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  1. 5 likes
    MUSIC BLARED from car-stereos. Darius and Tim poied in front of camp. The rest of our crew trickled in. Many stories were told. Many neighbours met. So our first afternoon passed. I busied myself with inflating beds and camp furniture - Sam's one refrain about The Gathering constant over the last year, ‘inflatable mattresses are key’. This resonating so strongly I'd even brought an inflatable couch as well. As time and shadows lengthened, as the sky downshifted from blue to purple to darkling grey, we opened illicit alcohol and fired up a BBQ. And it was around this time, as I was sitting on my comfy couch, puffing happily on a blunt, and admiring my strong and sturdy looking tent, that I first heard it. Next to me was Joseph, yakking about his latest idea to Gary, with all the energy such things brought him. "Your mobile phone," Joseph was saying, "has got both a receiver and a transmitter in it, right? So where you can't get coverage, why couldn't you connect phone to phone?" "Right, right," Gary was saying, nodding his head and hogging the spliff they shared. On my other side, Tim was holding court, spinning a yarn about big Dan. "So anyway we're trying to convince Dan to come to The Gathering last year, and he's adamant he can't go because he's saving up for this pair of special sunglasses - " "He even carries a picture of them in his wallet and everything," interjected Darius. "Yeah it's got all these features he wants; he's been saving up for them for, like, months - " And I'm sitting there in this hubbub, admiring my sturdy and strong looking tent and happily smoking my blunt when first I heard it. A low grumbling sound, like the din of a distant truck, faint but approaching fast. You know that first recognition of thunder? That jolt because you hadn’t known a storm was coming, perhaps take a peak from behind closed curtains to spot the dragon streak across the sky? It was like that. Except, no lightning. I cocked my head in confusion as it bounced along the ridgeline towards us. It sounded like, like, People arguing. "He goes into the surf forgetting they're on top of his head - " Crowds rioting. "It's perfect for third world countries - " Armies contending. "They're knocked off by the first wave - " It took on a hundred-voice counterpart just down the tent row, its cacophonous arms boiling, flailing towards us, huge, all our conversations inundated, now drowned. And I understood suddenly, leaping to my feet, as did all of my crew. Sucked up into its vortex we were yelling, yelling, yelling at the top of our lungs. Tossed around, buffeted - then - discarded, as it went avalanching away, picking up other campsites as it went. And us standing there, listening to its outrider echoes fade, our faces radiant with the enchantment of the moment, life so large, so real to us then. Now, I don't know how how that Mexican yell started, one which reverberated around the Canaan Downs several times that night, us yelling like maniacs every time it did, but I like to think it was some spontaneous ignition, some campsite spark blown into a blaze. Our raw, untrammelled cry to the universe that we had arrived and we were ready. The music, however, was not. We still had eighteen hours to wait. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  2. 5 likes
    HALFWAY ALONG the ridge we found the end of the camps and claimed our kingdom. I was glad because my arms were tired, and because my suitcases elicited weird looks from the other Gatherers. Joseph and Tim set about putting up their tents. Sam and I sat on the grass and shared a joint in the sun. It wasn't long before others began to arrived. First in were Darius and Kathy in his beat-up, mustard-coloured station wagon. They roared up to the tents, handbraked, slid a few feet, and then almost before the car had stopped moving, as it was still sliding, they bounded out with that yes-we're-finally-here energy we all felt. "Bloody hell," declared Dar. "How was that queue?" "Ah, it was madness," answered Tim from where he practiced poiing, chains and ribbons flying about his body. "But at least you weren't in a taxi van." Darius snickered at this. I suspect it was the reason he'd mentioned the queue in the first place. The taxi van had been his idea. With his gold-and-black mane pulled into pigtails and sporting a lemon T-shirt scrawled with BMXcellent across the front, Darius now leaned across the bonnet of his car with all the restless intensity of a pool-less man with cannonballs on his mind. Kathy, his girlfriend, gave a shake of her blonde dreadlocks and rolled her eyes. "Ignore him, I do," she said, coming over to give Sam and I a hug. "How did you guys get here then?" "A family in a camper gave us a lift," I said. "Jeez, that was lucky," Darius said coming over to give us a hug also. "Otherwise it would have been a bloody long walk." We offered Darius the joint, and he puffed away and unpacked. Soon he'd unloaded a two-man tent Sam and I would be sharing for the duration of the Gathering. "Here you go boys, have fun." Having never put up a tent I eyed it dubiously, as only a man bringing suitcases to an outdoor festival could. I threw a feeler out to Sam hoping he would take the lead. "What do ya reckon, bro?" Sam, however, had never put up a tent either, and, unbeknownst to me, had taken a quarter trip earlier in the day with Joseph. Still, he sounded confident. "I think we’re intelligent guys, Izz. It can’t be that hard." Reassured, we set to it with all the will and logical might we could muster. Half an hour, several conversations, one dirt drawn diagram, and two arguments later, we’d put up something . . . it just didn’t look like anything our friends had erected. While theirs were taunt and proudly rippled, ours bowed in on one side and was the sort of shape a sneeze from a fluey canvas monster might make. We stood back in thoughtful silence. "Good enough?" I finally said, casting a sideways glance in Sam’s direction. "Good enough," he replied. "Who sleeps at a festival anyhow?" Chortling at this supreme piece of logic, we set about clearing away the disconcertingly high number of leftover pegs, ropes, and poles. Luckily, given the events to come later, Darius interrupted our furtive clean-up halfway through. "What the fuck do you guys call that?" he asked looking at our misshapen pile of canvas.This a difficult question to answer given his sustained laughter and shouted invites for others to come see. This laughter and shouted invitation went on for a long time. After he was good enough to show us the error of our ways - in-between further laughing fits - and suitably cowed, our intellect defeated by the complexity a two-man tent, weed and LSD can bring to any situation, we followed his instructions meekly. Go figure, all those leftover pegs, ropes, and poles were meant for something after all. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  3. 5 likes
