Dance music

My love for it can cause confusion. Not sure why. Other than that I'm a couple of generations too far.

I made a deliberate attempt to understand dance music. Just to shut up my younger friends. And to wring some enjoyment from those night club nights.

My experience has beer analogies.

Dance was a new world. Free of preconceptions and prejudice. I hadn't listened to music that way since I was fourteen. Not hearing styles or genres or fashions or fads, but just the music itself. Judging it as music and nothing more.

I've been listening again to some of the music that stoked my love of dance. I find myself, no matter how hard I try not, labelling it. By beats, or style. The wonder has gone. It's no longer just great music. But breakbeat, hip hop, jungle, trance, thumpy thumpy. Something in a box. Not just something great.

I don't want beer to end up like that for me. I want to love a beer without imprisoning it. To retain my teenage wonder.

That's why I say this: St. Bernardus Abt is not a Quadrupel. It's a fucking amazing beer.

No, no not nostalgia - a competition

Been doing lots of odd stuff of late. Transcribing Lager analyses. Listening to 90's Trip Hop*. Not from nostalgia. It's numbers I don't know.

Got some Depth Charge on now. Great dance DJ. As is Howie B, yesterday's entertainment. Know what I liked about them most? They didn't play any of their own records.

Apologies if this is a bit rambly. The Westvleterens are looking thin at Ton Overmars and I couldn't resist bringing one home with me for safe keeping. Surrounded by a security circle of St. Bernardus. Don't want Dolores to spot it. She knows the price. And leaving the Abts untouched would be suspicious

On a totally different note, Draught! Is coming along nicely. Got most of the words done. Lexie has created a cracking cover. . . . .Which I've buggered up with with rubbish typography.

So here's a competition. Replace my rubbish-looking words with something more stylish on this blank:

Same text as on my crappy version but looking, er, nice. Or cool. Anything other than cheap and crap, which is where I am now.

The winner - if there is one - gets an exclusive** deluxe hardback edition of the book for free.






*I'm reminded of one of my favourite books: "Obyčejný život" ("Ordinary Life") by Karel Čapek. Not that it will mean anything to anyone. Still one of the top books of the 20th century.

** I may decide, if I think I'll earn a few bob,to make this edition generally available.

Against my better judgement

I did threaten this. Making you listen to my music. Well you don't have to. I can't make you.

Against my better judgement, here's Hoppy Head.

Apart from the title, it has absolutely nothing to do with beer. Not much to do with music, either.

Dancing

Do you recall me mentioning my music? Hoppy Head, one of the tracks is called. I suppose that's beer-related. Not that it has any words. The only words on any of my tracks are "I hate Arsenal. I hate all London teams." What a noble sentiment.

Yesterday evening Dolores had taken Andrew to his chess club and Lexxie was upstairs playing a Star Wars game. It meant I had a window of opportunity to listen to my last CD. I'm not allowed to play it when any other family member is within earshot. It's that good.

I must convert some numbers to MP3 and make them available here. There's a drum solo in Hippy Hop that I'm particularly proud of. Thuck, thick, thucky, thucky, thick, thack. That's how it goes. It's not a long drum solo. That would be pretentious.

Where is all this leading? Who knows. I often start a journey unaware of my final destination. All part of the fun. I remember. Kris.

Finnish Kris is up from Frankfurt. I haven't seen him for ages, not since he moved away from Amsterdam. We used to go clubbing together, what seems like several lifetimes ago. Mazzo was where we usually went. So often, that I became a member. The music wasn't great. Way too thumpy-thumpy for my taste. But it was a pretty cool place, so I could forgive them that. After the fire, when they temporarily relocated from Rosengracht to the Ouderzijds Voorburgwal, Lucas used to DJ in the chillout room. He played pretty good stuff. Lots of dub and ambulance music. Unfortunately, there wasn't the space for a chillout room in Mazzo's permanent home.

Rather susprisingly, Mazzo wasn't a total beer disaster. It sold Duvel. Just what you need when you're all sweaty from dancing: a strong, highly-carbonated beer. Occasionally they had a more interesting draught beer. One Easter they had Tuborg Kylle, Kylle. Not the world's greatest, but quite an unexpected choice for a club.

Sadly, Mazzo has closed forever. I hadn't been for years, but it was reassuring to know it was still there, should I ever need it. Other things - kids, a mountain of beer books - now demand my attention. There's no time for dancing.

Fruit and vegs that should not be used in beer

Every so often you need a mental spring cleaning. Unchanging opinions aren't strength of character. They're constipation.

Looking as firmly backwards as I mostly do, it's easy to become conservative. When I first saw this title proposal, I was pretty sure how I would approach it. Cherries, raspberries, lemons - they're OK, because there's a tradition of their use in beer. Anything else - no way.

Punk changed my ideas about music overnight. The bulk of my record collection went in the bin. It shocked me that not everyone embraced it so readily. That's being 19. You want change. At some point in your life - 25, 31, 37, 19.5 - change becomes frightening and you want it to stop. "This isn't music. It's just noise."

In the mid-1990's many of my friends were a decade or so younger. They liked dance music. Not Cuban or ballroom, but the thumpy-thumpy rave sort. "This isn't music. It's just noise." That's what I said. Repeatedly. For several years.

Then I thought: hang on, isn't what the old hippies said about punk? Rather than dismissing it, I made a conscious effort to listen to dance music with an open mind. To approach as I had done punk. My instincts were right - it was just noise. Sorry. Can't resist the bad jokes. My friends weren't just brainwashed fashion junkies. Some of this dance stuff was dead good. You couldn't get me off the dance floor.

My prejudice against electronic music was just that - stupid prejudice. What does it matter how music is made? With guitars, violins, drums, synthesisers, computers, saws, frying pans. The end result. That's what's important.

What fruit and veg should be used in beer? Any - as long as it tastes good. Nothing else matters.