It was late at night. I watched the fireworks and listened to the final beats of the festival. They had been there for two weekends. There were thousands of them, all equally mesmerized by that different world they had stepped into. I wasn't there but I could hear them from my balcony, twelve kilometers away. I wasn't angry or annoyed by them either.

In a way, I was proud. I was proud that a festival in this small country managed to do all the things that Tomorrowland can. It's become the landmark for electronic dance music festivals around the globe and it's an overwhelming spectacle for everyone involved. More than that, Tomorrowland is the apogee of Belgium's pioneering work in the dance music scenes, which started decades ago when a DJ accidentally invented Popcorn music (read about that in part one of these series).

When the wind turned, I could hear another festival, Sfinks Mixed, a world music festival that is free and family friendly. In more than one aspect, Sfinks is different from Tomorrowland. While the one has a corner with bouncing castles and slides, the other one is a playground for adults. Apparently, as I read in the newspaper, there had been an incident on Sfinks festival. Boef, a Dutch performer stopped the show after only a few songs. According to the story, the tent was packed to capacity, mostly with children who wanted to see their idol. The situation got out of hand when people started shuffling towards the stage. Adults pushed themselves between the groups of children. Several youngsters fainted and others got separated from their parents. The rapper had already told the adults to remain in the back but apparently, there is a difference between listening to music and listening to the artist. So, Boef had no other option than to quit. It was just not safe anymore.

Maybe it's because Belgian babysitters are becoming increasingly expensive but I see more and more children at festivals. I've been watching this trend in the past six or seven years, mostly because I've been watching out in order not to step on the little brats. Still, I don't think it's a bad thing to bring your children to a festival. Personally, I'd rather see my kid enjoying a good band instead of getting its brain numbed by television. I think it's a good experience for them and they can surely learn a thing or two (that there's more in the world than K3, for example). Yet, some conditions apply.

1. There has to be enough room. Kids are energetic little flesh bags and they like to run around for some bizarre reason. In the middle of a mosh pit, that running around can ruin the atmosphere so make sure that there's plenty or room for your little Duracell-bunny to rage. 

2. The kids must be guarded at all times. On a festival that's no different than in any other situation. It's called "responsibility" and it means that, when you bring your little rocker, you can no longer pass out drunk. 

In fact, when I wrote this part of this article, I was thinking of one of my facebook friends who occasionally brings his daughter to concerts and festivals. It's great to see how she brings some pure joy to an otherwise loud and intense event. People are getting to know her. They play with her, talk to her, party with her. She's probably a pretty smart kid too and she definitely enjoys the attention. By the time she will be old enough to develop her own musical style, she will be widely influenced and that is a good thing.  Even scientifically, that's a good thing, just read Dick Swaab's books.

Bandcamp currently has a special about weird Belgian music (read), which they call "The New Weird Belgium". That title made me giggle. There is no "new" weird Belgium. We have always been weird. Or better, we have always been experimental.
For me personally, the fascination with the more experimental ànd local sides of the music scenes started with a band from Hasselt. The bass player worked at the bar where I used to write my first lyrics. The band, led by the charismatic Mauro Pawlowski, won Humo's Rock Rally in 1994. 

After the band disbanded in 1998 Mauro went on to do amazing and bizarre things. He joined one of Belgium's biggest bands ever, dEUS and recorded heaps of albums under heaps of monikers. Another Evil Superstars member, Tim Vanhamel, formed Millionaire, another massively popular band in this area. Tim also played in Eagles Of Death Metal. But I know him from his time with Sister Poopoo. Yes, I am that old.

Today, the "weird' is everywhere. I recently watched Hypochristmutreefuzz do their thing at Gent Jazz. Coined as a noise rock act, these guys play with all kinds of genres and equipment, including noise, rap, rock and electronics. Hypochristmutreefuzz is simply another incarnation of the Belgian's experimental approach. Many bands have come before them and many will undoubtedly follow.

​At that same festival, DAAU (short for Die Anarchistische Abendunterhaltung) also played a few sets. The current line-up consists of Roel Van Camp (accordion), Han Stubbe (clarinet), Hannes D'Hoine (upright bass) and Jeroen Stevens (drums, marimba). DAAU does something exciting with jazz, klezmer and classical music. Long ago, they decided not to stick to one genre, something many Belgian artists have in common.

We have always been weird and we have never given a fuck about it. In 1958, Roeselare born Louis De Meester created this sonic nightmare, which is basically a slow, soundscaping assault on your mental state.

Apart from Studio 100, Belgian music is managed badly. But what would you expect, this whole country is managed badly. There is no easy guidance over here. When you record a single in Belgium, at least five people will immediately contact you. Not to help, only to fill their own pockets. A shady manager, a shadier copyright organisation, the tax man and those two facebook followers you thought were friends, they will all be there at your first gig.

