90s. I remember being so fucking envious of that one guy who was wearing actual Adidas kicks when the rest of us had to make due with our Adibasses and NEKIs.
But there still was a place where we all could be one with this hyper-mode of tomorrow. A plane of existence where it did not matter who you were, what you wore, or what brand of car your father was driving. That wooden, creaking, murky floor in the middle of the classroom was open to everyone-- no child left behind. As we twisted and turned our bodies, we became one with the reddish-green disco-verse around us. Fiendish as we were, hungry for every little wave of sound floating through the air, competing for the attention of it and everyone else around us, we must have looked crazy.
Maybe we were. Insane little kids looking as stoned as hell and back, contorting our minds and bodies as we tried-- tried hard-- to eat it all up. Because, you see, this wasn't some kiddy music anymore, some dull tune they played on the radio before bedtime; this was the real thing. Copious amounts of beats per minute coursing through our veins, setting our bodies and minds on fire. And that VHS tape someone had got from someone else, who in turn had stolen it from some crazy guy in the Ural backwoods, created a sublime visu-aural experience.
As we stood there, resting our weary bodies against yet another constructional carcass that was Soviet-time architecture, we knew we had made it somewhere. But none of us had any clue where.
Text by Risto Happy
