Toward the Unknown Region

As-salam ‘alaykum (peace be with you).

As promised, I made it to Cream last weekend, but my other intended outdoor excursions were brought to a halt due to lack of transportation and a nifty virus called foot-and-mouth disease.

Cream was a massive experience, especially since I don’t like dressing up in monkey suits for anything and I don’t particularly enjoy the repetitive drum-&-bass loops commonly found in techno. Fortunately, the bouncers let me in this time (I made sure to look decent since I had already paid £13 for a ticket which must be prebooked and £9 in transportation to/from Ormskirk). There were some very fashionably-dressed people in line in front of me who had admission #4000-something-or-other on their printed on their tickets. Besides some big concerts and sporting events, I’ve never been an area with so many people. And this is a weekly affair for many.

All entrants are subject to search. I had my camera confiscated, my pockets checked, and my shoes temporarily removed just in case I was carrying any contraband. Cream wasn’t as enormous as I’d thought it would be–it was about the same size as another club I’d been to called Tokyo Joe’s in Preston. But the laser effects, the largest mirror ball ever probably made, and the light shows put the rest all to shame. I can’t begin to describe the visual effects that this place has to offer (that’s not even including what many people wear).

There was a VIP area above the main dance floor–as some of my British friends pointed out to me–with some celebrities from British soaps, some soccer players, and other miscellaneous rich-&-famous. They didn’t really dance or do anything worthy of celebration…in my humble opinion it was more about them paying loads to have the privilege to look down on us commoners, we who incidentally appeared to be having much more fun.

I hate(d) techno music. This is mainly due to my poor experience to the genre, living in a culture where music with “real” instruments is preferred. Anything that I have had access to in the past reflected this neglected-stepchild mentality. I’m a convert now. This music in its natural environment–a sea of thousands expressing themselves in sweat-drenched waves, rolling and falling back in time to the thumps of four-foot speakers under complex geometric patterns of lights–it’s something to behold. My ears hurt and the bass pounding into my chest felt like it was offsetting my heartbeat, but it was an experience I will remember for the rest of my life.

Some people were obviously on hallucinogenic drugs–it was usually the ones with their shirts off, sweating profusely but not really moving enough to exert themselves in any way–but most were just as taken aback as I was. I was repeatedly asked if I had any ecstasy to sell, but unfortunately it was a line of trade I hadn’t pursued in my college studies. I met lots of interesting people from South Africa, Australia, and all parts of the world, and ended up with another American friend talking to people who happened to be from ye jolly olde VIP Area. Don’t ask me who they were though–I’d have no idea anyway.

The DJs in massive clubs like this are true musicians. I was amazed by the way they could spin records and fall in and out of fascinating patterns like it was a piece of organic material rather than the notorious robotic boom-thumps. Every song blended into the next seamlessly–usually after an “exploratory” period where sounds melted away and came back, rolling like waves of digitized water in and out of recognition and cyberspace and static and void…then instantly snapping back into a danceable pattern, where you would associate the now familiar song like the face of an old friend. But it wouldn’t end there–no, the good DJs wouldn’t let you off that easy. Once the tune would enter the realm of comprehension, it would shape and morph itself into another new song of completely different character.

I honestly think that Beethoven would be proud.

For some reason the sun came out for just a little bit on Wednesday. I took advantage of it and went down to Liverpool and had a walk around downtown and explored the campus of Liverpool John Moores University. It was fascinating to me because it was a beautiful campus in a great setting, perfectly balanced on each side by Liverpool’s massive cathedrals and right across the street was the Liverpool Royal Philharmonic Hall. There was a concert that night and I got in as a student for £3.

This musical experience was obviously quite different from Saturday night’s, although Cream is just a few blocks away. The Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra played with the Chorus for the first part (Vaughn Williams set Waltman’s “Toward the Unknown Region” to music–fantastic).

Darest thou now O soul,

Walk out with me toward the unknown region,

Where neither ground is for the feet nor any path to follow.

No map there, no guide,

Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand,

Nor face with blooming flesh, nor lips, nor eyes, are in that land.

I know it not O soul,

Nor dost thou, all is a blank before us,

All waits undreamed of in that region, that inaccessible land.