Perhaps that's why many Belgian artists loved to work with Bidi Van Drongelen. Bidi passed away recently, sending a shockwave through the Dutch and Belgian heavy music scenes. As booking agent, he worked with Bliksem, Channel Zero, Cowboys & Aliens, Steak Number Eight and countless of other bands from all over the world. To most of them, Bidi was more than a booking agent. He was a friend, a living metal encyclopedia and a hedonist. He was the embodiment of the Dutch know-how and commercial talent that we Belgian mostly lack. I have never met Bidi in person but from behind my computer screen, I noticed his constant presence, coming through emails and facebook messages. I also read all the in memoriams and I watched all the tributes. Bidi will surely be missed here.

Bad management has always been an issue in this little country. It leads to band splitting before breaking through, artists ending up on the streets and other unpleasantries. If it wasn't for greedy agents and incompetent personnel, many of our bands would have been a lot bigger, especially in the underground scene. Some bands would have been huge instead of the one hit wonder they're known for today.

But, like the title said, we will manage. Apparently, nothing will stop us from forming bands, crawling behind a computer to create some amazing electronic music, sing in choirs or play piano on the shopping streets. We're a musical nation and deep within we seem to know how it should work. Just look at some of our scenes. Here in Antwerp there is a whole scene around the Rodeo shows/Antwerp Music City. Bliksem frontwoman Peggy now does amazing things with Interstellar Deathroll. Local bands are being picked up to support international headliners on a daily basis.

Oh, about that. There had been a little fuzz around a certain journalist who claims that support acts are useless. He wrote an article about it, asking organisers to stop booking local support acts. (Dutch readers can read the article here). He claims that if you want to see Slowdive (for example), you always have to watch some boring, unimaginative local band. I wanted to punch that guy in the face and I'm not an aggressive person.

So instead of whining about the lousy quality of an otherwise hard working support act, why don't you journalist person do the fashionable thing and just come late. If you don't want to be annoyed by amateurs, ignore them. Life would be so much better if more people would just ignore stuff. Besides, the rest of us, who support the support act can easily live without your bored sighs and childish yammering. 

Belgium is small. The average pool in Dubai is probably bigger than our entire country. But there is music everywhere. Not only are we talented, we also seem to learn the basic needs of getting your music underground thrive. We cooperate, we experiment and we show respect. In that line, I'd like to end this part of 'Belgium - The capital of the (underground) music scene' with a song that has moved me a lot in the past few weeks. 

AmenRa is currently one of Belgium's biggest things, especially in the world of slow and heavy. They too have a whole scene around them, which is called "The Church Of Ra".  Their beautiful cover of 'Het Dorp', originally recorded by Zjef Vanuytsel in 1970 is a genuine show of respect for the musical history of this country. The song has been playing numerous times a day in the past few weeks, with good reason too.

A world of shapeless decadence, from a simplistic giant exasperation, fully destitute of multiple origins, is known to exist deep inside each and every one of us. It seems that human beings entirely forgot to fall from the skies of a laborious conduct, exasperatingly bittersweet, enthralled in an ocean of mist. 

Eyelids that never were, from human beings that used to be. A frozen sense of commiseration may open a new perspective, agonizing in cold hands that never stood for the truth of life. They claim never to forget how to exercise the clarity of mind that vigorously celebrates the ascendancy of the human soul into a state of serenity, where grotesque voices and palpable anxieties can reinstate a furious sea of tranquility above a world that never calms down. 

A laborious ocean of tranquility, sinister days of painful receptacles infuriated by a sizeable storm of buried voids, intercepted by the dynamic expanse of your closed eyes, in the extreme cold of possibilities, shining at the curious length of the impassive voice of an imprisoned smile. Why do I find myself in the constant wrath of a peaceful smile, between billions and billions of grains of sand, to stand between a spontaneous void of reason?  

Sound and silence seems to understood the quietness of a door that never opens, without evasive restlessness, nor conspicuous drowsiness. Worlds wrapped in chasms, a restless smile retains a pure love with the sun on the face. Everywhere I look, I see the glory of an invisible ocean of fallible societies, with an insufficient or insane amount of emptiness. 

A horizon of neutral elements in the room of my heart, infuriated elements confiscate crude colors in a sensitive overhang of restless abysses due to the limitation of perceptions. A sensational realization of disguised weariness, or a few distant days beyond the detrimental lapses of a conscience that was never right. Significant storms of sincere voices, everywhere I stand. Conspicuous and insatiable intimate wars overcome the perpetual nucleus of a silence closed for centuries of natural ambivalence of solemn hostilities. 

My character and my sensitivity: a question to find solutions instead of aggressive arguments. In the erased corners of the world, with the huge coalescence of perpetual disappointments that will never disappear – I clearly can’t explain properly why –, I see stone horizons consuming pale cliffs of unscathed dawns, where shapeless shadows never categorize the singularity of distinct sufferings based on translucent exasperations.

Scratched by the sordidness of a dawn afraid of emptiness itself, the overwhelming content and shape of a regular day will never be fairly represented. A bigger look, an eyeball, how to raise and to revive the natural colors of worlds of treachery, erected by the atomic symbols of inexistent sad days, stronger than the fulfillment of a marvelous bigotry. 

About these days of marvelous rudeness, patience for both sides, as I look into your eyes. I never forgive, I never forget. Short is the distance for the execution of latent sacrifices. The smiling danger, today is so freezing that even my inner selflessness is at risk of hypothermia. I can risk the sky, of such a magnificent vivid blue, just to see the perfect scenario on the other side of possibilities.

