To my dear friends down south, especially Kuza, Andy, Ajay, Aresha, Suffian and Zaihan (and even homeboys like Mac and A&B), I am known as the Pangsai King.* This is because I've stood them up many times when I promised them I'd make it, especially right here on my own turf.
Hell, Andy even told me he'd ban me from Exitmusik, possibly for life, if I'm ever guilty of a no-show again.
Bad Kamo.
So, I promised the guys I'd turn up for this gig. And I will. In fact, maybe you should, too.
I'll need some witnesses.
Boh!
*What does Pangsai mean? Google, motherfucker.
Outdoor advertising. Can't switch it off, can't turn it down.
Doesn't she look like she's about to grab your balls, though?
Like a lot of kids his age, my brother can't tell the difference between atmospheric and liquid funk. Or even deep house and tech, for that matter.
Because, like a lot of kids his age, he missed out the rave scene of the Nineties. They don't know about Apollo 440, Danny Rampling and never experienced the primal, ear-splitting thrill of listening to Prodigy's Firestarter and not being able to associate it with anything else they were listening to during the death-knell of Grunge.
See, they totally missed the bus!
They never felt the rush of listening to the Chemical Brothers Block Rockin' Beats, for the first time, and wondering just what the fuck they were listening to, or why it sounded so strange and beautiful.
They didn't do the Backroom-Clubhouse-Movement circuit (in that order), didn't go to Zero, didn't get rat-arsed drunk or trip at Digweed. And don't get me started on Bukem.
The thing is, you can't really blame them; their earlist memory of Oakie was probably the Swordfish soundtrack, whereas ours was Dragonfly.
You can't call them posers just because they think Tiesto is God (before the Southern Sun remix, there was Destination Sunshine, all right?) or think that Zouk is the ultimate club, just because it's the biggest club in KL right now.
Kids, you don't know shit. But you know what, it's all good.
Because you weren't there from the start.
They're like tracers.
Each month, I send out emails to celebrities in which I, very politely, ask for exclusive interviews. Some of them are super-famous like HR Giger, Stan Lee and Stephen King, and some of them are just plain weird.
Like real tracers, they light up the dark and arc through the air with a sense purpose. But like real tracers, they do not guarantee a kill.
I just like to try my luck.
I just sent tracers out to Amir Muhammad, a man who I consider to be my generation's Great Malaysian Writer.
For once, I'm nervous.
If he does say Yes, it will at least console the fanboy in me that I did something right along the way to land an interview with one of my own literary heroes.
Rock 'n' roll, motherfuckers.
I'm cruisin, the wind in my hair.
For a moment, I remember what it was like to throttle up highways in my 69 Beetle; the steady hum of the engine, the silence of the night and the way it was just me and the machine. It got me a little choked up.
Last night, however, I found that I was driving like that because some fucking crackwhore jacked my stereo. Yes, he smashed my window with a crow bar (probably) and gutted my centre console like a fish to get to the player.
Goddamned amature.
(If he had been a bit more patient, he might have chanced upon my CD case and found my entire Knowledge Mix CD collection that dates from mid-2003. If he'd had nicked that, I might've been compelled to do a Jihad on his ass. But then again, maybe he wasn't into drum n bass).
It's gonna to cost me some, so if I ever catch junkies anywhere near my car, someone's gonna get a hurt real bad.
"Richard, a Black Russian is vodka and coffee-flavoured brandy, yeah?"
"Yeah"
"Hey, so what do you call a Hennessy and some coffee?"
"Right now? A very good idea"
My editor is quite possibly the Coolest Dude in the Known Universe. And yeah, you can quote me on that.
