One Step Back, Two Steps Forward

It's wild that musicos and bands such as Tensnake, Azari and III, and The Art Department are revisiting the Deep Chicago House sound, as pioneered by the likes of Derrick May and Frankie Knuckles.

I was a just out of my teens in Brighton, UK, clubbing intensely at the Zap Club and the Escape. Here I heard Frankie Knuckles' "Your Love" for the first time, and it still blows me away. I bought some of the first compilations available showcasing this sound in the UK, and a s**tload of 12"s. Before long, all this mutated into Acid House, but nothing undresses my soul as fast as the Chicago Sound, certainly not Acid House which was all baggy, tie-dye and oops, lost my erection.

The new Azari album contains familiar, modern classics such as "Reckless With Your Love". I use 'modern' with caution, as the track is a blatant test-tube baby, a lab rat house track. But it all sounds so good!!! I'm sold. And listen to "Undecided", which shows they are not afraid to knock it out the ball park.

One thing. Does this get played on mainstream gay dancefloors? When I lived in NYC this would not have been bpm enough, where tired tribal and pathetic pots and pans techno ruled the drug-addled muscle marys. Bah! Hated the circuit, so much. Alegria, nul point. Azari & III - 8.5/10

n e w m a n i a

Sorry. I'm back. Will update soon.

A L I C E I N W O N D E R L A N D

Robert Morris: Labyrinths-Voice-Blind Time (exhibition poster)

In attempting to analyse this image, which I viewed at the Serralves performance art retrospective 'Off the Wall', in Oporto yesterday, I feel myself tumble down the rabbit hole.

It functions on such a primal level, its fascistic, sexualised codes, its 'fuck-me, fuck you' pose. It's the gallery poster for a minimalist artist, for fuck's sake. Seventies' New York City, you eroticised yourself for me yet again.

Robert Morris had, over an extensive 'body' of work been playful and provocative with notions of the masculine artist. I cannot believe he was naive about the power this image would wield. This from the New York Times, in an 80s retrospective: "The tension between ecstasy and expiration, sexuality and death, leads back to Bernini's ''Ecstasy of St. Teresa.'' Mr. Morris is one of many contemporary artists drawn to the Baroque"

V A R I A Ç Õ E S

The early 1980s were a fearless time for the outré and the experimental seeping into the mainstream, but the fear was around the corner.
António Variações was a Portuguese pop star who channelled Sparks and Soft Cell and dreamed of the bright shadows of New York. His songs echoed with loneliness and desire. His heroes felt different, outlawed, burning with physical needs unrequited. His first song was a new wave interpretation of fado diva Amália Rodrigues - 'Povo Que Lavas No Rio'. He was brazen, and shimmied on stage like an exotic bird.
All around and on the streets, the mood was a rejection of the grey of yesteryear, but few were as daring as he. His second album 'Dar e Receber'/'Give and Receive') ready, it's 'Canção de Engate´was about to catapult him centrestage. It invaded the radios, just when he died of AIDS-related pneumonio in 1984.
Some 26 years later, slipping through the turgid, grey gay scene of a wonderful but somewhat embattled country, I felt compelled to start a celebratory party in the name of innocent, gaudy fun. Enough of thinking small, or safe. It's early days yet, but as I dream, I think of António Variações, and wish he were here. And I want to create something that honours his wild, wooly energy!

R A P T U R E

T O R N

I always was a hiphop kid. I was that before I came out. In 1982 that meant Grandmaster Flash and New York. Chrome and glass reaching into the sky and Adidas. In 1986, living in Brighton, UK, I saw the Def Jam tours of the Beastie Boys with Run DMC, and LL Cool J with Public Enemy. I had the Def Jam sampler cassette in '88. I knew what they were saying in the lyrics, but I was just responding on an intuitive level. The beats were everything to me, and the idea of living street life. Jimmy Sommerville, twisting in garish (pink) videos was giving me no comfort, no matter how hard my subconscious was telling me to come out. I saw Big Daddy Kane about the same time. I bought Roxanne Shanté and thought Queen Latifah was... ahem, dope. By the early 90s, I embraced hiphop as it got more mainstream, and stupider. I bought Doggystyle, and The Chronic is still right up there.
Between then and now is a long time. Easy E died of Aids, Jam-Master Jay got shot. The charts begat will.i.am. I think he's a closeted homo, right? Oh, and Pharrell. And Missy Elliot and Queen Latifah - duh. I read somewhere that Dr. Dre has a boy toy hidden away out somewhere on Long Island.
And then these fellers came along.
GLAAD has already spoken out about Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All. They're right. But why do I, a 43 year old hip hop kid, get excited by the beats, by the twisted, surreal bile laid over the top like arsenic on french toast. Why do I feel we need these skinny bitches, more than they need us?

Yonkers

Who's a fucking walking paradox now?

P I N K W A L L

Wednesday 18th May, at Três.