Everything Everything

standing in the crowd atop the floor in the room under the roof within the sound around the space-

There's a time and place for all, and this one, this one, here, now, green diatomic haze crosssection in the fluid dark. Purple backlit with multichrome strobes.

I am waiting here waiting here waiting here with the strange jangling spincycle wandering in my muscles. mkb has branded himself with the two affiliations he proudly wears; on one arm, Erin has written Everything2 in block capitals with a worn felt-tip. The other arm bears the single word dirty, borne out by the printout nametag he wears that proclaims him a member of the dirtylist. He will later share shouts of recognition and moments of sync with other members of said list as they lean over the railing of the mezzanine just above us.

I, too, am an everything. I, too, am dirty.

This, then, is us; everything dirty everything dirty everything dirty everything everything everything everything-

Liquid Todd's sounds falter slightly as the stage, now booted from its electronic sleep, shakes itself free and takes up the weight of the vibe with loops visibly straining as they accept the shared pulse shared sound shared sight of the thousand and Thousand who wait here for the loops and fury.

Karl and Rick are on stage, now, with another anonymous assistant (not Darren, that's all we know, at least, without looking at album notes) tweaking various controls and boxes. The flylights offer a soft tan illumination on their faces; the black T-shirts render their visages unto antigravity, floating madly behind the enormous bank of silicon that lurks up there for our enjoyment.

I feel the loops shake off the slip in tempo, string up to their own more solid beat -

this is why we are all here

dancing here then the only place I will with worlds enough of mine and others to hold their attention away and hold mine rooted in the spot. For the first and not only time tonight, as the machines finally SLAM into sync with the precision of slavemaster SMPTE, I wish dearly that I could smoke - but this is as close as I will get. The ventilation here in New York is better than was available at the last show I saw; there's a persistent cool draft playing across my back. I take a deep, deep breath; air and smoke and fog juice and sweat and alcohol play across my olfactories before rushing down into my lungs shouting catch me if you can! as they vanish. My diaphragm is ready for this, it's been ready all week. Looping tighter, looping longer, looping louder, then the microphone leaves the stand in Karl's hand to announce the opening of the show-

I'm invisible
(an eraser of love / an eraser of love)
why don't you call me I feel like flying in two
I'm invisible
an eraser of love
an eraser of love
why don't you call me I feel like flying in two
an eraser of love
an eraser of love

I don't dream (ice cream) I scream so much
(you know what I mean)
this electric stream
and my tears in league with the wires
and energy and my machine
this is my beautiful dream
I'm hurting no one
hurting no one
I want to give you everything
I want to give you energy
I want to give a good thing
I want to give you everything
everything everything everything everything
in one final scream of love who could
climb this high
she looks beautiful like a child I feel tears
and I want to scream
you know what I mean- 'cause this is
hurting no one
(and a razor of love)
hurt the necessary feeling
why don't you call me (I feel like flying in two)
why don't you call me (I feel like flying in two)
why don't you call me (I feel like flying in two)
why don't you call me (I feel like flying in two)
an eraser of love-

Long past the blood sugar, I'm cracking fat into carbon fuel and I can feel it happening. My feet hurt like hell from the crappy shoes I'm wearing, my throat feels like someone's been using it for an ashtray.

The sweat is running from me in sheets and rivulets, molecules seeking equilibrium to dump their little shaking brownian motion down to my (my) skin. My shirt is completely soaked; there is no self-consciousness in the Hammerstein, and I am forced to convince myself not to rub my now-salty eyes (see you later) but can't count on help because the world has multiplexed finally. The beat is there, the loops are tight, the lasers lit, and I am pulled helplessly into the vortex of music involuntary response.

I can feel the dirt and sweat and dust and other detritus of the car trip sloughing off into the surroundings...perhaps this is the way to deal with feeling wound out and overstrung. I am a dirty. I am with Everything. Gotta be careful, hai?

Eveything dirty, sweat yourself clean


-October 18, 2002-
Underworld show
Hammerstein Ballroom
W. 34th St., NYC

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