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C103
Article; from Feature 'Life is what you make of it'
TECHNOPARADE
Paris
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Techno
Parade, Paris 2002 /
Photograph: Christmas Tree
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"You've
gotta come! I want you as the go-go dancer on the float!" cried DJ Tal of Spiral Tribe, legendary traveller, veteran
of the Rave War, exiled evader of Thatcher's moral and
material terrorism in the eighties. He was taking part
in Technoparade 2002 in Paris, a rather more commercial
and superficial event than the technivals he usually frequents.
This year though, it was exceptionally political. Within
the newly elected right-wing government lurks a monstrously
ambitious Interior minister determined to rip the guts
out of the techno movement and lob them to the baying,
bigoted buffoons who elected him. They're trying to stop
us partying by passing laws against us, sending the riot
police in, taking photos of us, tapping our phones, arresting
us and confiscating our sound systems. Seriously. As if
they really think that that would check our growth when
any moron knows that our culture is a reaction to their
moral bankruptcy: their violence only nourishes our roots.
I get to
Denfert-Rochereau at 11 in the morning. I'm encouraged
when I see the float's appearance. It's covered with false
ads, against Bush, against the Middle-East massacres,
against consumer society... my kind of float. And then
there's the line-up. It's not full of yer super DJs from
crappy clubs: amongst others, there are dudes from FACOM,
Mas I Mas, POEM 07, some mental MC's - and it culminates
with a live set from our maestro Tal, under the resounding
label of ELEGAL ELECTRONICS NTW 23. No pissy pussyfooting
around, we gonna party!
We kick
off at the beginning of the afternoon boom-booming around
the boulevards of this dazzling city, even more fabulous
in the incandescent light of a hot Indian summer's day.
I'm the proud owner, I gotta admit it, of the original
grin. Every float is surrounded by its personal crowd
of disciples (in front of us it's trancing, behind shaven
heads are bobbing mechanically). We do Denfert to Bastille
in the record time of six hours, clusters of people on
top of bus shelters, others clinging to trees. Searching
a bit you can see them hanging off balconies, statues,
fountains, houses and car roofs. Throwing shapes. Jiggling
every which way. Heaving. A cordon bleu banquet of sensory
insanity.
It's seven
by the time we arrive at Bastille. Tal has just started
his live set. He was up until four in the morning, putting
the finishing touches. So we're all waiting, tongues voluptuously
licking lips - our own, unfortunately. We edge onto the
square. Only two floats are left, surrounded by about
ten thousand people. They're the commercial floats, sponsored
by big bucks with vested interests. Suddenly, three blokes
stamped 'SECURITY'spring on to the float from the crowd.
Brutally, they force us to cut off the sound, telling
us in securityspeak (one syllable, one-way and one volume:
loud) that it's finished, no more music, fuck off...
Between
the repressors and the exploiters we're going to have
to give a bit of elbow and a lot of thought to carve out
a small space for ourselves.
Spliff
up, somebody, while I prime the mind-grenades...
Article reproduced from CIRCA
103, Spring 2003, pp.56-57.
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