So... after a fairly lengthy hiatus from all things blog I’ve been summoned to return by my lovely and very easy to make laugh girlfriend to write my third instalment.
She suggested that I, similar to my first blog, just begin to type and see where it leads me.
I’m having various thoughts, actually, many thoughts, all racing through my mind. I of course want to write something interesting or funny and of course articulate and maybe even thought provoking, we’ll see...
So given my many thoughts, all of which are battling for space in my more than occupied mind, I have settled upon the subject of
Change.
I’ll open proceedings with a basic but usually very difficult to answer question.
"Why is change so hard?”
I pose this question as I’m in the midst of a lot of change. For one I’ve decided to move back to Liverpool in September. I have many reasons to leave London, but few to stay. I’ve been hovering around the idea for over a year and now I’ve decided I’m going to go.
Life in Liverpool offers less variety than London, but it almost certainly (for me) offers more heart, more warmth and more love. These traits are something I’ve learned must never been over looked or passed by or gotten back to. They are vital, variety is not. (I will miss endless Japanese food delivery though)
(Which leads me to another question? Why on earth are there no good Japanese delivery places ANYWHERE in Liverpool..? A city with one of the oldest Asian communities in Europe..? Chinese may rule in numbers but sadly the Chinese food (the version of Chinese food made to suit Europeans – not authentic Chinese) is caked in MSG, Japanese is not, it’s fresh and clean and the closest thing to a healthy fresh meal you can get without growing it yourself! Anyway... SOZ.)
Is change difficult because I’m set in my ways or lazy or am I blinkered? It took me 7 or 8 years to move to London, even though I wanted to very much, something (well anything) stopped me. I guess I was scared of the unknown? With the move back to Liverpool I’m scared of the familiar... By this I mean treading the same streets I have walked down since I was a boy. A city so deeply etched in my mind that I could get around with my eyes closed (I’ve tried it after circus many times). Maybe this reluctance to come back and walk the streets of my home town is part of being scared of change...?
When relationships have ended I’ve always found it hard to change and hard to let go (even if i handled privately and silently, I always (albeit temporarily) crave my ex. Whether it’s changing how I feel or changing a social circle or changing and address, it’s never easy.
Recently I’ve learned that change is easier than I once believed. Maybe its because ive changed many times now and ive seen the positive results of change. Even though it’s hard to break your own mould, it’s ALWAYS for the best and ALWAYS results in a better quality of life.
So I’m not looking at change as being a negative or a difficult process any longer. Change is to be embraced, something to be looked forward to and enjoyed.
i hope to welcome change.
Something exciting is around the corner and I can’t wait to find out what it is...
Y
Tuesday 27 July 2010
Monday 22 February 2010
the First road to Damascus...
the First road to Damascus...
april 2009
my trip to syria....
“I'm the what...?” I say loudly, to the local promoter I've just met at the airport. I’ve just been swept quickly through customs in VIP style, and now the sentiment settles in; Yousef will be Syria’s first international DJ.
It’s quite a shock (almost to the point where I could justify referring to myself in the third person) and although I was aware of the political situation here, and Syria's traditions, I didn’t comprehend its distinct lack of international talent gracing the land. As far as I know, it’s the only Arab state to retain this policy, and in a planet that all too frequently seems to have shown a tremendous nous for throwing dance music in the most unlikely of situations, I’m surprised somewhere still exists untouched by the all enveloping reach of rave.
The news also fills me with a feeling poised midway between exhilaration and stress. Stereo typical images of a politically torn country ravaging any hopes of a rave flood my mind, whilst I ponder an image of a club based on an amalgamation of “that scene in blade” and “5am at a mosque” – fear and excitement swiftly follow.
I wake 5 hours later after a reasonable sleep and try to get on line, which I do. I make a proud announcement that tonight I'm to be the first international DJ to play in Syria. I hit facebook, AOL AIM and my own club night circus' message board. The responses come in thick and fast, “well done, nice achievement, go Yousef, wear a bullet proof vest, Marco v never came because of death threats” you know, the usual banter and well wishing that would greet the achievement.
