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2020-09-30, Club Cørebrøl, Frøya (NO)
The All is One
Wishing Well
Same Old Rock
The Magic & the Wonder
Magpie
Mad Sun (Full Version)
Ship of Fools
Dowser
Barleycorn (Extended)
Alchemyst
Spin – Hogwash – Spin
My Pal (GOD Cover)
Sail On
N.O.X.
—
29th Bulletin
S.T.G.
—
The Golden Core
Motorpsycho concerts are not exactly one of the short things in life, so preparations need to be made promptly. But the psychonaut is turned away at the door. They don't want to let him out anymore. Not even just to smoke a cigarette. He should have thought about this earlier. If he leaves these rooms from now on, his ticket is no longer valid. Discussing is pointless. They have their specifications, rules, and measures that must be complied with, arranged from the very top.
Back in the room. As a precaution, quickly to the toilet. He can choose the cleanest of ten pee basins, is happy to have the place to himself, is amazed at the well-functioning bladders of the other Motorpsycho fans, shake off all nonsensical thoughts that have nothing to do with the present and himself, is preparing for an overwhelming concert in the here and now that follows.
While washing his hands, he sees the first familiar face tonight, his own. And reality immediately catches up with it. What he sees first is an increasingly gray beard that is evidence of a long history. What he sees next, a satisfaction in the future that is unlikely to come. Almost forgotten, he sees it very clearly, in the form of a hand-rolled cigarette that is stuck behind the ear.
Although the reflection in the mirror shows him something else, the psychonaut feels suddenly transported back to his school days and actually thinks about whether he should start smoking secretly in the toilet again.
The man opposite, however, shakes his head, says what the psychonaut sees is not a cigarette, and certainly not a carefully prepared herbal mixture wrapped in a leaf. What is tucked behind his ear is a pen, a white pencil that has already been sharpened often, a banal but effective means of being reminded to want to be creative, even without intoxicants.
Since almost the entire planet has declared itself a risk area, the psychonaut only has one direction to go on a journey. In the supposed stranglehold of an illness, reprimanded by governments, thwarted by already resigned fellow men, he moves to the only place he can reach, where things are currently still sensible and lively.
Just not alive enough. Dancing to imaginary music is difficult for the psychonaut, it will always be difficult for him. First he stumbles over his own feet, then from one idea to the next, then gets on his rocking horse, spurs it on, gallops across Germany, always towards the sea and gallantly skips the first border control.
Arrived at the very top of Denmark, he stands with one leg in the North Sea and the other in the Baltic Sea and measures the degrees with a part of his body hanging in between. Quick swimming is indicated.
When he arrives on the other bank, he is wrapped in a blanket and offered hospitality to the Norwegian border police station. In return, he should show his wet identity card and give a valid reason for his entry.
He has the latter, after all, his symptoms are unmistakable. The psychonaut shows clear withdrawal symptoms, urgently needs a cure, has to attend a concert of his favorite band as soon as possible.
Ten days of quarantine in a suitable accommodation are ordered, the own head accepts as such. Of course, he will not adhere to them. In the inner world of the psychonaut, there are no risk areas, no regulations, no speed limits, he does not have to wait long for ferries or pay expensive tolls for tunnels. One hundred and sixty-four meters below sea level, he goes from Hitra to Frøya, without detours via a hotel, directly to the venue.
There he is standing in the sanitary facilities, lifts an empty sheet of paper to the mirror, pulls the pencil out from behind his ear and draws a set list with thick lines, intuitive, favorite songs that come to mind straight away, doesn't think a long time, finally he can easily write a new setlist again tomorrow, pull out more sheets, make copies for all the musicians and the mixer performing today, distribute them to the respective places, then scurry off the stage and sit on his chair, the third from far left in the last row.
sing what you cannot say
dance what you cannot play
show us the beauty that we´ve seen
sing what you cannot say
dance what you cannot play
show potential, elemental
indestructive, everlasting love
Intimidated by the security armed with machine guns, the psychonaut has so far managed to suppress his urge to move, or to act it out while sitting. But now he can no longer reconcile the exuberant euphoria in the happiness center of his brain with the agony his rear end has to endure, especially not since Motorpsycho, through the way they emphasize, indoctrinate him that some of the things they sing are quite literal is to be taken.
Like a snake, the psychonaut winds under the chairs between the audience's legs from the back to the very front. He doesn't care if they can see who is the one who is no longer holding onto the chair based on the gene marks and shoe prints he inevitably leaves behind. No measures, no restrictions and no massive deployment of security forces can stop it.
With the beginning of the second part of “NOX†he jumps up, does not keep a minimum distance of one centimeter from the stage, turns in circles, goes completely crazy, dances on behalf of the past months and everyone in the world, hurls his bacilli and everything else that made him sick into space.
It will go down in the history books as a Motorpsycho superspreader, or at least appear in news for two minutes. Or maybe only in a medical file, because the doctors have to diagnose something before they bring him to the sanatorium, for the rest of his days.
Perhaps the psychonaut doesn't have to go that far to achieve this. Presumably, a preventive law will soon be passed and anyone who writes critical or satirical on a certain topic will be locked away.
Translated by Google Translate (most words)
Original version in German:
https://romaniacsmonster.blogspot.com
Inspired (and re-writtten) by the forthcoming pandemic stories in „Romaniac´s Monster“
Were you getting excited about a Christmas album as well?
But seriously – trolling this kind of forum?
I mean, this isn't exactly Facebook or Reddit. I just don't *drumroll* geddit!
A LIGHT FANTASTIC – MOTORPSYCHO
The psychonaut, who recently blew the fuses (went crazy) during a concert he was organizing himself on cerebral grounds, would like to thank everyone who commented benevolently on the setlist he put together, which have the currently unemployed DJ part of his split personality particularly pleased.
The writer in him is also satisfied. Although he was aware that his alphabet soup (story), because of its strange aftertaste, would not be for everyone, fortunately an exquisite circle could still enjoy it. His special thanks go to this one person. At the same time, the author would like to apologize to everyone who felt messed with, confused or disappointed, or who he left speechless.
In the meantime he has realized that humor is in no way appropriate around his favorite band. He is so sorry for his little slip (unique act). In order to be able to seriously call himself a psychonaut again, he has just placed his order and paid the first leasing installment of 572,000 euros. As soon as the Motorpsycho Boeing 767-300 private jet is delivered, he will set course for Uranus, which he already owns and will think extensively there about how he can do better with the next story.
Translated (most words) with Google Translate
Original story in German:
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