algorithm for our Robo-jockey based on 80’s testosterone movies. Basically. It reprograms them to think like Rambo, Indiana Jones and the Terminator all rolled into one. It’ll be the perfect denouement to the Rave Olympics, but part of me worries that it won’t be long before they can do everything we used to, and on that day humankind will be obsolete, replaced by a Japanese Tamabloodygimmick. Fuck me, I’m getting maudlin.

The ostriches are doing the once round as their numbers are called and they’re weighed in. "Look closely at the ones that poop," I tell Bridges. "They’ll be lighter in the race and have an advantage over the rest of the flock." As we watch, a few of the giant birds gingerly release their droppings as they walk along. A gorgeous transsexual done up as Madonna in her Sex phase comes and cleans it up with a little broom and shovel.

"Her tits are better zen mine," Bridges pouts as I drag her to the DJ booth where I’m calling the race from.

Everything’s shimmering like the horizon at noon as the cactus comes on strong. Just looking at the names of the birds makes me feel like I’m tripping. Bridges is controlling her robo-jockey an ostrich number 7, Feral Cheryl. We’re filming on the handy-cam and cross linking with the Furbie throughout the race. "Be a love and roll me a joint," I ask her as the fire organ belts out a fiery clarion call and it’s all happening, hold onto your sanity, here we go….

"Okay, they’re moving in and we’re all ready for a start. They’re at the post…ready…there’s the light - and they’re OFF! Tron’s Revenge is away well followed by Ambient Head and White Noise, with Chakra Flowers in Spring on the inside track close behind. In the fifth place is Eden Hashish Centre and Oscillating Wavefront, with Feral Cheryl and Frequency of Bliss three lengths back and Tryptamine Meditation Ensemble coming up the rear. Ambient Head has taken the lead by half a length from Tron’s Revenge at the turn of the field as White Noise, Chakra Flowers in Spring and Oscillating Wavefront battle it out in the centre. Across the track is Eden Hashish Centre skittling past Feral Cheryl and Frequency of Bliss is back on the inside followed by Tryptamine Meditation Ensemble."

There’s nothing finer than watching a flock of 8-foot-high, 350 pound flightless birds being piloted by small robot jockeys while on mescaline. Colours shift and swirl as angles distort and everything takes on a strange kind of surreal logic. Robin Cooke’s going OFF on the fire organ, playing some thumping deep bass that’s being picked up by radio receivers and broadcast over the local area. People are listening to the race and the doof as far away as Port Augusta. I tap into the Mitsubishi lenses for a second to see what the viewers at home are seeing and am bombarded with cyber edged speed line manga visuals breakbeating and slipping all over the place. Optic nerves pinch and zoom as the digital camera in the Furbies’ eyes relay the race from a bird’s eye view roadrunnering across the simmering desert terrain, kicking up clouds of dust as they pass under the fire pillars on the edge of the dancefloor. Roadrunner the coyote’s after you. Roadrunner. When he catches you you’re through.

"Tron’s Revenge is coming down the straight and behind him Chakra Flowers in Spring. Two lengths back is Ambient Head followed closely by White Noise and *LOOK OUT* here comes Frequency of Bliss up the side - she’s zarting fre and fro and look out for the beak on that one, she’s plenty mad today. And Oscillating Wavefront and Tryptamine Meditation Ensemble are fighting it out In the middle as they go round for the final lap. Eden Hashish Centre is trying to get up the side and two lengths away at the rear is Feral Cheryl, who seems to be having trouble with her rider. The Furbie is out of it’s saddle and it looks like …oh my God it’s jumped onto the tail of Eden Hashish Centre and is clawing it’s way towards the other jockey."

I chance a quick look at Bridges who has one eyebrow cocked and a grin bigger than Texas plastered across her face. The fire organ’s squeeching and squelching out ultra low hertz sounds that travel up my spine and explode somewhere in the back of my head. The crowd is cheering wildly and dancing around the ring.

"And as they travel down the straight Chakra Flowers in Spring has taken the lead with 300 metres to go, with Tron’s Revenge half a length behind and White Noise in third place. Getting a run on the inside is Frequency of Bliss in front by two thirds a length from Ambient Head and Oscillation Wavefront. Something’s happening with the robo-Furbies as Feral Cheryl’s rider has knocked off Eden Hashish Centre’s jockey and the bird’s running wildly across the field. Oooh, look out, she’s collided with Tryptamine Meditation Ensemble and both birds are down. The rogue Furbie is jumping birds and dispatching their riders to a fast death under monster ostrich feet. It’s ruffling feathers and holding on for dear life to Oscillating Wavefront and the panicky bird is speeding forward, past Ambient Head and Frequency of Bliss, past White Noise and Tron’s Revenge. The two Furbies are wrestling at the reins of Oscillating Wavefront and slamming the bird into Chakra Flowers in Spring. She’s not happy about it and her beak is flying out and savagely pecking the unsaddled Furbie. Jesuspaghetti! he’s loose and flying through the air. Chakra Flowers in Spring is going to hang on and win…"

