“If you eat well, feed the forest, hang out with friends you start to appreciate the finer sounds.” – Andras Fox
The feeling was right: Andras Fox was our dream gig. If we could make it happen.
In our original message to him, we had said something ridiculous (yet accurate) like “we think you would be a perfect fit for the soulful, lingering mood that exists here”. Andras hadn’t replied for four straight (nervous, gripping) days—and all hope was lost. But then he did, with so much excitement in the reply. From there on, we just knew.
Just over a year ago, the slow, magnificent grind of GMM had turned into Luna Terrace: When the maiden party with (the legendary) Giles Smith went down, there was veritable excitement in the air—unmistakable—like First Love registering in the upper echelon of your senses, that certain headfuzz of “what’s going onn?”. During the peak hours of that party, around 5am, the entire crowd got trapped inside this big warm misty (lilac) bubble, whilst Mr Smith, standing like a benevolent Zeus atop the bay of Galle, poured lovely Larry Heard keys into our brains. We’d seen nothing like it.
Over time, the novelty had been slowly, yet naturally, wearing off: It was pretty hard to continue to capture the venue’s original magic. Yet Luna Terrace were still throwing some of the best parties in the island, whilst making heads turn across the (sub)continent. They were parties of (literally) citizens of the world: crazy/wild souls, along with (slightly) more normal cats who happened to really like their music. It was a challenge to balance what the crowds were accustomed to (or wanted) against more exciting, divergent music. But the payoff had slowly revealed itself.
The year had come to an end, a new one beginning. In more ways than one, Andras’ set felt like the closer, or closure. There was no better selector to do it; one with that kindda record collection, who transcended wider dance music and went beyond the 4-4, the soulful vox and dusty drums, into the wild: exploring the unheralded yet alluring nooks of underground sugar caves, from obscure bollywood 7″s to nostalgic nu-age music to balearic G-funk to Spanish guitar numbers (“What is he doing to us, man?”): perfect-imperfect music with heart/soul, unfolding in vivid colour. That slowmo soul, that sideways swing, music that make u feel some type of way. And whenever he would veer off on a tangent and the floor seemed to pause, he’d know exactly when to pick it back up.
At around 6am, with the reticent (but enormous) sun slowly rising behind him, things started to look a little ridiculous: a picture-postcard dream. The sound was effortless and free. “’sif the essence of this setting was translated into music, and vice versa” someone aptly summed up. Then at around 7.30 in the AM, Mr Fox decided to jump in the waterways, but emerged back on to continue on. He later confided (to our great distress) that he was ready to play till noon if not for the cableguy pulling the pin around 9am. Yet by then, the magic had been recaptured, albeit in different spirit/tone.
Soon it was all over. And we drove all the way back to the capital of codeine, Colombo, saddened, but inspired.