A white cowboy hat is gearing up to the decks. He strides past as tumbleweeds whistle like way-out-west; complete with classic flavour and big sky country. It is like high noon itching under my collar.
I know this player; I have seen his walk in these parts before. Late night under social lights as the party is winding up the warmth, settling on the groove get abducted to the rhythm.
Cool, steely eyed, braced on the party. In his sights like a side of a barn, a blind side buckshot for a sharp shooting ace. However, it is not yet time for blazing guns. It is time to ease back on the foot and pickup the pulse, connect to the kick and jack into the jazz.
I have been getting kinky on the throttle; rolling round the tempo, earning out the energy and lining up on the wave. This is a warehouse party where the rules are universal The time comes right when its time to Rave.
Then agreements are made in quick negotiations. Seconds count, click the transfers and the exchange is selected. Handed over, reigns in his hands the task is completed.
Directions become new tempos and melodies speak gentle giggling guidance. A dangerous seduction and a new sonic induction. People don't dance they are selected by the groove, located and vibrated, initiated into a tranceadelic thunk.
So it is is all gone home to the range. Boots buckled up and riding. The flavour is rich classic, big sky country. It is a warehouse party, the rules are universal and it's time to Rave!
http://hyperreal.org/raves/spirit/
