tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37407969.post3579030901518008250..comments2024-01-02T01:01:43.069+01:00Comments on das kleine field recordings festival: 10. August, Staalplaat - Berlin Mitterinushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18109729745604016528noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37407969.post-36666589956937835662007-08-14T13:14:00.000+02:002007-08-14T13:14:00.000+02:00This festival is made with two hours internet and ...This festival is made with two hours internet and four cycle hours a day. In the early hours I went to the Torstrasse where Staalplaat is located, cycled a road I knew only from the map. So green those trees, greened even more by humidity; the Alex,the characteristic needle tower in the heart of the city was charmed by clouds. Grey and smelling good, this August day, maybe it rained in Mitte.<BR/><BR/>Guillaume was listening to the latest nexsound editions, flowery pop songs for people who just woke up. Shoulder to shoulder we went over our mails. Mine said that the radio transmissions would start at 14.30 Berlin time. It was ten to eleven. Two croissants, an awkard tasting cup of coffee and fourteen mails later I said goodbye to Paco, (busy installing the radio) and Guillaume and left for a giant A4-announcement distribution round.<BR/><BR/>When I came back to Staalplaat, I found the store full of listeners, sitting on the floor, standing on the last available square centimers. Dis Playce was about to start: they introduced themselves by microphone, a sign that the internet radio was working. <BR/><BR/>Then Stephane played, Martha played, it was such a strange sensation. Those minutes that I missed had transported me just a wee bit ahead in time to a spot where I could look at something I had started and that had found its own independent place. Maybe I shouldn't worry too much. All were so sweet and nice. Stephane anticipated the fourth festival. Martha was dancing as ever. Martin sat in his chair, satisfied with a set I missed and that had come out so different.<BR/><BR/>Concerts are like testimonies, souveniers, diaries. People hardly write letters anymore.But the compositions I heard were messages from a world that keeps on unfolding itself into mysterie and the serenity of breakfast.rinushttps://www.blogger.com/profile/18109729745604016528noreply@blogger.com