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  • Writer's pictureNir Yaniv

Live Trip

Lights, audience, the band is hot, one song before the last, sweat, smoke, and the beatboxer suddenly strikes upon just the right groove, and your vocal bass is flying, taking off like a rocket, and you see in the people’s eyes that it is that particular moment to which some musician might wait a lifetime, and then the beatboxer doubles the groove, going into wild jungle, and you follow it with the bass like a crazy all-consuming spirit of chaos, deep vibrations from your mouth, going down the octaver to the speakers, from the bottom of the earth to the vast emptiness of deep space, and the audience is there no more, and nothing is there anymore, only the rhythm and the light and the endless ascent into the unknown, and then your microphone breaks.

And you don’t give a shit, and continue, holding the mic to your mouth so that it won’t fall apart altogether. And you perform one more song and get down. And people are cheering.

And then, in the dark, you’re looking for microphone parts all over the stage. But you don’t really give a shit. There’s always another microphone tomorrow.

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