Buried in me, an orange disheveled sky. The potential twilight of a greater understanding
about an insensitive ordeal of interior wars lost in the pain of a dissolute thought, into the aggrandizing cosmogony of a system that kept hostility as a prevalent feature of the future. 

So precociously helpless, how displeased humankind has become. Basically weaving glances, saturated by the cursed frivolities of worlds entirely submitted by pain. In a constant state of dissolution, corroded galaxies explain to the labyrinths of the soul why life has become so drained by the empty saturation of intriguing wars. 

Congested by dying days, all the fenced avenues of empty cities cry. For sleepy afternoons, infinite shadows of disdain cease the day forgiving the emptiness of weeks founded on the truths of perpetual extenuation. Frivolous shadows drain cold afternoons staring at smoothed melancholy fears, just gloomy, and nothing more than your soul is pleased at the top of the sun. 

​
Theose lines were already written, the destitute fate of a pale mist. 
Deep eyes and caress alarming puzzles, doomed to search for painful and inferior benign staggering excuses, that grew more and more obscure as time passes by. Recalcitrant worlds of belligerent grains of sand entirely made of human sorrow lost in lonely streets. From the interior of fake philanthropies, the hopeful smile of an eternal night is so clear, how easily the invisible peacemaker of the monumental exasperation and his eyes that complains about dark seas and turbulent shadows drowning in ashes believe in the veracity of a universe that was never seen? 
 
Under your eyes obscured by shapes, rough elements of thirsty space and restlessness. The latent surgery of a cosmic penumbra and partial pilgrimage of an innovative despair, eroding unfortunate injuries of useless permanence and unsophisticated deflagration of incognito soldiers of despair. All the worlds created by your eyes clarify days without rain.
But all that was left is the full desertion of hours. 

In a perpetual paralysis of reason, every day went isolated in hours of stone. An infamous emptiness about cities of sand and wind. The pervasive noise of a universe colliding permanently with the ashes of a time that simply never existed. And suddenly, everything has disappeared. 

Today we have accumulated so many magnificent amounts of hatred. I can only hope that today the lower drowsiness from its latent opacity will be able to converge to the dead-eyed lethargy of the serene crystallization of lifeless worlds bought by the gray salutations of consistent smiles. 

About those years that have never seen the illegitimate atrocities of sorrow, for furious days of obscure pretension built the impossibility of a tired ocean of mist. The exhaustion of the disease suppresses the vastness of the day in a lower atmosphere inhabited by the empty gaze. Saluting the impertinent impermanence of the remarkable resolution that solves insignificant parities from the tribune of bones, I see the retracted vanity of a constant fear resumed by a voracious void. 

In the insidious shroud of a wonderful sentiment, worlds of painful deliberation perpetuate universes of reflective asphyxia. Warning about the sensation of inexistent beliefs, the latent colors of the ocean of your dreams obliterate humankind, in a measure of competence pure enough to contemplate the plurality and density of existence. 


​Wagner

Pupil of the legendary poet Masaoka Shiki, Kyoshi Takahama, born 22 February 1874, in Matsuyama, is considered one of the most important Japanese literary figures of his generation.    

An intellectual with profoundly creative vicissitudes, the literary arts soon were established in Takahama’s heart as a deeply rooted passion. In his early adulthood, Takahama, through an acquaintance, met the Japanese literary giant Masaoka Shiki, who would become his friend and literary mentor. Seemingly heated by the ardent objective of a career in letters, in a fit of audacity and restlessness, Takahama – dutifully ignoring Shiki’s advice – quit school in 1894, to pursue his dream to study Edo period Japanese literature in Tokyo.

The following year, Takahama took a seat at Waseda University – then called Tōkyō Senmon Gakkō – but soon, as his prestige and pursuits prospered, he abandoned it to take up a position as editor and literary critic in Nihonjin magazine. In 1898, at the age of only 24, he took over the board of the literary magazine Hototogisu, previously edited by Shiki, and moved the office from Matsuyama to Tokyo, establishing a new chapter to the enterprise. 

At first, he took a modernist approach to haiku, developing a brave and fearless trend of experimentalism, whose main characteristic was the irregular number of syllables. Unexpectedly, in taking over the editorial command of the literary magazine Hototogisu, he curiously adopted a more conservative approach to haiku, rejecting the form established by a literary school known as Hekigo, which did not follow the pattern of seventeen syllables. In addition, he began to emphasize "kigo" (a word referring to some season of the year), and did his best to completely exclude the more modern tendency of non-seasonal haiku.

The death of his great friend and literary mentor Masaoka Shiki – whom, suffering from tuberculosis and Pott's disease, always had to deal with a tremendously precarious health –, in Tokyo in 1902, at the young age of 34, was a great blow to Takahama, who nurtured profound admiration, deep affection and great respect for this colossal champion of the Japanese literary arts. Takahama was informed of the sad news by Shiki’s mother. 

