...Kek breaks the fast first, sending up whorls of bad tidings to the Belgian Stasi(s), conscious of the fact that their set began 3 minutes ago and him and Cloudboy (now renamed Colonel Cloudboy as a result of a flemish-language translation tick) are still on the road, heading east when west seems more logical... the boys are crammed into the tour bus, itself a masquerade of misleading intentions (i.e. a converted circa WWC Andersen Shelter-sided Citroen van), as the police car slides into the rearview mirror...
"Keep going!" yells Cloudboy, who's been afraid of mirrors since the terrible Orphee debacle.
"I am going," replies Kek, "it's just everything else has speeded up. There's some kinda warp spasm out here and i can't shake it."
Onstage their equipment, carefully arranged into a vaguely (the last few pages of the book were smeared with ectoplasm and beetjuice) Osman-Spare protection sigil, behins playing by itself, a tiny amplified toy monkey kicking off with his drum and cymbals stick, while a disemboweled Casio FZ1 starts playing it's own circuitry, sampling and resampling itself into a frenzy.
The crowd, unsure at the best of times, catch a few beats and start to put on their goat head masks.
The police, meanwhile, have decided that Kek and Cloudboys now slower than the rotation of the earth tour bus must be a product of sensory derangement and are now sitting on the side of the road, watching it run backwards in time, sure that all they need is to shake the illusion away.
Onstage, a toy trumpet has raised itself, serpentine and amorous, onto an old machine coil and is blurting out a little Fanni Tutti fanfare, accompanied by great hoops of reverb and an ancient, tape-based echo box. An amplified mobile of beer cans and voodoo chickenskins crackles into life, whirling like a dervish, sending almost impercetible molecules of chicken fat out into the crowd.
The Vegans go apeshit but the critical lack of protein supplements due to the recent Franco-Belgian Quorn Wars mean that their palpating aggressive stances soon dwindle into exhausted muttering and tiny golden shivers of hatred (that sprinkle onto the stage and are then close miked back into the mix).
A guitar almost catches; not quite.
Two thumb pianos start up, a plinking little melody that catches a breath and fuels itself, the old-new school ravers immediately recognise the tune as an Alice Deejay b-side and start humming a contradictory Autechre number, which is then amplified by the dead guitar pick ups and looped back over the crowds head.
Kek and Cloudboy appear at the back of the auditorium and make for the stage, eaget to tame the tiny beasts that threaten to take the show away from them. Three steps and the heavy lights have fused Kek's mask to his face, making the kind of skin crackling sound that european authors attempt to align to the Holocaust; everyone is sucking in bad thoughts - "I can't help feeling there's something, well, evil about all of this..." - even before Cloudboy sticks some contact mics onto Kek's melts and resamples the crackling, yelling into the microphone something mostly inaudible about digital bonfire pops.
Breaks loose. Mayhem.
Fire, fire! Fire, fire!
Pour on wwwwwwwwwwwwwaaaaaaatttttttttttterrrrrrrr
The man I saw becomes a bird.
Ice ice babeee...
The mexicans in the crowd go crazy, stereotypical.
The french swap shrugs and intellect.
The belgians, christ, the belgians.
He's almost melted now.
Ice, ice baby.
"It's a rhumba. No, really; I did classes...."
Ever Y thing IS sloooooooo