Marco V's recent cancellation – with the same promoter, according to 365 magazine – was due to the death threats he received on his own message board. I concur that I will be making exactly the same choice too if my lines of communication receive the same treatment, but I’m yet to yield it. But there’s not enough time to check every facet of the information super highway, who knows how high the bounty maybe on my head?!?
Later I’m picked up by Muhammad and taken to the top of Qassyoon Mountain for a glimpse of the surrounding areas and bite to eat. En route the drivers all drive like their wives are about to give birth on the back seat and they’ve downed a bottle of dom in pre celebration, With tightly gripped hope I hold on to my seat and clutch my seat belt (the only person in the car wearing one). We dodge though the insane traffic at speed, yet even at this pace I find it easy to spot the countless machine gun wielding military police of every street corner. “They are the reason Syria is so safe” explains Muhammed, whilst failing to see the irony that the drivers are wilfully going against that mantra. Though it only dawns on me later on in the hotel room; I’m too busy gawping with fear at their antics as they continue to treat our lives with gleeful disdain.
At the top of the aforementioned mountain a local magazine has come to meet us, looking to grab the scoop on myself and my Syrian predicament. The interview is littered with the usual questions; my favourite place to play, do you love Syria and do I have a message for “my fan's” (of which I was building steadily from the promoter, driver, and journo outwards – not bad for 8 hours in country). I happily answered all the questions and close with one of my own - “what happened with Marco V?” At this point Mohammed steps in, suggesting the threats were from rival promoters trying to flummox the gig and that by the time they’d come in, it was too late for Marco to be persuaded otherwise. Still unable to see all the internet, I casually ponder the potential price on my head…
Later on in Lunch conversation slips to my own promoting, could I help the Syrian scene personally by fronting a festival? I politely point out that maybe with myself being the first DJ to play here, perhaps things are running a little too slowly for that just yet. But it’s a nice thought, and with Mohammed enthusing of over ten years of experience promoting, I’m hesitantly optimisitic. We drive back to the hotel, throughout more dangerous traffic, heavily armed police and even past a UN range rover searching for a parking space in this busy to bursting city. It sure contrasts with the seemingly supposed in comparison wildness’ of Ibiza.
Next is the sound check, and despite a decade of working in the business there’s no monitor in the booth, and although quickly remedied I’m fearing for the worst. The fears are dumbfounded; the sound is great considering the small size of the club and the fact that I’m in a dingy drinking hole in Damascus. Its 7.45, 15 minutes before the club opens, a further five hours before my set and a whopping 12 before we shut, yet there’s a healthy stream of people starting to come in. For some, it’s shaping up to be a long ass night…
My pick up time of 12.30 comes, and goes...I'm told that I need to wait for more people to arrive – as “the locals don't think I'm coming”. It transpires that 500 angry locals were waiting for Marco to show up and seem less than convinced I will. Eventually at 1am I'm I go downstairs to the lobby eager to keep my low profile, where I’m met by local TV, radio and press to document the arrival of something new for Syria – not what I had in mind but im happy to do a few live interviews - im then am followed (in a reality TV show style) to the club.
In the club, the music is loud and the room is half full. I start immediately by grabbing a mic and introduce myself with thanks, the crowd appear appreciative and so I crack on. I keep the music up beat and energetic, slipping between the new Prins Thomas remix of luke Soloman to my own techno fuelled “letter to no one”, and judging by the whoops, claps and cheers it seems to be going well. 90 Minutes passes by and the crowd seem a little less receptive to electronic music, I’ve had a few local girls asking me for ‘songs’, and the response to Paul Woolford’s glorious remake of “the sun in my eyes” followed by serge Santiago's equally exceptional remix of ‘Blind’ is lukewarm. The same girl returns to explain she meant Arabic vocals and Arabic music. Ahh...
