Typically the song of summer shows up around April. Typically it is not from Australia, unless you are in fact from Australia. Atypically it shows up in early July.
France is the country where every fad goes to live out its afterlife. Honestly, they close streets around the Seine to this very day so people can rollerblade. If you told me that there were train stations just outside the Péripheriqué where you could only board by showing your slap band I would believe you without blinking. From a media market perspective, the French are hugely challenging. You get off the Eurostar and you see skater kids reading newspapers in the Gard du Nord. Honest to God newspapers.
Australia is not where fads go to die. Except for house music. Climatically, Australia is house music. Which is why, of the five people who still listen to it on planet earth, it takes an Australian to make it temporarily, culturally relevant.
I think about this track -a ‘tropical’ house track- as we spend the sunny afternoon drinking in Seven Dials (the thinking Londoner’s Covent Garden.) All house is tropical house in Australia. I’m pretty sure I can hands-down beat any of you in a game of ‘where were you’ for the millennium because I was off my face on Bondi Beach, my shoeless feet pounding the sand, dancing to Sasha live cranking Xpander as the first sunrise of the next thousand years came up over the Pacific Ocean… Australia being one of the first countries to greet said sunrise. (January 1 itself involved spending the day with a United Nations gemologist I had befriended that evening who had legally brought a carry-on bag full of party favourites into the country because he didn’t get stopped at customs. We were dancing in the backyard of a house looking over Bondi Beach. I saw one of its residents dance on the wall like a vampire, defying all laws of gravity. Am I too young to write an autobiography?)
Rarely does that sense of infinite freedom and infinite, soul-level youth transfer into something so prosaic as a summer house track. But in the warmth of summer London, I think it is so, while merrily drinking in the sort of magico-spatial surrounds that only a place like this can deliver. Seven dials.
Those bartenders in the hero image are pouring in the centre of that poorly-planned nexus. Let me calibrate it further.
I am drinking in the pub in the background. Let’s put the two together.
Now let’s push back the clock.
I look across the square, I look around me, I listen to people enjoying the cricket, I look up and imagine what it must look like to be looking down. (Thanks, Google image search!)
It seems pretty clear that full blown war is going to happen at some stage in the medium term as these outgoing archons refuse to admit that their monstrous, centralised Babel-Tower-redux is not going to work. It seems even clearer that we are mere weeks away from a 2008 incident that will be orders of magnitude worse than last time. And that last time destroyed me.
It is the most childish, delusional thing ever to assume that there is anything that the likes of you can do about this beyond assuming the brace position. But, really, that’s the case even if the western world wasn’t ending. You could die tonight. (Yes, I think about the possibility of my imminent death when I am happy. Don’t pretend you don’t do the same thing.) With all of this going on, and with all of what’s to come… we are still rivers in the night.
Enjoy Rune Soup’s summer theme tune. Love you, idiots.