Till when the ties loosen,

All but the ties eternal, time and space,

Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds bounding us.

Then we burst forth, we float,

In time and space O soul, prepared for them,

Equal, equipt at last, (O joy! O fruit of all!) them to fulfil O soul.

The second half of the concert was Mahler’s Sixth Symphony. It was great, although it lasted over an hour, and I especially enjoyed the swirling tensions in the fourth movement. There are three times in the final movement which call for a percussionist to pick up a five-foot wooden hammer and slam it down on the stage. Apparently, Mahler was superstitious and the program notes said that he removed the third hammer strike for reasons other than musical. Many times nowadays, this final hammer blow is added in.

The effect was profound and electricity hung in the air as we all anticipated the final blow toward the finale. The percussionist lifted the hammer like he was John Henry and the whole audience braced themselves in anticipation and tension. He swung it down, but stopped short of hitting anything. He quietly put down the instrument and left the stage, creating a profound effect that achieved even a greater level than Mahler probably would have intended. It was an ingenious way to respect both the music and the composer. (And to comment on WWIII???) Plus the conductor, Jun’ichi Hirokami, was a small man of large cartoon-like animation and intensity…at times it was more fun to watch what he was getting out of the musical experience than to actually listen.

Now that I am officially on spring break, I am taking time to write some papers and trying my best to fight a cold that’s coming on at the most inopportune of times. I have 25 days to spend, to relax, to learn. I’m going to take advantage of an ideal opportunity: a country that has much to offer in the way of geographic proximity, my small budget, cultural experiences, and sun…heat…beaches…mountains. On Sunday night, I’m flying to Málaga, Spain, where I’ll spend the night and the next morning meet up with my friend Nicolas from Boston. From there (well, actually Algeciras), we’ll embark for the world’s longest short trip–the ferry ride across the Straights of Gibraltar from Spain to Morocco. I spent a few days in al-Magreb (“the land furthest west of the setting sun”) last summer and was blown away by what it had to offer. The transition itself is mind-boggling. Going from a first-world, Roman Catholic, industrialized nation to a third-world, Muslim, largely agrarian society. Our first destination is Marrakech, the city of flying carpets, snake charmers, open air markets, spices, bright colors, and bright sunny skies (86F today…that’s almost 30 degrees centigrade).

There’s a misconception among people I’ve spoken with that Morocco is a dangerous land full of drugs and bandits and uncivilized heathens. Yes, it is cheap and not as technologically advanced as we are (around $2 a night for a hotel, $1 for a restaurant meal, etc.), but the people are incredibly hospitable and it’s actually safer than any Western European country…definitely safer than the US. If you don’t believe me, I recommend reading up about it and you’ll feel much more confident. Aside from the occasional pesky hustler, there aren’t really any problems (health-wise, cultural, etc.). I would even argue that in some ways it’s morally advanced in comparison to the Western world. So no worrying!

My loose itinerary includes Marrakech, Essaouria (a beach resort town on the Atlantic coast…it will be only the fourth visit to the beach in my life), Ouarzazate (a mountain area full of Berber tribes and villages), M’hamid (on the edge of the Sahara desert). I hope to drink lots of sweet mint tea, eat plenty of couscous and tajine, and see the sun again. Other things I will do if given the chance include a camel trek through the desert and a visit to the hammam, a.k.a. Turkish bath–a steam room and deep massage given by muscle-bound experts. I am very excited and trying my best to fight off the Romantic concept of the Oriental world–all those Casablanca, Lawrence of Arabia, and English Patient preconceptions are clouding my thoughts. Internet access is widely available, so I’m sure you’ll be getting at least some play-by-play commentary.

Lately I have been fighting this hyper-Romantic “Mystery of Life” ideal and trying to replace it with a much more rewarding “Magic of Life” approach. I want free myself, to allow myself to have things happen rather than going about trying to create things (which are ultimately based on my distorted outlooks and prejudices). Morocco should be beneficial in this respect–I’ve always wanted a nice dose of the exotic (i.e., a reality check: all of us are pretty much the same at heart) to give me some perspective.

So it’s off to Northern Africa once again, and hopefully I’ll come back with a richer soul.

Until then,

Ma’ as-salama (go without fear).

Ryan