    CHAPTER 3. TOWARDS A sky billowing in the distance with upward-bound cloud we walked, keeping tight to the diamond-shaped ridge on our left. It was knotted with trees, their shadows crowded by many campsites. All sheltered Gatherers settling within, the breeze pungent with cigarettes and blunts, loud with conversation and favoured electronica. We sought an empty space that could accommodate the rest of our crew, maybe twenty or so still to come. A mixed group of funky guys and girls hanging as friends, which was still a wondrous thing to me then. A crew I had met shortly after that first warehouse dance party - young, resonant, socially adroit, spiritually aware, as apt to discuss The Celestine Prophecy as an upcoming DJ - and living with an exhilarating verve and positivity, always something fun to do, house, club or dance party to go to, Wednesday to Sunday. The rhythm of their lives marked by the ever-present trance and dance and recreational drugs. First world children. Brought up in peace, bored, with no great cause to own, ya-yaa-ing on the picket line, no survival simplifications; only young and eager and horrified by the mindless hunger stretching forever before them, that svelte compulsion of many years, work and work and compete and buy and consume and get ahead - leave the others behind - fuck ‘em, right? - over the top boys, over the top - the me, me, ME of media, our spiritual destitution; just a life-time ahead of being weighed and ranked, of being told who was better and why, that whole fucking rotten bullshit deal - rejected, because this was Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect, cuz - not the tarnished mainstream caricature but something beautiful, truly. Conscious. Lived and intended. Peace. Love. Unity. Respect. It meant something then and still does now, cool cats doing cool things whose policy was betterment and inclusion. My friends scions. I loved them with a fierce passion. They were simply the finest humans I’d ever known. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  4. 4 likes
    I AWOKE to a pattering. Groggy from sleep I yawned and stretched, touched dim, damp canvas. Despite the telltale droplets beading its surface, it didn’t mean much at first with a pot-over murking my mind. I unzipped from my sleeping bag and shivered in the cold, pulled on another T-shirt and jersey. Sam muttered in the corner but slept on. I crawled over him to exit. Outside it was depressingly bleak for the middle of summer. A flock of inky sheep crowded the sky, pressing low over oily trees. A foggy haze obscured much. A cold, steady rain fell, dead straight, hitting the ground in a rat-a-tat-tat of squishy splats. There was no wind, a small blessing, for vapour trails curled with my every exhalation. It was all very strange. I'd been primed on Gathering stories of magnificent sunshine, of bevies of brown bodies stomping away until they threw up thick dust clouds in a dance floor halo. But today, well today felt like you should be inside curled up with a good book. Muttering a prayer to the festival gods, I ducked in under the tarpaulin. Jacob, dressed warm in a Swanndri, another ex-flatmate and good keen man from the south, was already up and about. "Morning, Izz. I was just making coffee. You want one?" "Yeah bro, cheers." I sat on my couch, waking up. Jacob turned from the cook top, handed me one of two cups, and came to join me. We lit cigarettes and contemplated the gloom. "Maybe it will all blow over?" I offered. "Nah, I've done a bit of tramping around these parts. When the weather’s like this, it'll hang around a while. A couple of days, I reckon." I looked at him. "Fark." "Could be worse,” he said cheerfully. “You could have only brought a hammock like Charley.” We laughed and wondered where Charley had gone. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  5. 4 likes
    MONDAY. I answered my phone on the third ring. "Izzy? I need you." My mother's voice awash with emotion. Heavy things working deep beneath the surface. "What? What is it?" I didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know. "It's Ginny, it’s the cancer, that bloody cancer, it's back." Her voice broke down in sobs. I didn’t think I could stand it. Hearing my mum sob down the phone. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
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    OUR TALK talked turned to movies, those being made and those currently on show, for Ginny and I went to them every few weeks, it was one of our 'things'. We talked of the upcoming summer and of Claire and Amber flying home from England, Hannah from Australia; of the Indigo family Christmas Ginny would host, for she was the keeper of our family traditions. Small talk, the sort of talk we always had. Maybe half an hour or so. And when we reached a lull, I began to silently frame the platitudes that would help ease my exit: Is there anything you need? I'll visit again tomorrow. I'm sure you'll feel better soon. But before I could, something new, different - desperate in Ginny's eyes. And our conversation strayed to areas we never went. "I'm tired, Izzy," Ginny said and looked it, enervated as if she treaded water in a sea full of sand. Then she began to talk about her weight. For nearly as long as I could remember Ginny had been overweight. A problem that started in her first year of high school when she'd been bullied because mum and dad couldn't afford to buy her the trendy type of P.E. shoes. Coming home to cry everyday, she'd sought comfort in food. A problem that escalated as she got older, one she could never quite get to grips with. A problem with a name: obesity - a name we never used for fear of hurting her feelings. For Ginny was so much more than that to us. Giving and sensitive, intelligent and creative and witty. Beautiful. Sometimes Ginny and I would discuss the current diet her and mum were on, how she was progressing, how much weight she'd lost. But this was the first time Ginny ever opened up to me about how she felt. As the night lengthened and I stayed hours longer than I intended, she talked to me about her periodic depression. "I can go for weeks pretending everything is all right. But then I see myself in a mirror and I can't pretend anymore.” The mirrors were everywhere: shop windows and seats that were too small, the judging eyes of strangers. Having stared down the black hounds of hair loss I understood, as perhaps only I in the family could. Ginny told me of her wish to get married, “He doesn’t need to be handsome, he just needs to be