Bearing an exceedingly creative and restless mind, Takahama had a rich and eventful life, as well as an extraordinary career in letters and a lasting impact on his country’s literary scene. It is speculated that Takahama wrote between 40,000 and 50,000 haiku in the course of his long, fruitful and productive career (although some sources openly say this number is vastly underrated). He also deeply encouraged his daughter – who had inherited her father’s literary talent – to start her own poetry magazine. In 1954, Takahama received the award of the Order of Culture from the Japanese government, in recognition of his distinguished work and contribution to Japanese literature. Posthumously, Takahama was bestowed by the Japanese government with the Order of the Sacred Treasury, 1st Class.

Extremely versatile as a writer, Takahama wrote in a number of genres: a prolific writer of haiku and short stories, he also wrote novels, dramas and essays. Envisioning some sort of artistic evolution in the literary field ahead of him, Takahama ambitioned the excellence of creativity perfectly combined with a strict and disciplined adherence to form, something he masterly accomplished during the course of his literary journey. 

Takahama died 85 years old, in 8 April 1959, in Kamakura. Unfortunately, like most Japanese writers, he is little known in the western world.  



Wagner

a prose poem By Wagner Hertzog 

In those days I remember never stopped raining. It never stopped raining. Never. And the shadows of the clouds always sick stood at the breathtaking conferences of my awkward soul. Every day I was depressed. I was expecting ambivalent and proficient shadows of agony outside while it was raining, and when everyone left, I was exhaustively ignored. Even when I was alone, in the imponderable solitude of my mediocrity, all that exasperating melancholy radiated the immensity of my inner fractures. I did not want to feel the eternal night of my distressing whining. 
Every day they were equally destructive, and never resulted in anything good. Every day was equally destructive, and I longed for the destruction of my restlessness. Every day I stayed there, and they began to consider me a man with no direction, an unoccupied man. According to my subversive inner perspective, as well as my weak condition at night, I saw myself in a much more "heroic" way, so to speak, an ambivalent, reserved and taciturn man; but for them, for all of them, I was just an unoccupied man. A plain unoccupied pale figure, unemployed and broke. In a matter of a few days, my opinion about myself began to become more and more like theirs, and soon I was contaminated with the fetid and repulsive realistic exoneration of my own mediocrity. The days were sad, the streets were awfully dark. I had to pray, to beg God’s help for consolation. As a gift rewarded by my solitary vicissitudes, I remembered the afternoons of distant times, in which I strolled in the spring of my dreams under the avenues and yellow-leafed bananas, and began to repeat this same walk and this same route with the purpose of recovering a little of the dreamlike beauty of the days of my happiness, but the fleetingness and futility of such treacherous attempts to be happy (or at least to experience some of the happiness that I thought I once had [supposing that someday I was happy]) only served to leave me more depressed, and all things were so bad that dying seemed the best of alternatives, the best of things. 
But seeing empty cities in her majestic eyes have given me real motivations for life, what was the real foundation of my existence, and for what reasons I could make this life worthwhile. But it was all transience on my behalf. The gentleness, slowness, lethargy and opacity of the gray and colorless afternoons, the colorful portrayal of the days, the abysmal commotion of the eternal night of the soul. Everyone was sneaky and everyone wanted to be. It seemed that only the inherent humanity of my goodness guarded any hint of sincerity. I could not have or reveal anything. All things were the fullness of the loss of time. I should die or shut up, but my nostalgia for my solitary lonely nights hid morbid silence, guarded by the foolishness of the days that never were and the days that will never be.

Only a few minutes ago, I read an article about an upcoming Dio-tour, dubbed 'Dio Returns'. Now, before you expect Ronnie to crawl out of his grave and back on stage, think again. This is not zombie Dio touring. This is something potentially scarier. Real musicians, the ones who toured with Dio earlier, will join a holographic version of the enigmatic vocalist, making it the first holographic world tour. Personally, I don't know how to feel about this.

According to the internet, the whole holographic thing started in 2012 when Dr. Dre asked Tupac Shakur's mother permission to use his virtual likeness at Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival. Electronics company AV Concepts built a holographic Tupac from old footage and put it (him?) on stage with Snoop and Dre himself. In 2014, Michael Jackson did something similar, performing on stage with a five-piece band and sixteen dancers. Only, the king of pop had been dead for five years.

Now, this 'Dio Returns' tour is announced (dates below this article).For this tour, Dio's hologram with be joined by The Dio Disciples: guitarist Craig Goldy, drummer Simon Wright, keyboardist Scott Warren and bassist Bjorn Englen. Hologram company Eyellusion will be responsible for the virtual performance of hits like 'Holy Diver', Rainbow's 'Man On The Silver Mountain' and many others. It's a unique tour, that's for sure, but also one that received mixed reactions.

Dio has been a highly respected and revered vocalist. Plenty of metalheads were shocked when the news of Dio's passing arrived. Undoubtedly, a lot of fans would pay a decent amount of money to see him perform once again but none of them thought that this would actually be possible, be it in a holographic setting. Now, many fans are confused, angry, glad, disappointed and looking forward to the gig, all at once.

