Sup on yon suckling pig of yet another phat jam.
deity of the dance floor, purveyor of the phunk, turntablist of the technopolis. how do we love thee? thy mad skillz do amaze! though thy context be credible, thy creativity doth confound in its stead. wherefore the worship of samplist and slander of minstrel?
would a live set by any other name sound as sweet? once removed from historic context, mayhaps. if stood before judge, jury and orchestra’s fury? twice removed from rehearsal hall, surely. and if tried before the court of late night opinion? thrice, nay!
so sayeth its solicitors, when, after counsel, do sup on yon suckling pig of yet another phat jam. ’twas always thus, and always thus shall be.
but if context be removed: doth not judgment creep in and spill the seeds of damnation ’pon the garden of new creativity? doth not all relativism cease?
tell thy story, share thy glory, even be it confabulatory. these collective ears are want for tales of days gone by. gaze through mist and fire, speak through needle and wire - but forget not lute and lyre. look to thy future, but forget not thy past; i fear thou hast.
yet ’neath thy pedestal lay the funk of forty thousand ears. and lest we forget: the audience cheers - for those trapped on vinyl for many, many years...
