^^^ Derrick Carter is still the man^^^ I wish I had made it to Chicago back in the day- although New York wasn't the worst place to be at that time either8) Frankie Knuckles' residency at sound factory/bar opened my eyes to house music- before that I was more into hardcore/techno and the rave scene.
An American in Ibiza 2008
- Thread starter letsgetdownanddirtybaby
- Start date
I
icebaer69
Guest
i would have loved to see this place:
http://www.saintdisco.com/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Saint_(club)
location+soundsystem of THE SAINT must have been amazing !!!
shawlandsno1
New Member
good stuff
Just got round to reading your Ibiza stories, and enjoyed immensley mate
Be careful and keep your heid down
All the best
Just got round to reading your Ibiza stories, and enjoyed immensley mate
Be careful and keep your heid down
All the best
letsgetdownanddirtybaby
Active Member
Back in the Saddle
I'm happily back in Baghdad.
I dont want to go back to Afghanistan for any reason.
God Fore Saken.
Still have several days of Ibiza and will get to it when the bug hits.
Too bad the Philippino web site is not worth writing to.
L.
I'm happily back in Baghdad.
I dont want to go back to Afghanistan for any reason.
God Fore Saken.
Still have several days of Ibiza and will get to it when the bug hits.
Too bad the Philippino web site is not worth writing to.
L.
letsgetdownanddirtybaby
Active Member
26th of September, 2008 What? how can you even remember back that far?
.
Months now have passed but there is still a lot to be said. I might not be able to pull details as readily but the spirit is still there so bear with me.
The morning of the 26th comes in like a lamb. We make it back to Jet (again, there is no taxi line) in time for the sunrise. I popped in the Tiesto on the Bose Portable and pretty soon the balconies next to ours start to fill up with various misfits. There’s a British threesome next to us with the happiest girl in the world. Up and over a couple are a but-load of Aussie women but they are more like Amazonians in size. I’m looking for swim team uniforms under their dress but the view from down below becomes less interesting as they crank up some music more suitable for a top 40 station. Ech… They wound down around mid day but I woke up to a view of a plank someone had dropped between the balconies a floor above. Party on Wayne...Party on Garth. The Aussie saga continues in a few days but dormant for now. I break out the wide screen computer and we watch the only episode of South Park I have saved after downloading with I-tunes. G and I laugh our asses off wrapped in blankets and decelerating on the balcony. Kenny gets high on cat-piss and the world seems to be right as rain. Drugs are bad kids… Mmmm-kay? The art work of the boob-based nomenclature backed by Heavy Metal cartoon work is enough to push me over the edge of the balcony with laughter.
I crash while G goes to the beach to make some sort of statement by “swimming in the Mediterranean.” It’s early fall, the weather has changed and there is no way I’m getting in the water. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it’s colder than the Atlantic Ocean but what the hell; he still had a great story to tell his wife when he got back home so why destroy the fun.
I get up around 4PM and go down to the basement to get the clothes that were washed and folded for about 10 Euros a load. There is no one about and the beach has less than a smattering of people. I manage to order a breakfast from the little shop directly underneath our balcony with the view of the pool ahead. There is an unusual group of women sitting together and it reminds me of a reunion of Motley Crew groupies. Time has not been good to them and they will no longer get backstage even for the free head.
The bar/eatery owner is playing some soft chill and it’s not too bad but again I can’t recognize the artist. Maybe there is just too much music in the world to enjoy the art with any degree of familiarity. Either that or I’m in a Scandinavian bar and they’re listening to something they would touch eyebrows to or something back in the snow. Either way, it was enough for the potato baked has mixed with egg and ketchup I managed to choke down with a beer of questionable origin.
Back up to the room and G is now up and showered. We compare notes about the night before and discuss a game plan for the immediate future. Some party material is left and that is stored to be budgeted for Hed Kandi coming up tomorrow night at El Div. I’ve got a surprise in store though that requires some travel and break the news to G that we will not be going out late tonight since we’ll be taking a day trip to England the next morning. So, drinking and a chill evening for dinner seems appropriate. We drink and chat about glory days and decide to spend the rest of an early evening right in Playa. Out of the entrance to the hotel and a quick left to some “Irish” place masquerading a very poorly imitated American version of what we would believe an Irish Bar is.
Dinner is not fish and chips but some sort of meat meal that is quickly forgotten. G’s had a significant number of pints of Guinness and I’m sticking to some kind of less-than-premium version of alcohol but of course being charged a premium price. Food’s finally finished and we head downstairs around 9-ish to see the band. G is protesting loudly that this is a waste of time but I can’t see going to the party at Space for an hour (I think it was some kind of gay night at Space anyway). I convince him I need a wingman to survive and drag him to a barstool. There was the typical group of drunken soccer-Brits in front of the stage bumping into everyone so we stay a little closer to the back where the few women are. I ask the bartender who the band is and he says it’s some band from the US.
After listening to butchered chords, half hearted lyrics, and studying the faces of the band…it doesn’t take long to determine that the band is French and masquerading as American…very poorly.
I go back to the bartender and get in an argument with him about where the band is from. I finally tell him there are no French words in the lyrics to Nirvana’s “Come as you are” and he has some kind of epiphany or was just good at faking that he didn’t know up to that point.
The surprising part is that the crowd is eating it up. Apparently it’s some kind of trend to listen to bad American cover bands but what I still don’t understand is how anyone could be fooled. The sign says advertising the band, Direct from America… “We Ja Tame.” Are Europeans really that easily fooled?