Face it, we love novelties. When the holographic Tupac performed at Coachella, people were in awe. Suddenly, something unthinkable had become possible and of course other deceased artists would soon follow. I expect this thing to boom. I predict new world tours by Elvis, Michael Jackson, The Doors, Freddy Mercury, Motorhead, John Lennon. Who knows, maybe we soon finally see Beethoven, Wagner and Mozart live. Isn't that exciting?

No, it's not. It's a novelty and it should stay exactly that. Sure, I will go watch a holographic version of The Ramones but probably only once. The programmers will have to do their stinking best to make the gig something exciting instead of something emotional and depressive. I'm one of the old school concert goers, the ones for whom the quality of the gig depends on the interaction between the artists and the crowd. I don't expect a lot of interaction at the Dio gigs, for example.

Second. Technology evolves extremely fast. In ten years or so, the hologram technology might be affordable and by then plenty more musicians will have passed on too. My strange imagination foresees a wide array of unoriginal cover bands using a hologram as frontman or -woman. Why would that happen? Well, why not? People are opportunists and this looks like a great opportunity to gain more attention. They just have to press the "Freddie Mercury" button on the holo-machine and play the song. 

People love their dead musicians so bad that they will prefer holographic concerts over their living and breathing counterparts. Today, there are plenty of opportunities not to see INXS, Linkin Park or Dimebag. They are no longer here so instead you can go see heaps and heaps of other bands. Young bands, bands that are trying to break through and get their music out.

I don't know. Perhaps it's just this deeply embedded philosophy behind Merchants Of Air, but I would prefer to see a living, interacting Aidan Baker, Slowdive or Emptiness over a holographic Peter Steele. Ok, perhaps I'd go see that thing once but I would certainly expect to be disappointed at the end of such a gig, especially when I have seen the real thing. Come to think of it, this whole thing scares me.

There are lists of deceased artists on the internet, many of them beloved. If all of them return as holograms and go on world tours and play festivals, where does it leave the smaller bands? Supporting for a dead singer? Playing in front of six people while others rather watch a bunch of pixels ruminating old hits? Even more so, what does that say about our respect towards the deceased?

I mean, if you can revive Dio, you can revive anyone. Just push the button and your grandmother sits at the dinner table. Stalin will return, Ghandi too. Your future movies will feature Marlon Brando, John Wayne, Charlie Chaplin and Audrey Hepburn. You will be able to see Copernicus debate with Einstein. Wrestlemania will feature a match between Muhammad Ali and Bam Bam Bigelow. The possibilities are endless..

And here I am, thinking that taxiderming deceased cats is already quite sick.

Perhaps I do know how to feel about these holographic concerts. I feel about them like the people felt when they first saw 'Riding Galloping Horse', the world's first moving picture. Back then, it was something new, hence the term "novelty". Holographic concerts might be cool, awe inspiring and emotional but they're novelties and I really, really, really hope they stay that way. 

Anyway, here are the Dio Returns tour dates. If you go, I hope you'll enjoy the show. You're always free to write a review about it for Merchants Of Air.

Dio Returns Tour Dates
November 30 - Helsinki, Finland @ The Circus
December 3 - Stockholm, Sweden @ Fryshuset
December 4 - Oslo, Norway @ Rockefeller Music Hall
December 6 - Warsaw, Poland @ Progresja
December 13 - Barcelona, Spain @ Bikini
December 15 - Santander, Spain @ Escenario Santander
December 17 - Bucharest, Romania @ Arelene Romane
December 20 - Antwerp, Belgium @ Trix
December 21 - Tilburg, Netherlands @ 013

Since turning into a major name in Hollywood in the late 90’s, what most people don’t know about Ben Affleck it’s that he started his career as a child actor, in the early 80’s, when he was only eight years old. Now, 44, and a successful actor and director, the major Hollywood star seems to be far more interested in politics than everything else. 


​
After a string of major successes in his career – specially Argo, in which he stared and directed – and on the most recent Gone Girl, having shared the screen with sexy co-star, British actress Rosamund Pike, Ben Affleck struggled to prove his talents and capabilities in front as well as behind the cameras, and today, being hugely successful on such an aggressive and competitive field of work, he can breath and rest a little, since his accomplishments are, more than ever, no dust in the ground.

Being an enthusiastic and ardent political and humanitarian activist as well, Affleck discovered fame has its ups and downs, since, everywhere he goes, paparazzi are following him, struggling to get the best angles for photographs, with the hopes of selling them for the best tabloid publications. Nonetheless, his victories and relevant filmmaking efforts in the industry in the last decade redeemed him for a string of terrible and mediocre movies in the nineties, that lasted to the early 2000’s, when he was struggling for a place in the spotlight, hoping and auditioning for movies he saw it could make the difference, but with no better prospects, taking parts in the worst flicks, just to make a salary.  

Having had his share of relationship publicities, especially his well-documented relation with J-Lo – being dubbed “Bennifer” at the time by the media outlets – Affleck has divorced his wife of ten years, actress Jennifer Garner, with whom he had two daughters and one son. They shared the screen in the 2003 movie Daredevil.  