After two hours it becomes clear that ‘Jet Set’ in the heart of new Damascus is not exactly ready for my sound, or it would seem, the sound of electronic music at all. A breakers troupe arrive and I’m asked for hip-hop, it’s a wish id love to comply with but sadly unable too. At this stage the proceeding DJ arrives, following directly on. I expect local music, or hip hop, yet “DJ undertaker” stops my track and drops in the hardest, most aggressive trance cut known to man. The remaining crowd parts like the red sea. I smile and split direct to my bed, my immersion in the Syrian scene is over for tonight.
A few hours later and its time to fly back to London, but not before another dice with death. For some reason haste seems to be a more attractive proposition for my driver than safety, and it’s only after I loudly badger him to slow that the speed dial swerves below 120mph. The timing couldn’t be better, we’re literally inches away from the car in front and my life seems more in the balance now than at the hands of any internet threats, idle or otherwise.
The queues for the current airport (a new one is midway through construction) are catastrophic, imagine the customers of Primark multiplied by ten and force fed amphetamines and you’ve only got half the picture. Muhammed kindly slips one of the guards a few Syrian pounds and I get ushered though in two minutes instead of 2 hours. I eventually find the BMI check in desk and am relieved to find the flight is not only direct but I’m also eligible for an upgrade. The sweat that had glistened my forehead as I clung for life pirouetting ferociously through traffic somehow disappears as a wary smile envelopes my face.
It’s at this point that I ponder on the experience I’ve just had. I’m certainly glad to be part of history, to find a corner of the earth still unexposed completely to the nuances of modern dance music and play my role in bringing it somewhere yet to experience it properly. Even the near deaths (ahem...) , musical mishaps and the feeling of not really being ‘got’ can’t dull the moment. Whilst I’d be lying if I said the gig was enjoyable, the whole trip was certainly an experience. And that surely is what DJing, and for that matter life full stop, is all about.
Hats off to muhammed.
this is the youtube advert they made
april 2009
my trip to syria....
“I'm the what...?” I say loudly, to the local promoter I've just met at the airport. I’ve just been swept quickly through customs in VIP style, and now the sentiment settles in; Yousef will be Syria’s first international DJ.
It’s quite a shock (almost to the point where I could justify referring to myself in the third person) and although I was aware of the political situation here, and Syria's traditions, I didn’t comprehend its distinct lack of international talent gracing the land. As far as I know, it’s the only Arab state to retain this policy, and in a planet that all too frequently seems to have shown a tremendous nous for throwing dance music in the most unlikely of situations, I’m surprised somewhere still exists untouched by the all enveloping reach of rave.
The news also fills me with a feeling poised midway between exhilaration and stress. Stereo typical images of a politically torn country ravaging any hopes of a rave flood my mind, whilst I ponder an image of a club based on an amalgamation of “that scene in blade” and “5am at a mosque” – fear and excitement swiftly follow.
I wake 5 hours later after a reasonable sleep and try to get on line, which I do. I make a proud announcement that tonight I'm to be the first international DJ to play in Syria. I hit facebook, AOL AIM and my own club night circus' message board. The responses come in thick and fast, “well done, nice achievement, go Yousef, wear a bullet proof vest, Marco v never came because of death threats” you know, the usual banter and well wishing that would greet the achievement.
Marco V's recent cancellation – with the same promoter, according to 365 magazine – was due to the death threats he received on his own message board. I concur that I will be making exactly the same choice too if my lines of communication receive the same treatment, but I’m yet to yield it. But there’s not enough time to check every facet of the information super highway, who knows how high the bounty maybe on my head?!?
Later I’m picked up by Muhammad and taken to the top of Qassyoon Mountain for a glimpse of the surrounding areas and bite to eat. En route the drivers all drive like their wives are about to give birth on the back seat and they’ve downed a bottle of dom in pre celebration, With tightly gripped hope I hold on to my seat and clutch my seat belt (the only person in the car wearing one). We dodge though the insane traffic at speed, yet even at this pace I find it easy to spot the countless machine gun wielding military police of every street corner. “They are the reason Syria is so safe” explains Muhammed, whilst failing to see the irony that the drivers are wilfully going against that mantra. Though it only dawns on me later on in the hotel room; I’m too busy gawping with fear at their antics as they continue to treat our lives with gleeful disdain.
