One does indeed sometimes wish, especially when one needs to leave a diegetic space, for a loop of exquisite beats and melody that is repetitious, never ending and always changing. This cannot be provided, of course, by vinyl’s concentric circle of decreasing length and increasing speed and, alas, finite intuitiveness. The end comes with vinyl and will always be predicted but the loop is an infinite of discursive possibilities destined to be repeated in an infinite fractal upward.
For one, that night, sync, the old school sync, the vinyl beat matching sync of old folk and purists, meant a constant interplay between mind and ear and eye and love; a decreasing circle of Zen; towards perfection. A move towards a moment forever tried, forever tested, forever sought but only ever achieved by those who experience the succinct interplay between the calm mind and body and the movement and moment of beatific purity. Flow comes from this; control of the environment by you yourself. Peace is achieved, the dance floor balanced.
It is not, nay, a push of a digital on screen button then a forgotten default moment, but a cumulative and intense feeling from the heart of every DJ who ever mattered and contributed to the whole history of Djing and, please, never, ever, belittle or show prejudice to the vinyl DJ for his or her art for that shows disrespect of the highest order and a lack of knowledge and appreciation of our rich history of pioneers and contributors to our ever expanding scene.
Pleasantness to the ear and feet can be produced through any medium of expression providing the perpetrator knows what the perfect beat sounds like. One does not need a vinyl record or CD or laptop to know this. It is a hard thought out, hard won accolade.
My party centered, as per, on a crisis of mind with many facets. My miserable, neurotic turnings played through a poker face. There seemed no single, miraculous note of human fellowship and love that could redeem this malaise bar my cheerfully unrepentant old sensualists with a candid appreciation of the deeper things in life.
The party has a wonderful ease and flow: its relatively brief running time is crowded with incident and plot, and yet each scene, each incident, each gesture unfurls in a winningly unhurried way. There is calm tenderness and even a kind of nobility in appreciating each glorious moment. I do apologise to my dear friend Stoney for sitting on one of his flight cases to DJ and somewhat bending the hinge.
It was a party whose gentleness and humanity left me sighing with assent. But, alas, as the sun rose, and the heat began to warm the bones once more, my time with the free free party people, who I do love ever so dearly, with an undue sentimentality that is never overtly justified or explained fully or openly, was over and the world beckoned once more.
"She had more sand in her than any girl I ever see; in my opinion she was just full of sand" (Mark Twain)