Got to get to Gottwood

I am a radio wave. A digital pulse. An uncertainty. I am Melodica. An abstraction. A voice in space. Reliable. Traveling. Endlessly restless. Searching for new sources to feed the addiction to music. The rhythm and the melody, the treble, mid and bass. The sound that is so much more than a sum of it’s parts. The love. The energy. Forever and ever, amen.

I am DJ, on a train (quiet coach), in a taxi (driving over the causeway from Holy Island to Anglesey), being wrist-banded (fetching purple colour, Gottwood Electronic Music and Arts Festival).

People. Company. Waves of bass. Dappled sunlight. Barbecue smoke. Scattered dancing bodies. I am playing in a convertible caravan, roofless and all the better for it. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, the wind is kind, the sea is flat, the ferry passengers are smiling, saved from the notorious Irish Sea swell, It’s high summer in the Northern Hemisphere. The trippers are taking the long route to Dublin via Holyhead and we’re on a hill somewhere, in a wood somewhere, in a caravan, playing music to sleepy Indians (no cowboys, just boys and girls in feathers), getting over the night before, waiting for the night to come. Same as it ever was.

After the set, Chris and I stand behind the van, sipping red from paper cups, and wonder why we still do this. And the only answer seems to be because it’s what we do. Tell that to the 600 smelters who just lost their jobs at the smelting plant across the bay. The chimney is still there but the jobs are gone. That was what they did. Smelting. Now they don’t.

But we’re here to play and then play. Same as it ever was. So we watch the sun set into the Irish Sea, sitting on top of a ruined cottage, two rooms, two fire places. We see the correspondents do their crazy jazz child catcher routine in a bedouin style tent. We hear Jack Sparrow being deep and introspective (in a good way) on a laptop in a room that used to be a cow shed that makes me feel like I’m back in London at some unspecified time in the past for all it’s smoke and sweaty bassyness. We hear Jamie XX play old house that used to be ours but now it’s not (in a good way), because it sounds good because it’s old. Youth recycling.

I am ink. I am paper. I am, inevitably, converting to ones and zeroes. From here on the train back down south, on the page, to there. Everywhere.