#like if you get it in the light it would blind anyone in a 20ft radius

[dio-the-thot-exterminator]

go whiteboy GO! my quickstrike design. he smells like a glue stick :P

[eventtechphilosopher-blog]

One

     Ten is a pretty round number by anyone’s standards. The number of fingers on your hands, the number of toes on your feet providing you haven’t lost any. The number of ecstasy tablets required for a decent hit in the UK circa 2007. The number of years I spent working in the live music scene in a seemingly perpetual haze of drug fueled decisions aimed for the most part at ways to acquire more drugs. 

     ‘Must keep the party going or we’re all fucking doomed.’ 

     Know what I mean? 

     If you do you’ll then you’ll know just how miserable a dead party can be. Caught in the bleak morning with your pants down in a room of decaying people silently willing you to fuck off. I felt like that when I left the industry. Like a ten year party had abruptly come to a close. The asshole flatmate storming into the room and tidying up around you whilst whining semi incoherently about sleep deprivation being a form of torture. Gnawing at you verbally until you’ve had enough of his shit and decide it’s time to go. As if he doesn’t enjoy Audion’s “Just Fucking” destroying his sound system at 4am on a Monday morning. 

     Prick.

     Reality picked me up by the collar and knee’d me right in balls. I’m headed into middle age with two kids, and an ex wife with anger management issues. What happened there?

     Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful. I landed on my feet. Near angelic kids, Decent job, 9 to 5, got a good woman keeping me grounded, I stopped smoking, lift weights, run three times a week and cycle to and from work. Not everyone was so fortunate. My friends are a mix of lucky escapes and Acid casualties. Kidney failure, pancreatitis, catheters and dialysis and medication and contagious sadness. My dying degenerates. 

     I ask them if they’d do it all again. One last leap into the fray, doors in 30mins. Still sweating the effects of the last party out your system whilst 20ft in the air plugging up signal cable next to the PA as the DJ soundchecks and your eardrums attempt to bury themselves into your brain for protection.

     ’Where the fuck are my earplugs?’

      Knowing you’ll still be programming lights well into the first hour of the night and hoping the promoter won’t notice.That feeling of absolute desperation when kit starts to fail and the DJ is looking at you like you’ve pissed in his cornflakes. Sparking your first can, doing lines of coke and pills in the crew room and spending the next five hours grinning maniacally whilst doing your best not to blind every last person in the room with Death Star strobes. Ending the evening on a high before systematically breaking yourself down into an addled, nonsensical maniac for the next 48 hrs at an after party. Changing locations every time the police show up with an ever expanding mixture of fellow maniacs, narcotics and hard spirits. Ultimately finding yourself balancing on the precipice of conscious existence in a K hole in someones bath at 9am on a Tuesday.  

     Would my friends do it again? Realistically I doubt it.

     Me? 

     Maybe.

    Just one more tune