nice” - to have children, “Even one would be okay, just one perfect little boy or girl” - of how far away it seemed, how she thought it might never happen, “Sometimes at night when I’m laying there and I can’t sleep and I think about the future I get this sinking sensation, like something is crumbling, like I can actually feel something is slipping away . . .” She was thirty-five years old and I'd never known her to have a boyfriend. "I'm tired, Izz," she said at the end, "awfully tired. Just sick and tired of being trapped inside my body. Of being alone and not feeling well while the world passes by. And with every day that ends I think: that is another day closer to the day when it will all be too late, soon." There was a hissing. Something in the room hissed. Or in my head. I didn’t know, pushed past, pushed positivity, said, "Gin, it's never too late, I promise” - and I believed that then, wanted the world to work that way - “but first you've got to get better, right?" She struggled higher in her bed. "Yeah, I know. What I am trying to say is, when I do - ” she faltered, shy to share more. I was quiet, encouraged. “Well . . . I've made a decision. I’m going to take a year off. Sell my house and go live with Mum and Dad. Concentrate on getting healthy and losing the weight and nothing else, no work or anything like that. Really commit, you know?" She paused. A bashful smile. "A year just to be selfish. You don't think that's stupid, do you?" I didn't. We talked it through. We were both excited by the idea. The way she spoke I knew she meant it, her dream burned brightly between us that night. For all of my adult years I think I’d waited to hear her speak those words, or use that tone, or maybe both together. I told her I would help in any way I could and I meant it, and later when I left, it was with a feeling of great encouragement, of a renewed and revealed closeness with my sister. For the first time in a long time I felt an eclipse had lifted. For the first time in a long time I felt Ginny would be all right. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  7. 3 likes
    "9 O'CLOCK check in boys, a few words for our adoring audience please." I brought my camcorder to bear on Joseph and Tim. Joseph raised his arm in mock celebration, "It's 9 o’clock, it's New Years Eve 1999, and it's fucking pissing down." "Fuck yeah!" Tim added climbing over Joseph, raising his own arm in support. We dissolved into laughter. It couldn't be denied, it was fucking pissing down. The rain had been bad throughout the day but ever since the night it had turned torrential. Beyond the edge of the light of the food tent - where we sheltered - a silvery curtain was now wetly slapping at the saturated ground. And this the bigger problem, for the sheer amount of water that had fallen, combined with the poor drainage and the enthusiastic dancing of the thousands of Gatherers, had turned many areas into muddy bogs, especially the Trance Zone. In some places it was now calf deep and spreading, eating up the grass like erosion, like flesh eating bacteria. A quagmire, actually, with most having given up the fight to stay clean, people sitting down to make mud castles or practice swan dives, even break-dance in it, and the water pooling, many a tent now periscoping out of scummy ponds, and of course, the kicker, ever since the unseen sun had set, bitterly cold. It was surreal, horrible, the worst of all possible luck, and yet . . . and yet . . . I was having the time of my life. The location, the open air, the good - the great - friends, the DJ’s, the sets, the sound systems, the dance arenas, the drugs, the artwork, the performance artists, the other Gatherers, the community ethos: all melded into an exceptional atmosphere, and nothing was going to break us or our determination to celebrate the millennium in style. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  8. 3 likes
    Well I can honestly say now I don’t know why. Other than young men have a healthy preoccupation with what hangs between our legs - and we do stupid shit. Very stupid shit. (We were also the guys, lest it be forgotten, who, caught short one Easter weekend, invented The Hazy Sunday: shots of port and bourbon, followed by a grape juice chaser. We liked it so much we drank if for a year.) To my knowledge, no girl in our crew was ever tempted to tame the tiger. Smart. Sam had never been initiated and he returned from the toilet now with a faintly disgusted look to find his time had come. The situation was explained to him. "And you want me to - " “Rub it on your balls, bro.” Sam's expression left us in no doubt as to what he thought of this proposition. "Don't worry, we've all done it," coaxed Darius. Joseph, Tim and I nodded. "But. Why?" It was a good question, a million dollar question. "Sam, you’ve got to tame the tiger, at least once," Tim said. "It’s a bonding experience. You want to be bonded don’t you?" "It’s the bonding I’m worried about.” But Sam wasn't immune to our purposeful stares, our crowding intent, as none of us had been before him, helped as it was by the generous joint we'd just smoked. He took a small amount onto his finger. "More than that," said Darius. He took a larger amount and turned away, fumbled at his pants. When he’d finished, he turned back to find us all wearing the same predatory grins. "Oh, man, I can't believe you've just done that," I said. "What?" said Sam. "You guys all have." "Nah, bro. We just wanted to see if you would," said Tim. "I mean, who rubs Tiger Balm on their balls?" Sam squirmed, the effects already and obviously being felt. He peered at us, worried now. An interestingly hysterical edge entered his tone. "You're joking right? You've done it before, right?" "You know, I wouldn't worry Sam," Joseph mused philosophically. "I'm sure you couldn't buy it over the counter if it could do you any real harm. But, bro, you're going to have some pretty hot balls for a while." We collapsed in hysterics; were bent over in stitches. "You guys are fuckers," Sam cried casting about for a bottle of water. “Fuckers. Fuckers. Fuckers.” We let it play out, laughing our arses off all the while, but stopped him just as he was about to douse his pants, let him know we had all in fact tamed the tiger as well. It took some time and some convincing. After he'd finally put away the bottle of water he shot us one last dark, dark look. "Fuckers." It kept us amused all the way back to the Trance Zone. Later, Sam was to get a hug from a cute girl who told him he smelled delicious and wanted to know what aftershave he wore. He didn't know how to explain it was the smell of Tiger Balm wafting up from the front of his pants. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  9. 3 likes
