Gas Leak Edit
Red Bull Music Academy Radio
workman: thegoldeneternity: Mark Rothko, Untitled, 1969.
We are out on a balcony overlooking a football field, somewhat old and falling apart, it’s pretty crowded and could reasonably fall over. The action is happening inside the room adjoining the balcony. Broken typewriters are being distributed through the crowd, they make sounds like wonky keyboards, the idea is we join in with the show. You wonder why everyone is crammed onto the balcony and the long, dark room from which the balcony juts, when they could’ve moved the whole show onto the empty field, well I just can’t answer that one. We start playing and the band are simply delighted; the many members (who are distinguished from the crowd by their being taller) are pushing this way and that, grinning and yelling instructions such as ‘ok, higher notes!’, or ‘let’s slow it down’. I trip and fall through the crowd until I reach the doors into the room. Once inside I hear that the typewriters on the balcony are just part of the bigger picture, which looks like a mountain in my head, and sounds like one too actually- a giant mountain made of chiming silvery metal, and the typewriters are birds and small airplanes buzzing around and around. Inside the ceiling is very low, instead of air there is sound. I push my way along one of the crowded corridors which break away from the room, there are caves moving in all directions, it’s like a maze. I round a corner and can no longer see any light from outside, there are people who look like they might be panicking but it’s hard to tell, I turn off into a cave where the sound is a little quieter and even more beautiful. At a dead-end I see a door in the wall, a sign above says ‘Dutch Coffee Shop’. I enter. The room is some kind of disused factory, broken machinery littered around, and as I shut the door behind me there is silence other than the buzz of electricity. A man, unreasonably tall, emerges slowly from a dark corner of the room, he walks towards me, stops, lifts his hand to point at me, and in his hand there is a gun. .. ..