As another New Year arrives I ruminate on the fact that it is more or less ten years ago to the day that my body has been dealing with unwanted cellular creativity. NYE 2004 was spent in the amazing city of Barcelona at a rocking New Years Eve underground warehouse rave put on by some of the Spiral tribe peeps living mainland Europe. I had travelled from London to meet my erstwhile and sometime dj partner Gravity Girl who like many others was travelling down from Berlin. I was going to dj Drum and Bass in the main room 2am. Mixed musical genre mainrooms are and have been, generally elusive (and not considered the done thing by the techno purists – you know who you are heh heh.) Anyways it was all unbelievably exciting. It had been arranged that I was staying with a notorious ex pat underground party legend felon in the Ramblas. His small pokey flat was full of corpulent man flesh, the air was damp with chemical spittle and perspiration, and thick with smoke. He was in the 24/7 pills and spills business. Jabba the Hut. I mean I couldn’t complain – not having a vehicle I couldn’t stay in the mountains, and I did have my own tiny airless room which I was grateful for even if it hummed with the smell of something very unsavoury and unidentifiable.
The party itself was chaos chaotic and amazing. There were power problems and the main rig was playing up, lights shortcircuiting, things blowing and cracking until miraculously I got to play. Second record in then BOOM all of a sudden everything happened. The lights started working the sound enveloped the space like a roar from the Lion of Isis and the basslines shook themselves out of her luxurious velvet mane. Genuine relief, Drum and bass and chemical elation magnetised and awoke the place.
I think I can honestly say it was one of the best gigs I ever played – where skill, luck, great tunes and random fortuitious serendipity all came together – and certainly the last big gig I played – but it was a double edged sword steeped in ambiguity I felt ill. I remember staggering back to Jabbas cave just as the day was breaking and the party was settling in for the next day. Giddy, tired, bleeding gums, big swollen lymph nodes under my right arm. I slept some. Then my lovely dj compatriot – who had been holding down the chill out space – over the course of the night had become virulently ill with manflu and in desperation made his way to the flat seeking somewhere to lie and sweat. It was decided the only place was on the tiny floor of my cupboard room. So some blankets were laid down – no room for a mattress – and the new occupant crawled wretchedly in and assumed corpse pose for the next 3 days and nights with his one eyed French bulldog asleep on his chest wheezing and farting for England. 24/7. What a room that was! Ach the things memories are made of and wasn’t I glad to get home.
It was to be 4 months on from that time that I finally got an appointment with the hospital – April 2004 and the diagnosis of breast cancer that was to change my life in profound and mysterious ways. Ten years, A double David Bowie! So many fine souls have left this earth plane in the last ten years – some abruptly, shockingly, painfully – others more slowly and prolonged. And I am still here for some reason (though without a doubt probably due to the time and generosity of friends and family and my own tenacity.)
This year I couldn’t get out for NYE even though there was a rocking punk spirit party in Tottenham Reknaw style (rest assured I did spend it in quiet cozy style), but the last ten years have been truly incredible and challenging and hard and rewarding. Would I have it any other way – no. Is it make or break time now for CGP – yes.
Frankincense at the ready – dream job in the offing –Last Push and All Systems Go. If you know me do feel free to drop a line or a text. (Additionally let me know if wordpress have put a inappropriate ad after my post!)
Happy New Year 2014.