What happened next is pure post modern psyber-haiku. It appears that at a certain frequency of sound transmitted over radio, precisely duplicated by the fire organ belching out it’s flame music, Furbies explode. Who was to know? The lil’killer robot burst into flames and showered metal and fur all over the finish line, the other jockeys disintegrating in their saddles one by one like a string of firecrackers in the night.

Betcha glad you choose the REMOTE VIEWING option, huh viewers?

Subject: Rave Olympics

Date: Wed 21st June, 2011 23:11:11 + 1000(EST)

From: Rak Razam

To: It’s a Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild Wild World

"It’s going OFF!!! Bridges says, smiling and smiling and smiling.

"Ain’t that the truth." We’re tripping round the desert doof hanging onto the slender thread of sanity. Everything’s raw and dusty like the party itself. We’re 80ks from the nearest town and having the best damn time of anyone in a 1,000 square kilometre radius. We’re building a Harmonic Wave Beacon, y’know. Orchestrating all the dancers into a whirling dervish of altered states of mind like the Sufis do. Turning on the chakra pathways up the spine through sight sound and dance. Building e DOOF. The Psy-Folk Funk Quartet are sampling in tambourines and Dylanesque whisky breakbeats to the musical proceedings. We’re grooving down by the central bonfire, surrounded by thousands of ravers, dancing. And dancing. And dancing.

I guess there’s no other way to tell it but like it is, Y’hear?

"For the sake of the viewers at home on your live satellite feed I’m switching to autopoetic lapis MODE. For only $2.95, you too can upload the sensory datafeed in full immersive VRscope" I babble, letting the lyrics melt into the transmission>

boom boom … booming right back AT CHA boom boom booming right back atcha! Right back right back right back atcha!




right back right back right back






right back right back

right back


Booming right back right back right back atcha. everything smearing together - music and love and light - higher phreakquencies of vibrational NRG are bouncing building beaming right back atcha in the doof, boom booming boom booming

grooving red desert dust under feet beat booming right back right back atcha, its all coming down, drowning in it, what finer place than right here in the middle of nowhere with Bridges and the Psy-Folk Quartet cooing the light phunktastic, bouncing beatbox’d funking groovy red devils, smiles all around, splashing in the dust and there’s all these kids in furs and skins going off, rolling around in big tractor inner tyres, and there’s a big black bundle of dog padding alongside with a plastic boomerang in his jaws, just moseying along so fine if you please, and its all like a dream, like doof a vu, a frozen moment and I wonder if its all as simple as this, as feeling good and dancing to a wicked bass and having the right people around you, all in the same head space, all in no-time>

right back atcha

and a booming

beatbox’d bass phades in and out and into another Old Skool track, white men turn up the treble, black men turn up the bass . Rhythms and Lyrics overlap and I smile the same smile that’s flitting from face to face, blossoming through the crowd, becoming a Psy-Trance phase space.


Programming code is flooding the central processing centres of the brain, I’m MeLTinG>>> There’s a Coca-Cola sky and everything’s inverted like a Photoshop filter as the rainbow serpent rises through us. The beat goes off the scale as it boomboxes right back atcha and everyone’s caught in a karmic feedback loop, rising and inverting , fractaling inwards. Boundaries shifting melting overlapping. Twister mats scattered across the sand as far as the eye can see, desert doofers phunking it up like there’s no tomorrow…

and the drummers are drumming and the twirlers are twirling their firesticks in the early dawn light as the longest night comes to an close. People are juggling flaming bowling pins and grooving to the beat and the twirlers are going off into hyperdrive> double sticks crossing, lightsabring the air, the smell of citronella and magik quicksilvering through. Open mouths and smiles fall through the crowd like dominoes, a hard 4/4 Psy-Trance beat boomboxin bass through the earth and all the way up your spine, tingling kundalini. THE TWIRLERS SHALL TWIRL AND THE DRUMMERS SHALL DRUM and the DREAMERS shall dream. And the MUSIC MAKERS shall make music. And the Doozers dooze, always building. Moving, doing, never getting to the end. And the journeymen shed their skins and settle into the trip.

The Trybes are coming home, the rainbow serpent is rousing to the bass. Everybody’s sparkling.