I AND I COME TO CHANGE THE MOOD
Chaa…Don’ tek me fer nah foool.
My favourite part of the movie, Rockers is when the two Rastas, Horsemouth and Robbie go to a club playing disco and they takeover of the DJ booth, righteously occupying the clienteles ears with some reel cul-chah.
I and I come to change the mood, Robbie tells the DJ as he shoves him out the booth and locks the door behind him. The dance floor clears out to leave a grinning Horsemouth waving his arms and gangling rocksteady.
How many times have I been in an establishment and wished myself to do a takeover? When the DJ is spinning, nodding, an ear to his headphones, being dope, dude and not a single fucker in the house is listening. Or, everyone is dancing, and the DJ selections are just shite to my ears. But really no one is listening, because like the disco dancers in Rockers, they are not going home after to live the culture. They are going home.
Today I worked at my ‘job’. The movies are in town. This industry of people, like soy latte drinking, rental vehicle driving carnies come through town and local people are both dazzled and inconvenienced by some kind of magical fairy-dust left over from the wonderment of the celluloid moving image. What’s the movie? Who’s in it? Oh look, fake snow in summer.
I had a small job to prune back some foliage so a certain camera angle could be shot. Took me half an hour. Called over the lady to look. She had to send a picture to her boss. Waited around. Small talk. Not enough trimming. More trimming. Photo. Waiting. No. More trimming. Waiting. Hey look, I’ve got to run, other jobs. Picked up the rest of the crew. Phone call, back to trimming. Done. Ok, see ya. Phone call while at next job. Can you come back? More trimming. Waiting. OK? OK! Done.
This is one of the causes for shit culture. That lady would not make the call on one simple decision and stand by it. She was not taking control. That industry is so bloated and slow moving, while it turns its head to see what’s going on and scratch itself, its parasites scuttle somewhere else on it’s body and push their heads into the folds of it’s Cali-tanned skin, drink its blood, while passing waste fluids back through the leathery hide. Eventually a huge turd is pushed out, to be polished and prepared for consumption. And one day you find yourself sitting in front of a movie, realizing you will die soon and there will be no recollection of this film in your conscious, but you just want to see the end. The end comes.
Yesterday, I saw a sticker on a car reading, Kill Your Television. (These were not Ned’s Atomic Dustbin fans). What the fuck relevance is this? It’s not the TV anymore, it’s the internet. Kill The Internet, is what it should say. Because the internet is the new TV chloroform. The screen and the world, (rapidly being depleted of its mystery) are there in front of you right now. You can go anywhere, but you don’t. Your eyes glaze over, pleasure sensors cough, die, open, work, fade like a badly maintained generator. Bad disco fills your ears and shit movies flicker in front of your eyes while out there somewhere, real culture is happening. Making paths to the end, aspiring to a satisfactory end. Do a takeover. I and I come to change the mood.