The Underground

I remember the beats more than anything else. Dark, tribal, intense. Wall-shaking bass, kick drum machine gunning, hi-hat cymbals crashing. Through the air in a torrent of beautiful cacophony while the strobes flashed around the silhouettes of others like yourself, night creatures inhabiting a realm of shade.

Frolicking in the shadows and out. Going down the Tunnel, off to the Playground, surrounded by the magic mushrooms' reverb in Twilo. Ah, you know what I'm talkin' about, don't you? Ecstatic moments with strangers who become your friends with the blink of a gobo. The bliss of a union blessed by the nation of house.

I often imagined everyone, black, white, Asian, Latin, man, woman, gay, straight, old and young dancing around a massive bonfire under a perfect ebon night, shooting stars lighting the skies. Dancing through an endless evening. And the beat goes on. Dark, tribal, intense. Can you feel it?

Where has it gone? Lost by a world too rushed and worried to notice the loss of something special. The mainstream water washing it away, the magical interplay, the underground. The soulless seriousness of everyday, turning it to ashen grey. Gone but not forgotten. Over your head but under your feet, it resides inside you, stays beside you. Dark, tribal, intense. The underground baby, yeah the underground!

© 2009 Paul Caracciolo. Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.