At the top of the aforementioned mountain a local magazine has come to meet us, looking to grab the scoop on myself and my Syrian predicament. The interview is littered with the usual questions; my favourite place to play, do you love Syria and do I have a message for “my fan's” (of which I was building steadily from the promoter, driver, and journo outwards – not bad for 8 hours in country). I happily answered all the questions and close with one of my own - “what happened with Marco V?” At this point Mohammed steps in, suggesting the threats were from rival promoters trying to flummox the gig and that by the time they’d come in, it was too late for Marco to be persuaded otherwise. Still unable to see all the internet, I casually ponder the potential price on my head…
Later on in Lunch conversation slips to my own promoting, could I help the Syrian scene personally by fronting a festival? I politely point out that maybe with myself being the first DJ to play here, perhaps things are running a little too slowly for that just yet. But it’s a nice thought, and with Mohammed enthusing of over ten years of experience promoting, I’m hesitantly optimisitic. We drive back to the hotel, throughout more dangerous traffic, heavily armed police and even past a UN range rover searching for a parking space in this busy to bursting city. It sure contrasts with the seemingly supposed in comparison wildness’ of Ibiza.
Next is the sound check, and despite a decade of working in the business there’s no monitor in the booth, and although quickly remedied I’m fearing for the worst. The fears are dumbfounded; the sound is great considering the small size of the club and the fact that I’m in a dingy drinking hole in Damascus. Its 7.45, 15 minutes before the club opens, a further five hours before my set and a whopping 12 before we shut, yet there’s a healthy stream of people starting to come in. For some, it’s shaping up to be a long ass night…
My pick up time of 12.30 comes, and goes...I'm told that I need to wait for more people to arrive – as “the locals don't think I'm coming”. It transpires that 500 angry locals were waiting for Marco to show up and seem less than convinced I will. Eventually at 1am I'm I go downstairs to the lobby eager to keep my low profile, where I’m met by local TV, radio and press to document the arrival of something new for Syria – not what I had in mind but im happy to do a few live interviews - im then am followed (in a reality TV show style) to the club.
In the club, the music is loud and the room is half full. I start immediately by grabbing a mic and introduce myself with thanks, the crowd appear appreciative and so I crack on. I keep the music up beat and energetic, slipping between the new Prins Thomas remix of luke Soloman to my own techno fuelled “letter to no one”, and judging by the whoops, claps and cheers it seems to be going well. 90 Minutes passes by and the crowd seem a little less receptive to electronic music, I’ve had a few local girls asking me for ‘songs’, and the response to Paul Woolford’s glorious remake of “the sun in my eyes” followed by serge Santiago's equally exceptional remix of ‘Blind’ is lukewarm. The same girl returns to explain she meant Arabic vocals and Arabic music. Ahh...
After two hours it becomes clear that ‘Jet Set’ in the heart of new Damascus is not exactly ready for my sound, or it would seem, the sound of electronic music at all. A breakers troupe arrive and I’m asked for hip-hop, it’s a wish id love to comply with but sadly unable too. At this stage the proceeding DJ arrives, following directly on. I expect local music, or hip hop, yet “DJ undertaker” stops my track and drops in the hardest, most aggressive trance cut known to man. The remaining crowd parts like the red sea. I smile and split direct to my bed, my immersion in the Syrian scene is over for tonight.
A few hours later and its time to fly back to London, but not before another dice with death. For some reason haste seems to be a more attractive proposition for my driver than safety, and it’s only after I loudly badger him to slow that the speed dial swerves below 120mph. The timing couldn’t be better, we’re literally inches away from the car in front and my life seems more in the balance now than at the hands of any internet threats, idle or otherwise.
