Moby
I Like to Score

We enter Disco Morpheus almost out of habit: there are few of us, we don't like to go overboard, and we don't mind spending a quiet evening. Entering Morpheus: the cover charge is a bit high, but at first glance, the impression is comforting; a small door leads to a well-maintained lobby with two cloakroom attendants.
Disco Morpheus has four overlapping areas: all outdoors, in the middle of July the heat is suffocating, the season is relentless.
We sit on formal, well-arranged purple couches, we take in the situation, we speak loudly: the music is moderately loud. At Disco Morpheus, we like to get into the heart of the discussion, Marta invites me to stand up and we move to the commercial area: for now, there's nothing better. On the dance floor, number 2, concentric circles form in whose center individuals I don't know take turns parading: at Disco Morpheus it's somewhat random, and curiously, boys and girls all laugh; it's evening, the lights reflect on their teeth.
They play whatever comes up, we move without crashing, infected, we laugh too. Suddenly, at Disco Morpheus, screens light up and greet us with a nod of the head, voices ring out from above, but in raising our heads, we see only gray dust: a hint of fireworks.
Champagne showers at Disco Morpheus: for no reason, without soul-searching, laughter becomes loud and dancing turns into a whirlwind.
At Disco Morpheus, after more than two crazy hours, we sit exhausted on some sofas on the edge of the dance floor, on a terrace not far from one of the bars. We consume something, we lie down in a dimly lit corner: Sirius is visible. It must be three thirty, four, maybe even later. From the terrace of Disco Morpheus, we look down on the dance floor below: the music is still loud, it's no longer commercial now, but we are tired and my eyes and nostrils are closing. Marta gestures with her hands and lies down next to me.
At Disco Morpheus, at an unspecified time, they play "I Like to Score" by Moby. In a state of half-sleep, for the first and only time in a public place, I hear "Go" by Melville Hall, it has a techno-dance flavor that will never return, neither in the discos nor in the notes of the American: I keep the beat with asynchronous movements. The track takes me through challenging environments, I listen with pleasure and feel good. Next is "God Moving Over The Face of The Waters," with an orchestral setup, beautifully executed on the piano.
At Disco Morpheus they wonderfully review all the tracks from this magnificent ghost-album, and the impressions, already good at the first pieces, are strengthened when the grim "New Dawn Fades" and the ecstatic "First Cool Hive" are performed. They are forty exceptional minutes, among electro-dance, forbidden slumbers, ample arms.
At Disco Morpheus, returning from the most dazzling slumbers, Marta wakes me, smiling, polite, and composed: it's past five, it's late and we head home. On the journey home, we say goodbye to that place amid yawns and laughter, leaving Disco Morpheus behind, slowly accelerating.

That was the only time I found myself in that place: now from those open terraces, the fireworks, the champagne showers, Marta, I have only this album left.