\u00a0 <\/span><\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.fiestaybullshit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/11\/whatsapp-image-2025-11-12-at-102603.jpeg\")
<\/b><\/h4>\nNATIONAL SURNAME SHAME<\/b><\/h4>\n
Nora and I were post-mortem kind of blue, though still breathing, and since we were the only two members of the backstage lacking international surnames and with intoxicated livers, the promoter decided that I was to drive her in Dave\u2019s Clark rental car in order to accommodate the rest of the talents in vehicles driven by runners who had not been in a recent near-death experience.<\/p>\n
I remember Nora\u2019s outrage clear as day:<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you saying that if someone has to die, we are the chosen ones?\u201d she asked the promoter. \u201cJust because of our surnames and condition? Buy your Karma a leash and keep an eye on it, motherfucker, because it is coming back to you.\u201d<\/p>\n
The promoter was a promoter: someone good at stealing money and bad at everything else, including booking himself a ride on any of the other healthy cars.<\/p>\n
In his frantic rearrangement of runners and talents, he had forgotten about himself, and ended up realising that if he wanted to drive back to Barcelona, he needed to do it with Nora and I.<\/p>\n
\u201cOMG is that a FUCKING UFO?\u201d Nora asked me at 7:30AM, upon encountering the first tollbooth on the highway, one hour into the drive.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not driving, POISON IS,\u201d I remember saying.<\/p>\n
THE BACK SEAT<\/b><\/h4>\n
The promoter was losing it at the back of the car. Nora and I kept pretending that we were too intoxicated to drive, and swapping seats while doing so.<\/p>\n
She would arch her spine and move over me, while I held my feet at the pedals and slid under to reach her seat.<\/p>\n
The promoter was pale, shouting, and getting sick, and kept ordering us to stop the car, eventually using many times a word you would seldom hear from any music criminal: \u201cPLEASE-PLEASE-PLEASE.\u201d<\/p>\n
We ignored the begging all the way, ultimately leaving him in a dodgy junction outside Barcelona, exhausted, dehydrated and penniless, a better death than the one he had not prevented us from dying.<\/p>\n
NOW HERE, TERUEL DESERT, 2025. <\/b><\/h4>\n
Not many people are as good as the Japanese in the art of cutting sentences short, reducing oral language to the context, and evade adjectives, pronouns, and even verbs when talking. Beckett would be proud.<\/p>\n
They generally avoid asking anything, but when the conversation and etiquette demands it, they stick to context and good manners, and instead of invading you with a string of words, they spare you as many as possible therefore the horrifying line \u201cWhere are your from\u201d becomes just \u201cWhere?\u201d<\/p>\n
During those days of abusive promoters and demented raves, if someone had asked Nora \u201cWHERE?\u201d she would probably have said: \u201cLost in Trans Nation,\u201d one of her unforgiving late lines, the title of her posthumous record and only short story.<\/p>\n
In it she wrote:<\/p>\n
\u201cOnce upon time there was a no man\u2019s sort of land where trees were an anomaly, language a blasting speaker, and air an illusion already turned into dust.<\/p>\n
In that morbid, transnational territory, instead of breathing you just danced to death: WELCOME TO Lost in TransNation.\u201d<\/p>\n
LAXITUDE<\/b><\/h4>\n
Fast-forward fifteen years, and Oliver Laxe, a Galician filmmaker of transnational background and lifestyle, has directed a movie that seems devoted to Nora\u2019s late record and Beckett\u2019s decimated notion of existence.<\/p>\n
Sir\u0101t<\/i> opens with a shot of a towering sound-system set against a red canyon in the Moroccan desert.<\/p>\n
The camera zooms in and out the sedimentary ravine like a vulture looking for blood. It is ungodly early and dusty, and the pristine, reckless soundtrack takes hold: dark techno-house blasting the hellish dawn, while an abrasive bird-eye shot introduces us to the anti-heroes, a quintet of crippled ravers defying physics and hydration, dancing the scorched plateau amongst other reprobates like there is no tomorrow.<\/p>\n
And there isn\u2019t really: raving is a headlong rush towards nature, not because you love nature, but because it is sound proof, so you can bring your generator and towering speakers, and blast them beyond the reach of any neighbours or police stations.<\/p>\n
No matter how much you\u2019d pump up the volume, what you ultimately want is to BLAST yourself, an unnerving self-obliteration that Laxe portrays in all its gloomy and decadent splendour like no other movie addressing the raving subculture.<\/p>\n
![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.fiestaybullshit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/11\/whatsapp-image-2025-11-12-at-102631.jpeg\")
<\/b><\/h4>\nNOW HERE, INDOCHINA, NOVEMBER 2025<\/b><\/h4>\n
You watch Sir\u0101t<\/i> after losing your hardcover of \u201cWater: A Chronicle\u201d under the deluge.<\/p>\n
You are confined at home; water is already up your waist outside, where little canoes have replaced all wheelers, and solidarity means to move faster than the institutions in order to rescue and support those around you, mostly neighbours and family, people who have learnt to survive with a swift, cat-like sense of immediacy, always ready to avoid the fall and rearrange the world of those around them \u2014like some ravers do.<\/p>\n
THE END<\/b><\/h4>\n
True poverty is not about a lack of possessions, but about an insatiable desire for more<\/i>. \u2014Seneca.<\/p>\n
Capitalism is the end of solidarity and raves are the dream of escaping it.<\/p>\n
And then there is Oliver Laxe, a rare visual poet and commercial cinema disrupter, the closest to a filmmaking bridge connecting both, some extraordinary achievement for a movie blasting every single step of the storytelling cage as imperturbable as Nora\u2019s sessions and Beckett\u2019s plays.<\/p>\n
Sir\u0101t<\/i> is the last afterhours of cinema, and up to a point, it is also a very accomplished homage to Beckett, drifting, anarchy, photography, immolation and electronic music, that keeps shouting up loud the question that we have all been asking forever: HOW LONG CAN THIS GO ON FOR?<\/p>\n
If you thought you had listened to Highway to Hell, wait to watch this Dantesque motion nightmare, an unforgiving, explosive and at times unconceivable flee to nowhere; where a father sees his child falling of a cliff and does nothing about it, perhaps the most shocking script fuck up of an otherwise unparalleled portray of the end of solidarity.<\/p>\n
Only the music drifters\u2019 care; their only hope to eviscerate their remaining limbs.<\/p>\n
How would you name the last afterhours of Humanity?\u00a0 <\/span><\/p>\nEither \u201cLost in Trans Nation\u201d or \u201cWaiting for Sir\u0101t\u201d?<\/p>\n
Perhaps just LESSNESS?<\/p>\n
![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.fiestaybullshit.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/11\/whatsapp-image-2025-11-12-at-103646.jpeg\")
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
0 PREAMBLE NOW HERE, MONEGROS DESERT, SPAIN 2005 The first time I saw Nora dying I thought I was dead and that she was the Great Beyond. It was almost a soothing image compared to the apocalyptic landscape surrounding us. It happened during the first edition of Monegros Festival, a demented 24 hours rave in […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":65044,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[1059],"tags":[],"yoast_head":"\n
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<\/b><\/h4>\n