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In this absurdity called lost life, let's not forget to dance!
Let's dance with the body, with the mind, or with the heart, let's dance alone, with our shadow, or with the first person we meet, let's dance on the stilts of love, among the ruins of our projects, or on the obstacles that separate us from Beauty.
Let's dance dirty or clean, graceful or epileptic, randomly or controlled, quirky or elegant. Dancing is a search for oneself, for the things we don't even suspect we yearn for, for the places we assume we can't reach.
The mouse rummaging through garbage is not just looking for food, but dances on creation, expressing its joy through movement, and it doesn't matter if all this will lead to a reward, we dance not knowing if we will still live tomorrow, we dance not knowing if we will ever find our piece of cheese, "Let’s dance, let’s dance, otherwise we are lost."
And if we spin "360 Business/360 Bypass" on the turntable, well... We will dance even better.
Mark Nelson, the creative center of Labradford, breaks away from the delicate and rarefied existential cartilages of his band and launches the Pan American project: music that makes the body, mind, and heart dance.
Sinuous and feline nocturnal dub stretching over electronic crackles, sharpening its claws on the veins of minimalist barks, and following the unwound thread of a dilated trip-hop.
Dances driven by the resonant and round throbs of a muffled techno heart pumping rhythm into the arteries of obsessive synths and stirring limbs despite the impassibility of sharper electronic counterpoints, the cold starlight smiles sardonically at our bodies.
It's as if the neon delirium of Massive Attack were pulled from two sides, forming a dance floor where alone, naked, and unruly, we dance in a pounding cadence in the moonlight where, occasionally, concrete crackles and dissonant clarinets insinuate themselves, creating sound territories bordering those of Vladislav Delay.
Even in the most exquisitely trip-hop moments, it's as if the atmosphere of elegant night-clubs exhaled by the Portishead are not external to us, but transform into a subcutaneous vibration.
In the most abstract variations, it feels like hearing the aseptic flows of microtonal shards from a Richard Chartier fused and warmed by the flames of a throbbing and panting electronic.
And the final piece is sly and indolent like a cat basking in the sun's rays, playing with the leaves drifting by: a wonderful hybrid between dub andjazz, wonderful and graceful movements that seem like a timeless dance, without purpose, without return.
So let's dance, lost ones! Let all humanity dance in unison and shake the Earth, change the inclination of its axis, and invert the Poles! Let humanity rise to the sky, overturn the myth of the Tower of Babel! In the end, we will all speak one language, that of our moving bodies!
And if beyond the sky we find that sadistic torturer called God, let's show Him who we are! Let's pull that beard soiled with the pulp of the martyrs! Shave those hair encrusted with the blood of all the prayers never said! Spit in the face of that drunken, demented tyrant! Surround that devourer of men! Point at Him, outrage Him, blaspheme Him!
And taking the deepest breath we've ever taken, let's vomit in His face all the contempt, all the pride, all the despair we have in our bodies and shout to Him…
… "Our Father who art in heaven, STAY THERE!"…
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… "And we will remain on Earth, which sometimes is so beautiful"…
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