I heard the call from the Burning Man in the strange Nevada desert. I remember the sudden heat, the dry spell and the traffic made of steel carriages marching like a flock of retarded steampunk turtles in to the Black Rock City. Like Mad Max I seem like a dystopian action figure trying to find the path beyond the thirsty cracks.
Through the colorful trip I watched naked girls bathing in small yellow dunes and the gestures of metal skeletons and belly dancers passing by. The need of water was a reminder of my humanity, but I was happy that my black and white striped bicycle made it through the mystical dust storms. Who could forget the initiation in to a wondering cyberpunk clan that found me upside down tuning my guitar and the smell of peyote gears hovering early in the morning as the frantic vivid rainbows drove me deep in to sleep late at night!
The silent alien cargo cult was hidden very well. The mechanical drums blasting from smelly tents made smoke signals in to the night and the neon ropes called the rhythms of forgotten language. On the night of my performance I stepped in to a dream sequence I don’t soundly recall. Out of all the fire balls, the madness and the robotic dances, I thought I saw Sean “Diddy” Combs beyond the baking playa, rising from a golden commercial pyramid with a small army of rappers ready to colonize the desert. It was an interesting dream and it was fun, but once down the desert hole is quite enough!
(The Harmonica being my weapon of choice)