The illest music

Putting Hardfest In Context

Disclaimer: Before you read any of this, check out the pictures from last night in the post right under this one. Because I said so.

Every part of my body hurts. Mostly all the bits I need to stand up, but especially the bits required for dancing. I’ve been awake for 25 hours.

The Electric Factory is the worst venue in the city. It’s event staff members are thieves and blackmailers…but maybe I’ll let Beitcher tell you about that. It really is funnier if you hear it from him.

There was no reason for Destructo to play an hour set. Dude doesn’t know how to drop a beat so none of his other bullshit matters. Every song was disappointment after disappointment. I leave at one point to go smoke a ciggarette, I find a glowstick on my way back in. It is my neon chemical sword. I’m too slow to use it to fight off Green Man.

Sinden was amazing. I’ve been a fan of music from the UK for years now (from Brit-pop to Grime, I just soak it all in) and the one thing I’ve always both appreciated/found curious about it is that our brothers and sisters across the pond just seem better at blending together different musical styles than we are.

There’s a point about cultural authenticity I want to make.

I can’t really remember it and that’s probably for the best. I should really do more research before I pop off all half-baked. Not saying that I’m not right, I’d just like to be able to leave you all without a shadow of a doubt that I am.

Trev decided that only people with British accents should be allowed to say Philly. I agree with him.

The two of us also decided that the Rave Queen is the 21st Century Succubus. You may laugh, but it’s true. She doesn’t need to wear makeup to highlight their feminine features, she’s got a mohawk for that. Her ears are almost pointed like an elf’s and she never loses that impish grin. Throughout the course of the night I’ll watch several fools follow her blindly into the crowd where I presume they met their doom.

If I wasn’t so stubborn I’d follow too. It’d be worth it.

Rusko is tribal music, plain and simple. The beats are bullet-ridden and the way they reverberate off the walls and floor heats the air up like a million sweaty kisses, fills your blood with the urge to sucker punch the gangly hipster in front of you and makes everything smell like cinnamon. If the god of war had to take a modern day form, I’m pretty sure it would be Rusko. Dubstep is the battle-cry for the unwashed masses modern youth who don’t know what they’re pissed off about and don’t care either.

Something goes wrong with Rusko’s laptop. No one really notices. I go outside for a smoke after he starts playing again. A woman named K asks me for a light, in the process of that I find a Philly fitted cap. This is a good thing. We keep talking and she claims to be the great-granddaughter of George G. Blaisdell, the man who invented the Zippo. She claims she isn’t fucking with me but I’m not sure I can really know that.

You see, she’s old.

Now I’m not making this judgement call, this is how she described herself to me (although I don’t know how many people would really consider 28 old.) She’s a grownup and she works a dangerous, stressful grownup job in a boring bumblefuck Pennsylvania town (Bradford, home of the Zippo manufacturing plant.) And she couldn’t get any mushrooms so she was sort of disappointed. I’ll allow the fib because my little sister’s reached that age where lies are her drugs. I can’t blame her for indulging in a childhood vice due to the absence of an adult one.

Crystal Castles takes an enormously long time to setup. I can tell by the grumbling and looks on their flushed faces that no one is pleased about this; I know exactly why. No one thought Destructo was going to play as long as he did and that Crystal Castles would come on earlier. Instead of having the good hour or so left on their rolls like they predicted they would they’re all starting to come down. Suck it e-tards.

Maybe I’m just as bad as them, though. The lack of music in the factory is deafening. Not being able to dance doesn’t make any sense.

I’m not sure what to say about Crystal Castles. Etheral would be a good way to describe it, sort of like the way it feels when you see a UFO. I’ve seen one (or three) so I can safely say that it’s actually exactly the same feeling. I think Alice Glass is an alien.

At some point she jumped into the crowd and Lars wound up supporting her narrow, whiskey filled ass on his head. I’m never going to let him live down the fact that he didn’t throw her, The illadelph Experiment could’ve gone viral. I’ll also never let Trev live down not tackling Diplo at Mad Decent block party, that also would’ve been an easy way to gain fame. Here’s hoping when I get the chance to assault or otherwise cause harm to a musician, I don’t puss out.

I see something amazing at one point, a group of people in front of me have formed some sort human flower which is blooming and closing to the beat of Castle’s set. It made me think of an article I read the other day about Acoustic Botany.

None of us is willing to admit we’re not strong enough to make it through the full set but we march on anyway. It’s obvious everyone in the place is half-assing their raving. Everyone is drunk, or stoned or out of serotonin with a fried endocrine system. Everyone still tried our damned hardest to get an encoure.

Crystal Castles did not oblige.

Fuck ’em, I was there for Rusko anyways.

-Jules

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