    LATE IN the day, the boys and I were back at camp for a change of clothes. We shared a joint before Sam headed for the portaloos and Darius ducked into his tent. He came back carrying a small jar. "Right-o, time to tame the tiger," he said. How to explain taming the tiger now? Well I guess the first thing to understand is that the recreational drugs accompanying Electronica come with their own accoutrements: small things used to make a night out flying better; knowledge passed from one to another as dance scene lore. There was gum, poppers, nos, chupa chups, glow sticks, glitter spray; and for my crew there was also Tiger Balm: a liniment normally used to help with sore muscles, arthritis and the like, which heated on application. But someone - my money was on Darius - had discovered that if you rubbed it on the side of your temples and the back of your neck when high it quickly went from ice hot to burning cold - paradoxically cooling you and feeling pretty damn good all at the same time. The only trick was not to rub your eyes after application, which I'd promptly done my first time, a lesson never to be forgotten . . . but still better than the guy who once thought it chip dip, with predictable and hilarious results. Darius - being Darius - soon started to push the tiger envelope, applying the balm to new and interesting body parts generally heading in a southerly direction, until one fateful day it happened and a brave soul’s love spuds came into the crosshairs. Whom that brave soul was I don’t know, but ever since it had become a rite of passage for the boys, even acquiring a name: taming the tiger. So that explains the what, as for the why . . . * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  10. 3 likes
    THOSE FIRST early afternoon hours were magic. We charged into the Trance Zone as if storming a castle, charged into a vast tapestry of sound spun with stupefying power from those ten coned fingers. I danced next to Tim who grooved away with a one-arm-pump-alpha-coolness, head scanning the crowd for hotties. I danced next to Darius dressed in rainbow pants and looking like a raggedy-ann man-doll; who contrived to dance off-beat, to dance in-between the beat a split second behind the rest, totally in sync being out of sync with the music. I danced next to big Dan craning over the crowd, and next to Joseph sucking in his cheeks in exultation. I danced with my hands in the air, yelling fuck yeah as the trance built to dizzying peaks. I danced and grinned at Sam and Jacob and Charley, Kathy and Sandra and all the rest. And still the rain came down. In those first hours it was unique and welcome, the air keen and lyrical in our lungs and tasting of damp botanical things. The day diffuse with a hidden sun’s light, clothes getting wetter, heavier, colder, clinging. Shoes wet and squelching, ground sodden but not saturated yet, and with every glance up as though peering through a skylocked sea. Everywhere smiles. Smiles of beautiful women on their galaxy glide to parts unknown. Smiles of your fellow trancers as you contemplate the puddles and beginning mud. Smiles of your closest friends, arms wrapped around one another, pointing and shouting, having a laugh, slipping over, it all being some great cosmic joke. But as the first hours and first drugs burnt off, as people drifted away soaked and looking for shelter - and everything grew a little harder and a little colder - the rain didn't seem so welcome anymore and we wished for it to stop, if only for a while. It only got heavier. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  11. 3 likes
    THIS THING was booking. It was laying rubber, making tracks. It was like the days after a natural disaster, a landslide or a flood, the speed of things. It was fucking unbelievable. First Hannah arrived on Tuesday morning and set herself up as Ginny’s nurse. It was her role by rights. They were kindred spirits, Ginny and Hannah, and Hannah knew how to ease the petty indignities of the illness in a way the rest of us did not. Dad next, in the afternoon, a six-hour drive alone with his thoughts and his sad country and western songs. Ginny asked us to think of practical things for him to do. She knew it would be especially hard on Dad, the cancer - God, that word, saying it felt like throwing up - but there was nothing practical to be done. All he or any of us could do was wait, and fret, and try to get a handle. At 5 in the afternoon my parents and I kept an appointment with our GP, Doctor Lau. We sought answers. We sat in his too-small office, smelling of medicine and the elderly, with the years-old magazines and the green plastic-wrapped examination bed in one corner, and didn't get any. Doctor Lau was vague. Vague in a wat that said he didn’t want to steal our hope, but of hope there wasn't any. I wouldn’t stand it and kept pinning him with questions. How long? What can be done? Give us your opinion - Scrabbling for something. Anything. Finally Doctor Lau said, "I'm very sorry but there's nothing to be done, except to make Ginny comfortable. You should prepare yourselves. It is likely weeks, not months.” We crumpled. It was a quiet car-ride back. Ginny asked in a tired voice what Doctor Lau had said. It was our turn to be vague. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  12. 3 likes
    AND HERE the Trance Zone. A gasper, I tell you. Awe inspiring. Like reaching Mount Aoraki's summit, the unhindered horizon, its sheer scale terrific. Set into a natural amphitheatre the size of a football field, it was collared on three sides by the same set of slick, tangled trees that towered. Inside, creating a ring, I counted ten sideways blue funnels - each at least twenty feet high, half again as deep - and each overflowing with enough speakers to be worthy of their own sound systems. Ten of these. Deep at the back was a raised DJ platform: a blue headstone arch flanked on either side by wall-sized screens, and in the zone itself, clusters of green and blue columns, some taller than the speaker funnels, crowned by multi-coloured closed flowers or stacked pink planets. And all above a gleaming green field that looked in severe need of several thousand people jumping up and down on it. It was beyond all expectation, and in happy admiration we stood on its edge awhile, boisterously discussing which DJs we looked forward too and where the best speaker cross-over points were - those sound oases of the dance floor - and generally just soaking in the atmosphere, until, just as we were about to leave, had just started to turn away, were wet and dripping and intent on hot beverages - coffee? Yeah, yeah, coffee - we were stunned still and silent by a sudden sonic boom that came crashing out of the zone, a tsunami of sound, a thunderclap collapsing. It roared around us, vibrated through us, shook us up for a good half minute or so. "What . . . the hell . . . was that?" I asked as the sound faded, running down like an expiring earthquake. "That, my boy," answered Darius with a grin, "is what they call a sound check for the Trance Zone." It was beyond all possibility and I’m sure I was slack-jawed as I heard someone mutter: "Fuck me." It was probably me. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  13. 3 likes
