AND I dreamed.
Oh, I dreamed of the ephemeral magic of dance festivals gone by, radiant like hearth fire in my memory. 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 and 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 with combusting eyes, the hippies cavorting as hippies do.
And how this diminution and condescension from a plastic world had always rankled, a world where you could now rise and rise based on the rise itself, 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 community. And how I'd 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 those who go, was out there, waiting to be told.
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