Inventions For Radio

=Desert dunes and early experimentalism=
Two magi trudge over and under porous sand, trekking thoughtfully without pause. Their cinnamon coloured boots leave symmetrical tracks that tattoo the smooth desert dunes; winds abate, the dunes seem to approve of the designs. They wear loose white cloaks, tied in place by a yellow sash around the waist. Ascending the bronze staircases etched in the oriental skin of ancient alluvial plains, they fly upwards like hallowed doves. Atop the perilously great mound is an equally vast platform composed of glittering granite, absolutely dark, but twinkling with elemental stars, drawn from inexplicable subterranean lairs. The glossy sheen is reinforced by the light of the midday Sun, illuminating patterns of galaxies and adding countless more stars on the jet black surface. The magi hoist themselves upon the scalding platform, their boots almost melting in the process. They do not seem to be affected, not even a trickle of sweat can be seen. Centered in the middle is a simple table with two stools and two ceramic mugs filled with a swirling liquid that looks impossibly hot and cold at the same time. The two figures sit and indulge in the drink, falling into a majestic trance that commits their bodies to a dance like no other. Tidal sound waves are produced from the incredible power of the dance, and this is what my feeble mind can recollect hearing and imagining, while hiding under the shade of nearby palms.           
The sound of a guitar and a young singing voice interrupts the overdrawn hegemony of silence; some cacti appear surprised, their thorns tensing in one short push, then immediately easing back in their slits. From afar they resemble sentries who are finally granted some leave – relaxed and mirroring the slow movement of the magi. Accompanying this tranquil arrangement are slow drums, and a light bass line that sow the fields for what is to come. Flutes and horns blow like night winds or dire wolves, howling and prowling through dangerous woods, migrating southwards in pursuit of depleted herds of mammoth. Erratic drums follow closely behind, punctuated by tactical phrases uttered by stealthy hunters. They catch up and engage a mammoth in the thickest part of the forest, taking the mighty beast down in the throes of disorientation, unused to the tight space of huddled trees. In celebration, an urban uplifting jazz tune plays, complete with catchy plucked bass and crackling snare rims. I can envisage the hunters roasting the meat in a makeshift shelter nestled in a crude oaken corner, with smiles of nourishment in trying times.Having eaten their fill, they gather and use the wooly mane as bedding, sleeping their first dream-filled sleep ever since migrating from the safety of the tundra caves. In their dreams they hear morose and candid ballads of love sang by tender tones and piano lines. Repose is brief and shattered violently; they have been spotted by those who dwell in the heart of the forest. Silhouettes of rigid bark; wooden humanoids allied with the sanctity of the trees – they make their approach under the cover of rustling leaves and apprehensive melody. In the ensuing skirmish I hear the reverberation of shouts, the distressing calls of birds, and an unchallenged drum pattern that carries with it the weight and life experiences of two clashing worlds. The hunters are defeated and left with no survivors, the sounds and my visions abruptly end.
I put up a brave front and peek at the magi from my hiding spot. They had stopped their vehement dancing and slumped forwards, heads down on the rickety table. They couldn’t be dead, could they? Just as I try to get my bearings over what is going on, two other individuals – a woman and a man – appear next to the magi. They wear resplendent Bedouin clothing, with such complex threading and embroidery of reds, purples, whites, and gilded yellows that I fear I might leap out of my spot to take a closer look. In fact, I think I can see my name stitched on the fibers! Am I going mad? Is this some desert contrived pareidolia? Pull yourself together!
To my astonishment, first the woman, then the man starts performing traditional serenades for the dunes, with voices that kick up dust devils from convoluted canyons. I lie back and uncork my gourd, swimming in smuggled wine from Roman merchants in Damascus. As I close my eyes and take a few hearty swigs, I am surprised by the disciplined structure of a gamelan orchestra; xylophones, bamboo rods and flutes, gongs supported on temple twine. At the close of the orchestra’s ensemble I open my eyes and take another look at the platform. The sun has dipped beneath the horizon, leaving behind a crescent moon that marvels at the esoteric pockets of human ingenuity. I am left enthralled by this sight and on the whim of my inebriation I decide to scale the mound and join in the festivities. Close to the platform I spot the two original magi whom I feared were dead, now renewed and dancing with amplified vigour. They see me but do not react; I feel a force welling up in my chest, a power that might erase me or embrace me. The music takes an accordingly anxious turn, with a heavy sub bass and drums that sting and bite, inoculating me against something stronger. Unable to resist the energy that builds up within, I fall into a trance and join the Bedouins and magi in their conjuring. Where the spiritual contours of this mound may lead is a mystery to me, yet I rejoice in the splendour of this divine music.
Bedouin Records