    BY MID-MORNING we’d gotten sick of huddling at camp. Everyone was up, Charley had unfolded from the front seat of Darius's station wagon, and we could feel the lure of the Trance Zone out there, in the rain, its detonation only two hours away. So we made our peace with the weather, said to ourselves, what's a little bit of water, after all?, got ourselves organised and ventured forth. Almost immediately we gravitated to a camp a few sites down where true house-bus-owning hippies had parked up. Fifteen of them were out in the rain in a semi-circle, drumming up a storm. We knelt before them to watch. At the front was a little boy with corkscrewing blond locks, huge smile splitting his face as he banged bongos for all he was worth; at the back an elderly lady, sun beaten and leathery, eyes closed and ecstatic, drumming a doumbek also with wild abandon; others of both sexes and ages in-between. Water danced on the surface of their drums and flew from their flying hair; their frenetic multi-timbre beat intercut by woodstocks, tambourines, bells, their accompanying shouts emphasising their rhythm. I'd never seen a hippy drum circle before, but whatever my prejudices about such a thing - although who was a man wearing silver nail polish to judge? - they quickly melted away. Everything about it appealed to me: the aliveness and joyfulness, the pure-centred presentness. In the crisp cold air something primordial stalked, some deep tribal consciousness uneffaced, and in the grey it called to the faithful, collected them, so that by the time we'd left scores had congregated, pulsed with appreciation. "Fark that was cool," I said to Darius as we moved away. "Fucken A,” he replied, his eyes bright. “You know if only you had enough hair for dreadlocks, Izz, you'd make a good hippy." Allan, he of the perfect hair and the laugh like an evil dolphin plotting to take over the earth, ne-ne-ne'ed in the murk. We pushed on, made for a track that would take us through the trees and across the ridge line and down into where the dance zones, market stalls and hundreds of portaloos lived. Large pools of grey-green water, cold and reeking of loam, now had to be dodged, and when we reached the track, full of the soft sad chatter of rain on leaves, we used mincing steps to keep our feet on its slippery clay surface. A few wobbles and frantic arm waving caused much mirth, but nobody went for a proper skate. Safely negotiated, we emerged into the wide-open spaces of the dance fields . . . * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  14. 3 likes
    TIME DASHED the moment the diagnosis was given. Ginny had not responded to the antibiotics and gone back into hospital. Mum flew up from Palmerston and began to give daily updates as the first inklings Ginny's illness was more serious coalesced like a graveyard fog. But none of us were prepared, though, for the day the right tests were run. For when the young doctor entered Ginny's room on a Monday morning and said the melanoma was back, had metastasised, was far advanced. He had no treatment plan to offer. Before leaving the room, eyes downcast, shamed in the face of Ginny and mum's shock, he said they should contact the Hospice. Then he was gone. The Hospice - palliative care for the dying. In a quavering voice Mum recounted all this. It was later that morning and we were driving back to the hospital to pick Ginny up. She did not want to stay there. She wanted to come home. The doctors said okay. Dying. . . I couldn’t comprehend it. It had been such a minor thing the year before when Ginny had the mole cut from her leg. The ‘shark bite’ she called it. We knew it was cancerous, but it was small and the surgeon thought he'd got it all, and things had soon gone on as usual. But he hadn’t. Ginny, who never went out in the sun and was the only one in the family never to have smoked. Ginny, who at thirty-five was now dying of skin cancer. My mind shrank back from the implications, focused on what next needed to be done. Hannah, in Sydney, got a call as we drove. My sister was not ready for the conversation. Who could be? I wish now I’d been able to break the news better, that my intentions had been more pure. That some stunted, horrid part of me hadn’t thrilled at the drama of it all, the sheer scale of disclosure. This shrivelled to nothing before the terror in Hannah's voice. "What do you mean cancer?" I had to pass the phone to Mum to explain. Mum soon began to cry. I sucked down cigarettes one after another. Finally Mum passed the phone back. "Hannah, you have to get here as soon as you can. I mean like today or tomorrow.” Tears in her voice, Hannah promised she would. We agreed to talk later and I ended the call - Hannah crying. I hated to leave her like that: upset, alone, at work. But what could I do? Nothing. There was nothing any of us could do. When we arrived at Ginny's room she was putting on a brave face but could no longer hide the battle her body was losing. Like an acid splash, it was etched all over. She was ten kilograms lighter - a great start to her weight loss we had joked only a few days earlier - her skin a translucent white. Her breath came hard and heavy, her movements were slow, and her eyes, from their dark hollows, guttered like candles in a cave. Yet even then I did not fully understand, had not brought her oxygen tank for the drive home. It was only a short drive, you see. Mum was upset. Ginny forgave. But it was difficult for her. She had to sit with the window down, head partially out, panting. Out of the corner of my eye I studied her, as the traffic swirled by and that indifferent Monday went on, as the whole of that scene chewed a hole through my brain, and I could no longer pretend. Dying. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  15. 3 likes
