Why, "Hey, are you high?" can be the best compliment ever.

By: Kai Teo

Photos: Žana Erdeljan – The Mysterious Flash in the Dark

Event: FFWD ▶▶ – Kontrapunkt, Norra Grängesbergsgatan 26
Date: Saturday, 8 June ’13
Bands and DJs: Full lineup available here
Genre: Acid Techno, Drum & Bass, Jungle
Entry: 50 sek for monthly membership
Our rating: 4.5/5

Buddha Mag has never been to a shitty Kontrapunkt party.

Every time we manage to drag our drunk asses to the industrial ghetto, we manage to party the life out of our flesh and bones, and then get to see the morning sun peek over the crummy buildings, guiding our paths home.

This time, it’s no different. And for the record, we did not consume any form of mind-altering, naturally-occurring substances that could potentially lead to enlightenment and a perpetual sense of universal love and spirituality, or what the media calls, illegal drugs.

Just a few beers, or what we think is one of the worst drugs in the world (we’ll not debate this issue here, because there’s no debate).

But we digress. Again.

As we stepped in and exchanged our worldly money for Karma Capital, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was a little protest against the world’s currency system. “Sorry, but your money is no good here. It’s dirty.”

To the crew at Kontrapunkt, if that was what you intended, you are fucking cheeky bastards, and I am immensely impressed at your brilliance.

And even before we bought any alcohol, we were presented with two distinct paths: enter the door to the left and be assaulted with the onslaught of hard, outer-space techno, or turn right and face the deep bass monster that we’ve become so familiar with.


I wanted to find out what was Acid Techno. I mean, I love them both, separately. But together? Interesting.

Honestly, it was a little like descending into hell. The air was dense and thick with sticky moisture. It smelled of summer sweat infused with a sweet blend of perfume and dry ice. In other words, it smelled funny and I couldn’t see shit.

Four giant truck headlamps were fixed on the wall, and constantly spewing out a blinding white light. I was fixated on that for a while, because it made my eyes hurt and it somehow resembled the light at the end of the tunnel. Except that it was four times of that. It was kinda comforting.

A solid, perpetual, single ray of laser light shot out from the ceiling and was pointed right at my forehead, as if warning me that the death of my ears was imminent and immediate. Come on DJ, shoot me with your fucking techno.

And pew pew pew pew.

It was nothing quite like the stuff I’ve heard before. It was like Psytrance, but without the pixies and unicorns, and more robot-ish. It sounded like Techno, but it had the ability to take you further out into the other dimension. I see what you did there. Creating a beautiful confusion, a unique musical journey into really deep, dark and dirty places.

And we started sweating. The heat from the lights, the bodies and the everything there made it seem like an orgy of heathen witches. You know, the kind of dingy underground parties that Jackie Chan goes to find the gangster bosses in his movies. We loved it.

My flip-flops were doing what they do best. Flipping and flopping about. Fuck that. Let’s go barefoot again. The last time I did that at Kontrapunkt, I ended up with a bleeding toe. Obviously, I haven’t learnt my lesson.

And pew pew pew pew.

It just got harder and harder and even harder. For a while, it felt like Drum & Bass would be the more soothing option. So I bid goodbye to the rainbow-coloured robot that was destroying cities in my head, and stepped out.

Only to have my ears and my tired body once again gang-raped by the combined mob of pounding drums and asphyxiating bass.

Oh right, it was the infamous Øka Dnb crew. Of course they were not gonna let us escape their wrath so easily.

The deep Wor Wor Wor Wor forced its way into my mindscape, while the catchy drum beats took control of my feet and moved it according to the way the DJ intended: madly.

And we went into the zone again. Nothing mattered. Dance was the only mission. (I know we write this for every party, but hey, we like dancing THIS much)

By this time, the soles of my feet were caked with a 2 cm thick black crust that resembled a dough made of shit, mud, cigarette ash and sand. It was disgusting. But it somehow signified some sort of freedom.

“Yay! Look at me! I’m dancing barefoot! I’m a fucking hippie!”

It was also then that I was reminded of my inability to incorporate another person into my weekly Wildman dance routine. Yes, she looked like a Swedish Princess Mononoke, and it felt right to dance with her. But whenever I put my hands on her waist, I realised that it was impossible not to step on her feet, or knee her in the groin.

I gave up. Dance was my only mission. The princess can wait.

I kept going wilder and wilder. And my back started aching, my feet were hurting and I was severely dehydrated. I needed air.

I stepped out into the outdoor area and took a deep breath of the beautiful morning smog. Mmm… 200 mg of tar and 400 mg of nicotine went straight to my head. The cosy corner was packed to the brim with the fallen ones, those whose bodies had lost the war against fatigue, but their minds were still unwilling to let the party end.

Just then, a giant ball of flame flew into my face with the ferocity of a thousand-year-old dragon that had just been released from its dungeon. “That’s an impressive lighter,” I thought to myself.

In a small 1.5 m by 1.5 m clearing was a graceful lunatic blowing fire into the air, showcasing his might and magic, with a pair of eyes that glowed orange with a maniacal charm. He smiled at the not-too-impressed crowd as he breathed in the aroma of burnt human hair and kerosene. We managed a feeble smile but that couldn’t hide our initial shock from his attempt to barbecue us. We could’ve died, dude.

“Hey, are you on something?” I turned my gaze to the voice and there stood a tall, bald and athletic-looking guy. His eyes were the size of distant planets and they seemed to stare straight through me. And that created a black hole within me that sucked out every other sound around us. All I could hear were his jaws, that were violently chewing a tormented piece of gum that had long lost its flavour. I’ve never seen anyone enjoy chewing gum this much.

“Did you take anything?” Oh, he was talking to me. My answer was straightforward. It was a statement. Almost like a philosophy.

“No.” Yea motherfuckers, I had a few beers. I’m not high. Not stoned. Not tripping. Not drunk. Not even tipsy. I was powered purely by the love of life. Uh huh.

When someone mistakes you for being high, it could mean that no one could dance so hard, no one could sweat so much, and no one could smile so wide, no one except me. It could also mean that I had a fucking druggie face.

I chose the more flattering interpretation.

A few hours later, as I was peeling off the layers of dirt from my feet in the shower, that incident still brought a little smile to my face. “Powered by the love of life.” What the fuck did that even mean? Haha.

Oh, and the princess didn’t wait.