Nuked potatoes and cheesy chips which have been through Rab C Nesbitt's toes are providing little sustenance by four in the morning. The corpses have risen for the graveyard shift and I've sussed out where hospitality is located.
The apathetic identikit youths are clamouring around the stage in the Rephlex Disco Assault System room and not really dancing. They is checking out da beats of Sir Richard D. "Weird James". One girl has flown over from the States all the way to Norfunk to see AFX play.
This is the first session, tomorrow he will play in the Mong bar. Later I'll be honoured to a private set in his label's chalet shack.
Richard is currently lying on the floor, he's fiddling about with his computer cables I think or maybe the Synesthesia's kicking in and he's trying to find the bass.
K-Rock and the Rephlex mob are running around the stage as the home-made d'n' b tracks are laid down. The drums speed up and down from chorus to verse and there's some nu-rokk paradise guitar mixing which mutates in to a melange of laboratory liveliness. It mellows out and never verges into major paranoia-ville but he has been making some ants in yer pants rhythms. Silence. Then voices, who I am informed are Richard's parents, singing "Happy Birthday to You". They've been vocodered up and electronically rewired. The acid takes a grip and the crowd are coming to daddy.
It's a two hour set. Some hours later Aphex is sitting with his laptop held like a baby in the guest houses which have a 'Ultra Warming System' (amongst other things).
The gizmo is plugged into the beatbox and he's got 3 MP3 programs running simultaneously. The testosterone ridden up-all-night banter is in full swing and he's recording it. It's pretty awesome; there's a picture on the screen (of an old skool cave I think) which stretches the beats and plays back the voices. Genius technology. Things get a bit messy and the curtain rail becomes as unhinged as the conversation.
On Saturday we're in glamourous Great Yarmouth, a place in more of a time warp than the caravan site and Aphex is playing (not records) on the beach.
Apparently some ravers have written his name in ginormous letters on the beach and he's down taking pictures.
Richard is next scheduled to play in the Mong room. It's packed- not a chance of fresh air by the decks in the corner. There's some confusion and too many wires. I think he wanted to plug his computer in but the system's gone to pot and there's a general loss of plot.
This is a pass-the-parcel-type DJ set. Or a get someone else to play your records-type set. Mike Dred is relatively in control as Aphex shuffles through his vinyl and passes Mike the tunes. It's more bongy than lysergic and leaves me thinking "Ain't technology superb?"