After playing Batman in two movies, Affleck will reprise the role in the upcoming Justice League feature film. But, by the way things are going right now, if things in the upcoming movie didn’t get along well, at this point of his career, Ben Affleck can endure very well the low points of his journey, way better than he did when he was just trying to make it or break it. After all, successful, confident and easy-going at middle-age, if things went wrong at the box office, he just have to shake the dust of his feet, and move along to the next project.  


Wagner Hertzog

Life is hostility. Indeed, what would be life without it?
Misdeeds of the guideline of a soul, never to be fully understood. 
Life is really a very difficult game. So, what would I be without this real and honest desire for freedom against a destructive tyranny?



​
I don’t know, sometimes I just feel, and I just go on this path of everlasting sorrow and dark grief. Sometimes the sadness beholds the sky, everything looks like yesterday at the corner of misguided street full of nothingness and shame. It’s a world full of despicable gloom on which I live. But how often I can speak of it? 
Life can be very meaningful. The everlasting  suffering and misery would find its road towards nothing. I think life could be pictured as a never-ending train. And the dying trends of my sorrowful soul travels around so dreadfully, so painstakingly dead, spreading sicknesses all around, that I all castles I’ve built in the air have stricken me with forgotten fears. In this tower of surreal nothingness, despair is almost a belief. 

How could I think of weaknesses all alone in this world? I am what I really am, after I stood for the things that I believe. And I would never be senseless. I can’t accept despair as a lonely shadow. I am done with hostility and grief, all that seems unnatural for the soul in an eternal solar day. I always say that nothing in the world seems worthy of something. This may be the replacement of a solitary thought, completely alone at the tired corner of an ordinary life. Nonetheless, nothing in this world seems beautiful; I think dark skies are mostly everything that has been left.  Nothing more was clean before my eyes. Only a striking and lucid emptiness. The horrible ordeal of a precarious distress. Alone at the sight that perpetuates the misery that corrodes my soul. Nothing more than the mirrors of my soul. 

Usually, I am so tired of everything. How could I be stranded of such a mediocre vastness consecrated to explain myself? I don’t know, I really don’t know. Humanity is desperate for redemption, they just don’t know this for a fact. Life sometimes is a very great lake of underlying misery. Life is death, sorrow, an everlasting sadness and a certainty of miserable intolerance. I learned, somehow, that every day Is the same day.
Every day is a darkness that never fades away.

Every day is green, every day is black. Every day I remember a joy and a happiness
that are never coming back. Why every day is dark, why every day is grey? Every day is always a day to forget the entire ordeals of existence and its endless horrible miseries
that persist to strike us every day. 

Within, inside and without. Would this world become the soul for something so consistent, that always seeks to dry the pungent rivers of my heart? In the eternal misery that resides permanently in the hearts of men, all that I can see is an empty space in a house of one thousand rooms.  

In the house, this empty space is a graveyard. But the perpetual darkness outside seems so vague, abstract, elusive and sublime. Why those gray days have been so depressed? Happiness distress this empty misery in a life that never sees happiness begins. It’s hard to look upon these shadows of nocturnal horror and despair. Hard is the way this desperate days sounds, nothing more but darkness falling all over myself. 
 
Today is the day for the darkness to come, today is the day to get everything that was left behind the trees of disfiguration. Those radical beings seem full of transformed hate, never passive, always destructive. Today is the day to taste for a fact the sense of an easier life, opened in perpetual doorstep of these night skies. 
 
You know, this life talks to me. This life no longer exists. This life begins in a benign principle of attentive execution, that is miles apart from the essence of the soul. From the ones that are always free, the night will always act as a string of melancholy and deleterious dichotomy. 

Night is not an illusion as strong as life. Life is not a cancer that grows from without.  Life is a worried state of concern that grows from within. So, apart from this conclusion, the soul lines that always dilute in the rain will stand over a perpetual universe of silence. As diverse as the multitude of thoughts that rule our inexistent world devoid of prudence.  
 
Sometimes I feel the distances consumed by paths of monotony. The hard lines that concludes the driving distinction of anger will never be out. The soul dissolves the grain of its disturbed consistency, but is doomed to perish while consumed by cruelty. 
Sometimes I feel always worried, but never sentenced by hope. 

So, life is a sin? Life is a burden? Life is unhappiness? Life is defeat. Life is danger, compassion, acquisition, sadness, darkness, illness, anguish and selfishness. Life is inhumane, but there will always be a castle of happiness waiting by the sideline at the river of comfort. Sometimes I wonder in the darkness, sometimes I wonder in the train of unscrupulous eternal days, sometimes I wonder in vain, sometimes I wonder in a worried state. And undoubtedly, people seems to be invisible at the peak of human light.   

In the end, consumed by cruelty, what could I do? Without God, without hope, without sincere rain, without my space? 

Today Discovery Channel kicks off his annual shark week extravaganza. For this year's edition they even planned a stunt: Michael Phelps is going to race against a great white shark. 
Here at Merchants Of Air, this is another great excuse to dive into music history and compile a list of songs. So here are twenty songs about the shark way of life.
​Enjoy.

Every good list needs a good intro and what song could fulfil this purpose better than the original Jaws Theme?

And we blast off with some fierce heavy metal because it's fast as a shark, or something like that. Here's Germany's Accept, playing the eighties classic live on Masters Of Rock.