The queues for the current airport (a new one is midway through construction) are catastrophic, imagine the customers of Primark multiplied by ten and force fed amphetamines and you’ve only got half the picture. Muhammed kindly slips one of the guards a few Syrian pounds and I get ushered though in two minutes instead of 2 hours. I eventually find the BMI check in desk and am relieved to find the flight is not only direct but I’m also eligible for an upgrade. The sweat that had glistened my forehead as I clung for life pirouetting ferociously through traffic somehow disappears as a wary smile envelopes my face.
It’s at this point that I ponder on the experience I’ve just had. I’m certainly glad to be part of history, to find a corner of the earth still unexposed completely to the nuances of modern dance music and play my role in bringing it somewhere yet to experience it properly. Even the near deaths (ahem...) , musical mishaps and the feeling of not really being ‘got’ can’t dull the moment. Whilst I’d be lying if I said the gig was enjoyable, the whole trip was certainly an experience. And that surely is what DJing, and for that matter life full stop, is all about.
Hats off to muhammed.
this is the youtube advert they made
Tuesday 16 February 2010
first blog - thanks cheggers
So this is my first ever blog.
It’s long overdue. I’m told by friends daily that I should write one. I’m not particularly good at concise English so I was reluctant.
Anyway here goes...
as with all new bloggers, I’m unsure of where to start...? Do I tell my non existing audience about my day..? Do I tell you (me) about how much I enjoyed having my brother over to stay..?
Seems like a good place to begin. My brother Nicky is a golf scientist and some sort of personal training guru. Bare in mind he left Liverpool at age 15 in order to per sue a life as a golf pro. Which he did via London, Birmingham, Liverpool, Bremen (had to leave town for getting kicked off German blind date), Hamburg and now Berlin.
He came over to visit me and to kick my ass back in to shape training, which he did. he explained further training and fitness techniques which I had not acquired when preparing my one and only (and completed) attempt at the marathon, the London marathon (round in just over 4 hours April 2009). He is a smart man, he’s happily married with a beautiful and funny baby daughter (5 years) called romy. We nailed a 6 mile run, it was easy. I’m on my way to fitness again...
later in the day I worked on music and worked on circus (my club night) both seem to be taking good shape for 2010. I’m putting the hours in.
Naomi my wonderful ex girlfriend came to my house, we ate some lovely jap food, HELL YEAH. Then I slipped off to Tutt's place 10 mins away for pancakes. Which I delivered in fine style, once I year I eat those greasy little buggers.
Anyone enough of my boring day....
the highlights...
the Brits were, oddly, entertaining. I’m no peter Kaye fan. But after hearing him slay Liam Gallagher’s predictable on stage antics "I’m so rock and roll" (a prick) Peter Kaye cleared up Liam's public display of dated and ill fated rock attitude with three well chosen and accurate words "what a knobhead"... the world agreed.
Later at home I’m was tuning into more twitter action. My latest and arguably greatest twitter friend is Keith Chegwin. If you don’t follow this living institution, do so, as soon as you can. His outlook on life is as refreshing as it free from cynicism. I literally asked him to meet me for a pint.
I then realised given his publically presented booze problem that he probably thought I was taking the piss... I wasn’t! He’s so funny. Intelligence is knowing yourself as well as knowing about life and its procedures and facts and history and la la la la. Being yourself is where it’s at. Pretending to be and not being yourself, nothing worse. Most people will never grasp this concept, which is why I literally admire cheggers. He is himself, or seems to be, which is why I asked to meet him, to find out more...
I was talking to a friend earlier about our mutual appreciation of cheggers. She realised that he probably thinks I’m a stalker, which of course I’m not, but them I quickly realised that I am actually talking about him, contacting him and hoping to meet him and "be his friend".... can’t see why I’m not a stalker..?
Come to think of it. Has cheggers ever had a stalker..? Would he want one....? Could we set up some
sort of cheggers stalker idol...? "cheggers plays POP idol"..?
I think I’ve made myself clear. Anyway. cheg pants. If you want a new mate. I’m your man.
So... that’s my first blog.
I would have never begun if it wasn’t for cheggers...?
Is that my first book title...?
YZ
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
