AND I dreamed.
Oh I dreamed of the ephemeral magic of dance festivals gone by, blowing up in my memory like supernovas. How I’d always been fascinated, ever since my earliest days when on film I tried to capture - I don’t know, something - in the rain and the mud of The Gathering.
How I'd never been able to get to their essence when evangelising to the trapped or the prearranged, but knowing there was more, always more. A goodness in festivals, redemption and transformation; secrets and mysteries and magic that brought out the very best in human kindness, kinship and beauty.
How there was culture, community, a whole conversation going on. A movement on the march, had been since the eighties, multigenerational, thriving, and was more, always more than the mainstream caricatures: the overdoses, the drug-ee jokes, the scenesters, the posers, the superstar DJs, the dimly beautiful, the snatched footage of spangled kids, neon-lit, the hippies cavorting as hippies do.
And how this diminution and condescension had always rankled from a world where you could now rise and rise based on the rise itself, and depth and discourse had crushed to five second sound bites with 140 characters coming that year.
A world gripped by a nameless dread, in need of new models of being. And how I had always understood it, also. Understood that the secrets and magic and mysteries defied comprehension unless immersed, perhaps would defy documentation too, but which still I yearned to live, capture and record.
I felt, as I had always felt, the story, the real story of electronica, of its festivals and of the voyagers who go, was out there, waiting to be told.
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