My favorite children's music band, Scotland's Sharky Sharky have been dressing in shark costumes and rocking their fins off for a while now.

Here are three clips about a stoned shark solving (and causing) trouble in the ocean. 

Apparently, the eighties were a good time for shark related tunes. New wave band Split Enz came up with this uplifting tune in 1980

Swiss post-hardcore act Guns Love Stories certainly deserve a place here. Why? Because this is Merchants Of Air, where we promote the bands we review and like. It's as simple as that. Anyway, read our review here. 

The Yellow Shark is an album of orchestral music by Frank Zappa, released in 1993. It was the last Zappa album released before his death one month later. 

We secretly love dub and reggae here so this groovy tune by Wailing Souls had to make our little playlist, don't you think? After all, it's supposed to be summer here. 

According to science, sharks love death metal (read) so I guess the animals will enjoy a bit of thrash metal too, especially if Bitchslicer promises them a happy ending...

Of course the mother of all sharks deserves a spot on this list and who better than professional noisemakers Mastodon to showcase the might power of the megalodon.

"The what?", you might say. But yes, this song was released way back in 1965, even before most of our readers were born. Doo-wop at its finest...

Well, the movie is called 'Deep Blue Sea' so of course LL Cool J made a song called 'Deepest Bluest'. That's what rappers do, you know?

For an ambient tune about sharks we have to check out Juno Reactor's side project Electrotete and his 1994 single, (guess....) 'Shark'. 

Nu-metal icons Limp Bizkit apparently also write a song about sharks and - oh surprise - it sounds like almost every other Limp Bizkit song (which isn't that horrible actually). 

In the category "what the holy shit?", and thus right after Limp Bizkit, comes doomcore act Furryz Fornicate and their delightful tune 'Shark Tits', guaranteed to brighten you after a day of burning in hell.

I have no idea what genre this, nor do I know this artist is but I like it and that's all that matters.

What? We like to keep things varied around here. Maybe a bit too varied sometimes.

It took us a while to find an EBM tune about sharks but we did it. It's even called 'Sharks' and it bloody stomps. Well done  ​Das Merman

In the drum & bass scene we found quite a few shark related tunes but this one by Greenfly was by far the best.

And of course we end with a classic. Blue Oyster Cult have been with us for decades and released this song in 1983.

I think it started at that disastrous edition of Pukkelpop where an intense storm destroyed a part of the festival terrain and killed five people. I was there and I saw the damage. I knew immediately that that year's edition was over and perhaps I also knew that this would mark the end of big festivals for me. I remember walking towards the city centre, occasionally trying to reach my parents to notify them that we were ok. It was hard to reach people by phone, mainly because of limitations set by phone companies. 

But then the complaints started to pour in, along with some questionable decisions by festival organisers. Festivals had to become safer, especially in recent years where terrorism had become an issue. Organisers were forced to hire security teams and suddenly everyone entering a festival area was a possible terrorist. Not only that, festivals also had to become eco-friendly too, resulting in some more questionable decisions.

Not only that. Nowadays people start petitions to ban this or than band from the stages, just because of their views on certain issues. They even threaten festivals, violently. You'd think it cannot get worse? Well, ask the women who were sexually assaulted on that Swedish festival. They bought a ticket, walked through security, got searched like everyone else and still were not safe there. 

When I was twenty-two or so, I was at a big festival in Belgium. I was there with my then-girlfriend and some regular festival buddies. We were sitting on the ground, enjoying a beer and each other's company when we suddenly heard a girl scream. She yelled "leave me alone, freak". Some drunken asshole had touched her in inappropriate ways. Before any of us could react, a bloke from the audience punched the asshole in the face, right on the nose. Two minutes later, security was there. Everyone involved explained the situation and the asshole's festival bracelet was cut. At the entrance, two policemen were waiting for him.

That was a part of the festi-feel. Hanging out with like minded people, or at least with people who came here for the music and nothing else. Ok, maybe festival-sex but only if agreed on by both parties, something we boys worked very hard for back in the days. Annoying, obtrusive and obnoxious people were simply being punched in the face and escorted to the exit, mostly by other festival goers, rarely by security. We didn't care about politics. We didn't mind differently colored people, we had no issues with gays. We came to dance...

Here is a list of strange things I've encountered on and around festivals recently.

1. Glass? Plastic? 

Glass has been banned from festival areas for ages. Every beverage goes into a plastic cup and pretty much every festival goer is used to that by now. Nobody cares anymore, even though beer tastes way better in glasses than in cups. It's just safer to throw cups instead of glasses. We understand. But not Gent Jazz. No, Gent Jazz pours your beer into a glass. "Hurray", you might say, but wait until you want to see a band. Inside the tent, glass is still banned. Once you go inside, a volunteer is waiting for you. He or she makes you pour your tasty beverage into a plastic cup. Weird, right? But there's more. While you were pouring over your beer, seven other people walked by with glasses in their hands. The volunteer never noticed them. 