G was right, there are only a few women, the loud and beer spilling Brits are making it impossible to meet the opposite sex, and the music is getting worse. Finally, with the song “pretty high for a white guy” (should be Fly), we’d had enough and it was up to the room for some further drinking and getting ready for the long next day of travel to Merry-old-Merry Old. I was, however, at the time, pretty high for a white guy… Maybe I just should have stayed till close and hit on a fat chick or something.
.
Months now have passed but there is still a lot to be said. I might not be able to pull details as readily but the spirit is still there so bear with me.
The morning of the 26th comes in like a lamb. We make it back to Jet (again, there is no taxi line) in time for the sunrise. I popped in the Tiesto on the Bose Portable and pretty soon the balconies next to ours start to fill up with various misfits. There’s a British threesome next to us with the happiest girl in the world. Up and over a couple are a but-load of Aussie women but they are more like Amazonians in size. I’m looking for swim team uniforms under their dress but the view from down below becomes less interesting as they crank up some music more suitable for a top 40 station. Ech… They wound down around mid day but I woke up to a view of a plank someone had dropped between the balconies a floor above. Party on Wayne...Party on Garth. The Aussie saga continues in a few days but dormant for now. I break out the wide screen computer and we watch the only episode of South Park I have saved after downloading with I-tunes. G and I laugh our asses off wrapped in blankets and decelerating on the balcony. Kenny gets high on cat-piss and the world seems to be right as rain. Drugs are bad kids… Mmmm-kay? The art work of the boob-based nomenclature backed by Heavy Metal cartoon work is enough to push me over the edge of the balcony with laughter.
I crash while G goes to the beach to make some sort of statement by “swimming in the Mediterranean.” It’s early fall, the weather has changed and there is no way I’m getting in the water. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it’s colder than the Atlantic Ocean but what the hell; he still had a great story to tell his wife when he got back home so why destroy the fun.
I get up around 4PM and go down to the basement to get the clothes that were washed and folded for about 10 Euros a load. There is no one about and the beach has less than a smattering of people. I manage to order a breakfast from the little shop directly underneath our balcony with the view of the pool ahead. There is an unusual group of women sitting together and it reminds me of a reunion of Motley Crew groupies. Time has not been good to them and they will no longer get backstage even for the free head.
The bar/eatery owner is playing some soft chill and it’s not too bad but again I can’t recognize the artist. Maybe there is just too much music in the world to enjoy the art with any degree of familiarity. Either that or I’m in a Scandinavian bar and they’re listening to something they would touch eyebrows to or something back in the snow. Either way, it was enough for the potato baked has mixed with egg and ketchup I managed to choke down with a beer of questionable origin.
Back up to the room and G is now up and showered. We compare notes about the night before and discuss a game plan for the immediate future. Some party material is left and that is stored to be budgeted for Hed Kandi coming up tomorrow night at El Div. I’ve got a surprise in store though that requires some travel and break the news to G that we will not be going out late tonight since we’ll be taking a day trip to England the next morning. So, drinking and a chill evening for dinner seems appropriate. We drink and chat about glory days and decide to spend the rest of an early evening right in Playa. Out of the entrance to the hotel and a quick left to some “Irish” place masquerading a very poorly imitated American version of what we would believe an Irish Bar is.
Dinner is not fish and chips but some sort of meat meal that is quickly forgotten. G’s had a significant number of pints of Guinness and I’m sticking to some kind of less-than-premium version of alcohol but of course being charged a premium price. Food’s finally finished and we head downstairs around 9-ish to see the band. G is protesting loudly that this is a waste of time but I can’t see going to the party at Space for an hour (I think it was some kind of gay night at Space anyway). I convince him I need a wingman to survive and drag him to a barstool. There was the typical group of drunken soccer-Brits in front of the stage bumping into everyone so we stay a little closer to the back where the few women are. I ask the bartender who the band is and he says it’s some band from the US.
After listening to butchered chords, half hearted lyrics, and studying the faces of the band…it doesn’t take long to determine that the band is French and masquerading as American…very poorly.
I go back to the bartender and get in an argument with him about where the band is from. I finally tell him there are no French words in the lyrics to Nirvana’s “Come as you are” and he has some kind of epiphany or was just good at faking that he didn’t know up to that point.
The surprising part is that the crowd is eating it up. Apparently it’s some kind of trend to listen to bad American cover bands but what I still don’t understand is how anyone could be fooled. The sign says advertising the band, Direct from America… “We Ja Tame.” Are Europeans really that easily fooled?
G was right, there are only a few women, the loud and beer spilling Brits are making it impossible to meet the opposite sex, and the music is getting worse. Finally, with the song “pretty high for a white guy” (should be Fly), we’d had enough and it was up to the room for some further drinking and getting ready for the long next day of travel to Merry-old-Merry Old. I was, however, at the time, pretty high for a white guy… Maybe I just should have stayed till close and hit on a fat chick or something.
Last edited by a moderator:
)I'm here. What up?
And it was the Med.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Mediterranean_Relief.jpg
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Mediterranean_Relief.jpg
You would think a "Globe Trotter" like yourself would know what body of water he was on. Especially if you grew up a fisherman. Staying in PDB made it even more so.
letsgetdownanddirtybaby
Active Member
Cant blame that on anyone but myself...west of Gibralter...east of Gibralter...
Ah well, at least I can edit the post...
L.
Ah well, at least I can edit the post...
L.
letsgetdownanddirtybaby
Active Member
Cocoon is a mile away...there is still the sports outing in Merry Old, Merry Old to divulge...Coccoon closing though is classic...I remember some of the best lines of the trip were things people said and things we got to do at the last second....ah such memories...
Should have hung out on the English side of the island the whole time...would have been so much better...
Should have hung out on the English side of the island the whole time...would have been so much better...
WeLuvIbiza
Active Member
Excellent continuation...