The Martians are here!

He had said Orson.

Maybe he does not know himself how he was right. Fifty
later, barely half a century, here we landed on the planet
MUSIC, well rested, his face drawn in our saucers at night,
licit and illicit, to infest the world of ITS. As a trail of
powder, have spread our mix and our hacks who seemed
straight out of an electrocardiogram, or the wild ride that
the fetal heart beat is in the womb. What noise, what
deafening statement. So we too were at the dawn of a
new era.

Newborns on a virgin and unexplored territory. Electrocardiogram, the word
is launched. This music, this sound had no ancestors to show him
the track. No wise to show him the way forward. It was dangerous
but then the bottom could be where the danger when we had nothing to
lose.

The 20th century had given birth to a monster that our own, mercenaries
new world could tame. New technologies, as they say.
With consoles and two tons of heavy long as a train car,
madmen who loved freedom, experimentation and youth
vampirizes wanted to suck the blood of this new material. Making a new
space, create a new cosmos sound from these machines that were
explode a mechanical rhythm, staccato. An anamorphic acoustics.

And you mean that I, in my sweat vapors from the end of the night I
could have it all? I stayed there myself, before this machine,
hours, without leaving, just after dark to go with learning
others how to find the new angle, the new attack, the fluidity of
the rhythm, the harmony of the haunting melody. Join my companions
vampires full of life and spirit to commune together.
Mass without religion, a political meeting without an ideology without
ideologue if not the movement itself. An octopus who says no and yes
anything without consulting a fact of itself by itself.
A mixture of fifties manifest in briefcase, young lolitas
Long-haired and wet, from oldies who feel comfortable
as Woodstock, small young in jeans and sneakers who came
take the power of what does not control. UFOs music we
the princes are all together.
The night shelters us, the old generations crying foul and
noise while we, Jungle, Trance to start with the garage,
take our old plows to roll in the grass.

This movement is the real innovation of modern times, the sign
even this century and another unknown that lies before us. Of
Thousands of knew they were and still are innovative players.
Rap, fruit of the 20th century urban blues is the son, himself the father of
soul, herself a mother of R & B. But that sound, electro, is ripe for someone
if not we, the masses blondes, brunettes, redheads, straight, gay,
workers, Marginal, original, trendy conformist, free riders,
environmental activists, international non-Communist but communicants.

We are all parents and children CDX9