    I FIXED a smile. It felt lean. "Well, I guess, at least you're getting the right treatment now." My words sounded glib to me, too easily said, too little felt. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my sister. She was a far better person than me. When I was eight, she spent weeks painting my bedroom wall for no other reason than to delight her little brother. Slowly a glorious Smaug emerged, gloating over his gold-pile, to guard my sleep for many years. Ginny could spend months shopping for presents for upcoming birthdays; she agonised over every little choice. For Christmas lunch she made her own crackers, selected the toys and wrote the riddles and the jokes and cut out the crepe paper crowns, just for the joy it brought. If the situations were reversed, she would know what to say. But my thoughts were too thick, too thickly coiled to allow me to properly empathise. Even then, as I felt for the next piece of small talk, my mind strayed to the things I wanted to do later. After a while I asked, "How are your room-mates?" A spark came to Ginny's eyes and she indicated I should come closer, dropping her voice so it would not carry beyond the curtain. "They all seem pretty nice," she said, "but you should see this one woman they brought in this afternoon. I’m telling ya, rough with a capital R. She'd fallen out of a car, drunk, and then - get this - been run over by it.” My mouth dropped open. “I know, and that’s not even the funny thing, Izz. After they set her up in the room - " “Cleaned off the tire marks, that sort of thing - ” Ginny let out a little giggle. “Yeeah. Well she spent all afternoon making these loud phone calls to all her rellys. Everybody on the ward could hear, and it wasn't like she was saying, 'I've been in an accident and I'm in hospital, but I'm okay'. The first thing out of her mouth was, 'Bring me my booze and my fags, and a fucken feed.' In that order." "You'd think, what with being run-over and all, you would have had enough to drink for one day." "I know, right?" We had a good chuckle over 'some' people. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  16. 3 likes
    WHY ARE hospitals so bright inside? What are they afraid of losing? That day the light, neutered of warmth and goodness, cast from long rectangular bulbs in the ceiling and gleamed by glossy walls and linoleum floors, felt like the clinch of a sterile sun. I walked with squeaking footsteps down narrow corridors coagulating with stuffy air. The smell of disinfectant strong, but not strong enough to mask the miasma of corruption, of steel and blood, death and decay spilling from the rooms passing to my left and right. Some of the doors were open, and I caught brief glimpses of the intimate tableaus inside. Patients: lost, white, hunched, hacking, in pain; visitors: hushed, numb, horrified, blind; workers: loud, cheery, oblivious, putting in their nine-to-five. Nurses, looking harried, hustled past or sat at stations behind piles of folders, dressed in unripe greens and blues. I knew they did a tough job well, but - still, I couldn't help the prickle I felt in their presence, the sense of remnants remained, the end-of-timers they'd helped usher to other worlds. From one I got directions to my sister’s ward and room. I hurried on, squeaking. Earlier in the day my aunt had called to say Ginny was in hospital. My sister had been battling the flu for the past few weeks, one of those on-again-off-again health problems she always seemed to have. I hadn’t paid much attention, other than to send a few emails to check in. That was until my aunt called. Hospitals meant something more serious; it snapped me out of self; sent me off in search, rattling down those antiseptic halls. Ginny I found on the second floor, at the far end of a tubular and cream room. She lay in a folded-up bed plumped with pillows, obscured from others by a half-pulled green curtain. She looked pale - more than an aspect of the light or the shapeless white gown she wore - her freckles prominent, brown eyes bright, face framed by loose, dark hair. A thin cord ran from her nose to a whispering machine at her side. Into one arm’s vein, an IV dripped. I registered all this in the ten steps it took to reach her side. Registered also my first pangs of unease. Ginny looked like she needed to be in hospital. "Hiya," I said with forced cheer as she spotted me and made the effort to sit up. "I come bearing gifts." I took the seat next to her and fished out some X-Men anthologies I'd brought. Ginny liked comics and the movies, crafts and the family. She had a great sense of humour and we laughed a lot. I never felt judged in her presence. She thanked me, took them, flicked through a few pages, and then set them aside. "So how you feeling?" "Not the best," she answered in a far-away voice. She tucked a stray piece of fringe behind one ear as she thought it over, then said, "I ache, and it's like it's all over, Izz. Like it's in my bones or something. And now I can feel these weird lumps across my stomach.” She indicated where they were, a disquieted look on her face. She made me feel them. "Aw, Gin." I didn't know what else to say. We sat looking at each other. "What do the doctors think?" I finally asked. She sighed. "Some sort of obscure virus, but they're not sure. They're pumping me full of antibiotics and giving me painkillers every hour. Hopefully it will all start to kick in soon." "Gin—" that lack of words again. "I . . . I should have known. Come to see you sooner." I was the only one in the family living nearby but I had not seen her in weeks. Ginny fluttered her hand. "I didn't know. I was at home with the flu this morning. Weird, ay?" * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  17. 3 likes
    yeah, 'twas good. Bree and I got lucky cause we had a 40th that night, but luckily it was at the Story Bridge Hotel so was easy to bounce to Frequencies after. Small crowd but most peeps were dancing. They'd moved the decks right back, so there was more room in front than behind which I think was a smart move. I'll have to make sure it's set up like that for my thing.
  18. 3 likes
    Congrats to our boy infraDread for winning the BRISM Battle saturday night
  19. 3 likes
    Okay that is a pretty good story about weather, I remove my protest. And it occurs to me that in parts beyond Sydney there might be a cyclone or something going on
  20. 2 likes
