I had come to meet Bobby Rifo, the Italian DJ and instigator behind the Bloody Beetroots. Unfortunately for the interview, my research before attending the event had been more ‘method’ than academic.
The evening began with a dinner sponsored by my other profession, some Spanish meat-a-thon. The booze, being free, seemed an appropriate primer for the head spinning night ahead and after quickly drowning my organs and jeopardising my salary I left.
On arriving back at my tiny apartment, delight was unfolding. My three comrades, themselves joining me to meet the Beetroots, had warmed the joint, racked up some healthy supplements and pushed my sound system to it’s natural conclusion. After several hours of music, drink, debate and dance we charged into the city, our taxi driver frightfully dropping us on the Metro like a Hiroshima pilot.
After a foyer full of flirtation, more drinks and lying my way through a seething crowd, we were in. One of my associates rightfully reckoned that this angry mob would soon look more like punch-drunk punks than electro ravers.
Out came the Beetroots, two scarved egotists, steam wafting from their masked heads, like angry tribal jacket potatoes.
The music, dirty as salesman, threw the chomping crowd into an instant moshing seisure, I was genuinely surprised to see a guy biting into the crown of some girl’s head. Like an indignant chef in a sinking ship Bobby Rifo sacrificed himself, staging diving deep into his piranha crowd.
The scene was a rhythmic aberration of my senses, I knew it was time for the interview. Grabbing two handfuls of the curtain, I pulled myself onto the stage and begun asking my first question. Something along the lines of, “Do you feel that Steve… YIKES!!!”, I was dragged violently into the wings by a security guard who started explaining that I was being kicked out, despite my head being somewhat distorted I explained the situation to him “herefrom… sinkmagazine… nicetomeet… what? neverheardof??? walrus didn’t phone??? FUCKYOU FUCKYOU…”. Fumbling for credentials in my overcoat only left a confetti of note paper and baggies in my wake as I was forced off the stage.
I was discharged, no interview, drugs curdling like milk and juice in my skull. It took me till daylight crept into a dark booth to work out if there was an actual story in all of this, rest assured, there is not.
Signing out.
John Wisehammer.