2. What is it with the food on festivals?

Once upon a time, you had three choices. Fries, hamburgers or hunger. I was happy to see that list expand and I was thrilled to finally eat pizza and pasta on festivals, especially the three-day ones. Yesterday, my wife ate fries with chervis and a mild salty vinaigrette with mustard seeds. I ate a six euros hotdog, in a sandwich with sauerkraut and mustard. I mean, for that price I would have expected mustard seeds and shrimp but it was a good hotdog nonetheless. Thank God for food trucks.

3. Money

Those fries were 1.75 food coins. One food coin was three euros. You do the math. Besides, there weren't any food coins to begin with. You received a plastic card which you could load at a "non-cash" point (where you could actually pay in cash). Somehow it reminds me of another monetary system that makes no sense, the one the bankers invented, the one that is way too complicated for average Joe. I currently have 0.25 coins on that card and I'm not planning to go to that festival next year (unless the line-up is good). But it has a nice picture of Einsturzende Neubauten, so I guess it's a souvenir now.

I can add a few paragraphs about exuberant prices at festivals but I don't want to. If you want to pay three euros for a plastic cup filled with water, that's fine by me. In a way, I understand why, especially at a big festival. Just look at all the people who want to profit from a festival and you'll understand why they are so incredibly expensive. Here's a short list: the organiser, the bands, the caterers, the security teams, the brewer, the band managers, the city, the government, the copyrights organisation, the sport & youth clubs who volunteer, the company that rents tents, the company that rents the fences, the company that rents the stages, the sound and light companies, their employees, the owner of the festival area, the company that delivers the plastic cups, the people who work in the sponsor's stands, the police, public transport companies, the insurance company... and there are probably some more. So no, I'm not going to whine about prices.

4. NMBS. 

This might be a Belgian thing, but if you use public transport, I really hope you enjoy the first ten minutes of the headliner. Those will be all you see because our public transport company wants you in bed by midnight. Then again, if you form a group of four to six people, you can just crawl into a taxi anytime AND save money.

5. Festivals have become selfie-spots

"Heyyyy everybody on facebook, look where I am??? xxXXXxxXXXxoooXxx"
"Cool, what bands have you seen?"
"Haha, you silly, I am too busy making selfies. In fact, I wish those bands would be quiet so I can talk to my homies."

6. "Fucking kids."

I actually heard someone say that yesterday. It was a man who almost tumbled over a toddler. The kid was just running around like kids do and the man was talking to his mate like men do. Apparently, on a festival that is not a very good combination. I can understand and I also wonder why parents drag their toddlers along on festivals. Isn't it a nuisance for both you and your kid, something you can easily avoid? I don't know. Perhaps those parents say "get them into music when they're young" but I'm more like "get them into music when they want to".

Because of that list of people who want to profit from festivals, most festivals pack their area to capacity. There are lots and lots of people on festivals, half of them drunk. It's just not a safe place for children. Me and my friends are not going to start a moshpit on a playground, so why bring a playground to the moshpit? Not that there is many moshing going on anyway. On most festivals those fun things are forbidden because otherwise the hospitals too profit from festivals.

7. Garbage

Have you seen the photos of the piles of garbage on festivals? "Eco-friendly", lol. People are even leaving their tents and everything behind. Luckily, some organisers allow people to pick up those tents and donate them to refugees. Whose fault is that? I don't know. All I know is that a reusable cup is not reusable when you throw it in the woods. At that moment, it becomes litter. How to solve the garbage problem? I don't know either. There have been plenty of ideas, including edible trays, personalised drinking cups and wallets made out of old vinyl promo banners but in the end, it all ends up in a whale's stomach.

8. Screening people

Tomorrowland has been digitally screening each and every audience member, weeks before the festival. Several of them received a message that they were not welcome and that their tickets would be refunded. Is Donald Trump running Tomorrowland?

I know, dear reader, you have been struggling through all that negativeness and by now you might think that it's just not worth the effort of going to a music festival. Well, let me ease your mind. It is still worth it, even with all those issues, there is nothing like a good festival. There is no better feeling in the world than seeing your favorites bands give the best of themselves. I'm sure that Tomorrowland and Pukkelpop will still be a lot of fun for people who are allowed in. 

Besides, these days we are spoiled. There is no festival-free weekend anymore. New events appear every year, some fade, some remain, some become household names for music lovers. Dunk! festival and RodeoFest, just to name a few, can easily instigate that festi-feel in exactly the way that the big ones can. There is something for everyone, you can pick out whatever fits you best. I just think festivals can be even more fun when everyone involved would decide not to be an asshole for a few days. Leave your egos and hormones at the entrance, that's all it takes.

I have no idea where I'm going with this article. I'm just a writer, an observer and a festival addict, the latter in increasingly smaller doses. I've seen things change over the years, sometimes for the better, sometimes not. Today, I prefer small over big, quality over quantity. But one thing has not changed and that is the festival spirit. I still see it in the hard core of the festival goers. They don't care about terrorists. They are perfectly fine with drinking out of plastic cups and they can still break your nose if you decide to be a cunt. So no, the festi-feel is not dying. It still rages on in many of us and if anyone fucks with us to the point where we can no longer take it, we just start allover again somewhere else. 


​Serge