    G'day guys, Firstly, great to see someone attempting to revive the good ol' forum feel, in the wake of the ITM forums' life support status of the last little while. With that, here's a new mix from me, recorded live at 'Apollo Arcade; at Secret Garden Bar in Enmore, a few weeks back: This was an incredibly enjoyable set, and a wonderful opportunity to play a complete, two-hour, vinyl only set! I've just managed to compile the tracklisting for this one — which you'll appreciate takes a little longer for such a set! — and, for what it's worth, I generally try and buy vinyl-only releases, too, so there might be some gems in here that might not otherwise be available. Big love and many thanks to Matty Connor for the booking, the beers and the chats! Hope you enjoy this one! x > Download Here > Listen on Soundcloud Here : Tracklisting: 01 : Baba Stiltz - 'Keep It Lit' (Original Mix) [The Trilogy Tapes] 02 : Fouk - 'Coconuts' (Original Mix) [Room With A View] 03 : Loz Goddard - 'It Will Come To Me' (Fouk Remix) [Outplay] 04 : Dorsi Plantar - 'Jass' (Original Mix) [Kyouku Records] 05 : Fouk - 'Gruff' (Original Mix) [House Of Disco Records] 06 : Pontchartrain - 'Every Man' (Original Mix) [Kolour Limited] 07 : Junktion - 'Sunny Side Up' (Original Mix) [Outplay] 08 : Soultronic & Kiu D. – ‘My Man’ (Original Mix) [Masterworks Music] 09 : Ponty Mython - 'House For Sale' (Original Mix) [Better Listen Records] 10 : Snacks - 'Matinee' (Original Mix) [House Of Disco Records] 11 : Coeo - 'Long Night Ahead' (Original Mix) [Razor-N-Tape Reserve] 12 : Labor Of Love - 'Feel The Flame' (Original Mix) [Labor Of Love Edits] 13 : Silk 86 - 'Vince Charming' (Original Mix) [Emotive] 14 : Body Music - 'Just One' (Original Mix) [Razor-N-Tape Reserve] 15 : Jack J. - 'Something (On My Mind)' (Original Mix) [Mood Hut] 16 : Kai Alce ft. Rico & Kafele Bandele - 'Take A Chance' (Larry Heard Vocal Remix) [NDATL Muzik] 17 : M.ono & Luvless - 'Never Gonna Leave You 2K16' (Original Mix) [Kolour Limited] 18 : Ethyene - 'Cinnamon Flavor' (Kumquat Remix) [Kyoku Records] 19 : New Franklin Theory - 'Overhill Road Variation #2' (Original Mix) [Outplay] 20 : The Gene Dudley Group - 'Do The Cookie Dough Throw' (Lay-Far Remix) [Wah Wah 45s] 21 : The Popular People's Front - 'Keep Fighting' (Original Mix) [Sleazy Beats Recordings] 22 : Saine - 'Technique' (Original Mix) [FINA Records]
  21. 2 likes
    CHAPTER 4. NEAR 12 PM, we were back at camp for a change of clothes - feeling good, fully amping. Beyond our tents flowed hundreds of Gatherers in good cheer, sports fans on the march, pilgrims on the path to Mount Kailash, Shikoku, Varanasi - livers and lovers, dancers, on the Trance Zone surge. We geared up, we joined, and we didn't stop until caught by the rope cordon of the Zone. Beside me Joseph, Tim, and Big Dan, towering over us at six foot nine; and us part of a much larger mob, rugged-up and snug: people in a multitude of beanies, jackets, and warm wool jerseys, some carrying umbrellas, some squatting down, news cameras present, clouds, steam; and all just one huge homogenous yearn for that empty and pristine field out front. The rain still down, coming down, but bearable: the heavier drops chubby and cool on your face, the lighter ones ghosting about in a fine mist. A novelty, even. Enjoyable. I mean how often are you outside, outdoors, and uncovered in rain really? Besides, electricity was in the air, we were on the edge of a thousand years, and no water in the world could have quenched our spirits, our buoyant hearts at that time, in that place. Simmering. Anticipating. With restless intent. But not for long. Like artillery at the start of an attack, enormous Japanese drums opened up with booming incantations. The chatter of the crowd went up to fever pitch. The first bass-ladened beats crack-ti-cracked the air; the buzz spiralled higher; Rubix’s track something suitably epic. We were barely contained, frothing against the rope. Time slowed, paused, ticked over. 12 o’clock and the rope was down. It was down and you couldn't help it, suddenly you were running, running for all you were worth, running for the middle of the Trance Zone, bumping and jumping with your friends, with hundreds of others, running and shouting and whooping your delight; past the cameras, across the grass, through the rain; just one crazy pell-mell sprint for no other reason than it had begun. The music was here. And The Gathering had finally, truly begun. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  22. 2 likes
    TFIF fuckers I'll be heading to Australia Zoo this w'end, for my first ever visit. I'm looking forward to seeing the Irwins in their natural enviroment. Mmmm... Bindi...
  23. 2 likes
    only 4 more hours of work then it's chocolate time
  24. 2 likes
    AT GINNY'S house, Mum helped her change into her nightie and we made her as comfortable as we could on the cream-and-rose patterned couch in her lounge. These were the days of terrible milestones we didn’t see; it was the last time Ginny would choose her clothes. We started to rally the family. Dad got a call and would drive up the next day. Hannah phoned and said she was on a flight the following morning. And in the early evening I placed the final two calls to my sisters in London. Amber and Claire, just starting their Monday mornings, were appalled. What they really wanted to know couldn’t be answered. What can we do? What are the treatment options? How long does she have? Should we come home now or wait until our flights at Christmas? In the end I could only tell them what I thought, "You need to come home now, right now. You can't take the risk." After the calls: exhaustion. Mum and Ginny quiet, watching TV. There was nothing more to do, nothing else to say, so I headed back to my apartment. In the dark I stood on my balcony and smoked a joint and looked down on the shadows of Auckland's old train station, on the all-night-lights of the port in the distance, and listened to a city settle in its bones. The news started to spread. My friend, John, blundered into the epicentre. He called. “Hey chump,” he said. “Hey.” “We’re heading out for a beer tonight, wanna come?” “I, I don’t think I can . . .” there was a crack in my voice, raw emotion. I wanted to, needed to share. My friends would know what to do. My friends would make me feel better. John would make me feel better. I tried, “My sister, she’s sick. We just found out - " But there was panic in John’s voice. He did not know how to deal. On a Monday night, this was not what he’d expected. This was beyond all our established parameters. This broke all our rules. He could see where this was going, I was one step away from crying, weeping down the phone to him. Desperately he cut me off. “Buddy, I’ve got another call.” I was a pariah, outcast, unclean. I was fucking Milli Vanilli. Still, I tried, “It’s really bad, I don’t think she’s - " “I’ve gotta take this, I’ve gotta go.” John had gone. He did not know how to deal. Neither did I. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  25. 2 likes
    there's still enough room behind the decks to have a crowd dancing, but yeah, gotta give the punters what they want
  26. 2 likes
    yeah, it was a great night! i had fun
  27. 2 likes
    toughen up princess
  28. 2 likes
    261 posts in this thread already. I wonder how quickly we can double that...
  29. 2 likes
    yeah, I went for a walk in about the worst of it yesterday, found a storm water drain near by that had had it's cover 'blown' off and water geysering out in the middle of the road, pretty hectic
  30. 2 likes
    Weather? Et tu liberabit?
  31. 2 likes
    Yep you must be doing it wrong You can also upload your sets into the musicbox on the site so people can listen while browsing (and wont get lost in a thread) - the spinning ballerina in the musicbox is AdamMadd in his lightsuit Oh, and great sets dude! Finally, the accepted convention is to like your own posts around here - not because we're vain, well maybe, just a little . . .
  32. 2 likes
    No, it should just work automatically as soon as you post the link as plain text in the post. Although sometimes it can have issues embedding if the server has trouble connecting to soundcloud (occasionally happens with soundcloud - trying to figure out why specifically soundcloud)
  33. 2 likes
    The site is pretty good with embedding like that.. You just paste the URL, and the site will embed it into the post.. Like so:
  34. 1 like
    by 'quite a few' you mean 'not enough'?
  35. 1 like
    this has been quite a few public holiday weeks in a row!
  36. 1 like
    so is today hump day, or was that still yesterday?
  37. 1 like
    BACK INTO a new track flooding the Zone, lush and muscular, layers upon layers, orchestral, upwelling. This trance, those big speakers barking, my god, this trance, emotions sparking, everything on the up and up, everything on the move, and then - BOOM - the track exploded and we were gone, gone. Gone. Rushing for the first time - dancing, hollering, igniting - moving in whatever way took hold, in whatever manner best pleased. Nothing but us and the bassline now, on the Nirvana express, aeronauts launched a thousand feet straight up, down, sideways, catapulted away again. So few ways to express all us starvelings felt: the blaze of fraternity, empathy, love, compassion: the X sending us to places we could never have reached on our own. Timeless. Pure. Rare. Beautiful. Bliss. Then. Big Dan looming over me, yelling something in my ear. “Iz. . . y! . . . Pet . . . osed . . . to . . . hanie.” “Whaat?” “Pete's . . . posed bro! They . . . ting married!” Dan spun me around; his wolfish grin filled my vision. A pause, I understood and we were in, all in to hug the happy couple. A group hug of twenty of us, jumping and shouting and hurtling still higher with the news. Evil Petes marrying Stephanie. A-haaaa, wicked! On, Up, Further we went, into the quaking pitch, into the rain and riot and cannonade of the Gods, avatars of freedom, bambinos of lightning, on and on and up and further and on and into some misty, mystic pinpoint of paradise. Something was coming; the trance had fled. I gave my camcorder to Dan in the hope of capturing it; it died in the rain. In the space in between we trembled, arms around each other's shoulders and lit to our very tips, heads turned towards the flower towers where the petals peeled to reveal high-powered strobes . . . * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  38. 1 like
    11, EVERYBODY'S eyes on high beam, a bit rushy, a bit giggly, and we all agreed it was time to set out and begin our countdown to midnight. Into the plunging, drumming rain we went, heading for whump, whump, whump of the Zone lighting up the dark in the distance, all oranges and purples, and looking like some sort of fantastical castle. Past the red roofed structure of the DnB Zone, past the Happy Hardcore and House tents, past the car-park-sized crater of the fire pit, a weak bonfire at its bottom, hissing, forging on, through the snarls of other wet wayfarers and into the growing roar, the slop and suck of our footsteps, our heads bent, our hands pocketed, until, just as a breakdown began, as the bass was stripped and all was lulled and left strangely silent, we reached the battered edge of the Zone. In we went. In until the crowd constricted, stopped and didn’t go any further. I felt my feet sink. I wiped water from my face. I breathed deep and deeper again. I got ready to let go. In the wild night - big and bold, I could see Darius and Charley in front, big Dan and Joseph either side. Beyond, a dark carpet phosphorescent with lights and lasers, surging with excitement, brawling with desire, and unspooling to a remote robotic head glistening blue against black. In the yellow of its gaping mouth Baitercell was hard at work and deep in the mix; TV screens to either side swirled with visuals. There was a distinctive psssssshhhhhht. Charley also hard at work. Nitrous Oxide. He passed back a balloon round and full. I took it and widened my stance, inhaled half its cold contents, held it for a second, blew it back, inhaled it all. The world fell away. Sound pulsed: Whaaaa-Whaaaa-Whaaaa-Whaaaa-Whaaaa-Whaaaa. Big Dan propped me up. I was gone for a minute. I came back with a silly grin. * * * * This blog is a story. Each post picks up from the last. If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up. * * * * Enjoying what you're reading? Please take the time to follow the blog, like and comment. Your support means a lot. Also, sharing is caring. * * * *
  39. 1 like
    Please welcome F3mb0t who joined us on 23/04/17. View Member
  40. 1 like
    Bindi Australia Zoo would be great to see!
  41. 1 like
    cool yeh sickness is shit - booo!!! fuck you sickness booo!!!! meanwhile, only 1 day of work for 5 day weekend (after the 4 day weekend) which is then followed by a 3 day weekend.... What a time to be alive!
  42. 1 like
    Oh that's so sad!!!!
  43. 1 like
    yeah it was a good layout, especially for the number of people i think he originally wanted it to be boiler room styles where everyone was behind (in front of?) the decks, but people didn't like being behind there it seems
  44. 1 like
    I think thats the best place for them (the decks)
  45. 1 like
    Love the mix Brendan! Oh, and welcome to the forums
  46. 1 like
  47. 1 like
    so yesterday was a little wet huh?
  48. 1 like
    I guess I've spent too long with broken Soundcloud links on inthemix! Testing: EDIT: I'm obviously doing it wrong. Do I need [soundcloud] tags or anything?
  49. 1 like
    Welcome Brendan! If you are so inclined, you can put your soundcloud mix into the body of this thread by pasting the URL and then people can play it without having to jump over to SC. Though come to think of it, if you know how to create the link you probably knew that already
  50. 1 like
    Thanks for sharing it Brendan, and welcome to the community! Its great to have another ex-ITM'er here
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