In the Year of Darkness, 2029, the ravers of this planet devised the ultimate plan. They would reshape their music scene by going retro. The plan required something that used no anthems. No breakdowns. No snare rolls. Something unstoppable. They created 'THE ISHKURNATOR'

...dun dun dun DUN DUN!...

You know what's really stupid? Party/concert/club/show reviews. What, really, do you expect to read in these things? Do you want some whirlwind, detailed account of every facet of every DJ's set, replete with overwrought synergy between DJ and partykids, so it sounds like some fanboy's gushing enthusiasm:

"...okay, dude, and then just when I was peaking the DJ dropped the housetrance remix of Jungle Enemy's Urban Soldier, and the bassline hit and I just went fucking off hard, and the entire crowd just went nuts!!!!!!! THE WHOLE PLACE JUST BLEW UP!!! I was like REWIIIIIINNNNNDDD!!!"

Wow, man. Since you put it that way....this is just like being there! I can totally see the party playing out in my mind, with you as the star! You should work for NASA doing, ummm...recaps like this. Because NASA needs better recappers. For their, uh, rocket launches and space....stuff.

Still, I guess that's better than writing a review that turns into a blogging livejournal entry where the first three parts of it is how you got there, full of detailed little side notes and in-jokes with your special ultra-cool dipshit circle of friends which makes absolutely no sense to %99.99999 of the population but you continue on as if you're the only one that matters anyway, so it reads like the neighbours' annoying vacation slideshow:

"...Started off at Mike's place (yo! Mike! G's up! Now that's what I'm talkin' 'bout, a sittin' window!), downed a couple beers, then got in his car and went to go pick up Stacey. We phoned a half hour ahead of time but of course when we got there she wasn't ready. She was still trying to straighten out her stupid angel wings. You know how she is like that. Anyways, we get to the space at 10pm, and decide to go look for Martin who told us that he could get us in without having to stand in line, but of course he's nowhere to be found, so I go up to the front and ask to speak to the head security guy, and he's like 'never heard of anyone named Martin'. Fucking bullshit. So we get back in line, and Stacey says she's getting cold, so we borrowed a jacket from this nice guy in front of us which was a good thing because the lineup didn't start moving until around 10:30...why the hell don't they hire more security? Anyways, we finally get to the front around 11, and guess who shows up at the door? Martin. We just stood in line for an hour for nothing. And then Stacey says she accidently left her ticket at home, so I was pleading with Martin to...."

Get to the fucking point, rimjobber. No one cares how many obstacles you had to overcome to get to the damn space. And please don't mention who you were with or what you did with them throughout the night. Either review the party or not. Stop worrying that people on the website might think you're a worthless loser who went to the party all by himself because you didn't mention your 1337 party kru, unless the journey to the party really was an adventure, but only one worth telling.

Because words are boring to look at, here's the front cover of the Girls of Shambhala 05-06 Calendar. In stores now!

No, having a flat tire or getting lost doesn't count. That's par for every party quest. It's not a real party until you get so lost that the only way you can find the space is to stop the car and get out and put your ear to the road so you can hear the bassdrum rumbling through the ground like you're Wil Wheaton listening for the train in Stand by Me. Nope, that doesn't count. There's got to at least be a death involved. Or some creepy guy--though you don't know it at the time--that you pick up from the side of the road who just sits in the back the entire way chanting 'yumma yumma yumma yumma yumma yumma yumma yumma yummmmmmmma', which can happen quite frequently when one ventures out of the Shire towards clandestine, underground raves deep in Mirkwood forest. In which case, mine really was, but even then I won't spend much more than a paragraph or two talking about it. Seriously, man. We drove there. We drove back. What more would you care to know?

What else could this be like? Oh, I know: How about the full on onomotopoeic review, which would be hilarious though completely unintelligible, like:

"...and then DJ Ferry van Corstenfold played this track that was like digdigdigidgidgidgdigdgi, and then that great synth goes like waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh and I was all like AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH and the whole crowd went WOOOOOOOOOOO and then a soft breakbeat came in like boom chak-a-boom-boom chak a-boom-boom chak with like a little ticking noise like tic-tic-tic-tic behind it and then it eventually got louder and louder and became a drumroll rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat and then BOOOOOOM!!!! BIG HUGE SYNTH AND BEAT COMES BACK OMIGOD I DANCED SO HARD IT WAS AWESOME I NEVER FELT SO HIGH IN MY LIFE...."

That's, like, the best review ever. And then, of course, there's ye olde pedantic fucktard review, of the straight-edge trainspotter guy who doesn't dance or do drugs and is trying everything in his power to resist himself from rocking the fuck out, so he just stands there beside the stage memorizing the DJ's movements and looking at everyone dancing with contempt because they don't have the self-discipline that he does. His review is a name-dropping extravaganza that goes like:

"...And then after he dropped the Silence remix of the Spacequad single released last year on Plan 9 Records, the music became a little punchy and upbeat. I noticed he's using more white labels now, not relying on Bamboozle Record compilations anymore. His style is now a sort of a nu electro tech glitch downtempo swanky soulful retro oldskool acid dreamhouse german country twang feel to it. It is reminiscence of Jacques' Lu Cont's Thin White Duke releases as Les Rhythmes Digitales, a little Felix da Housecat but not too sleazy or trashy to be full-on electroclash like from Peaches or Miss Kittin. And the fact he sprinkled it with some Laurent Garnier was a nice touch, but I would've rather he progressed into some nu old techhouse like what Swayzak and Praga Khan are doing..."

Yeah, just go write for Rich Dork already, you insufferable bore.

Seriously though, which review do you want? Probably all of the above and more here, which is why this review will suck too, and is also why I'm exactly 476 days late writing it. At the very least, what I plan to do is lie, bullshit, and make fun of DJs, thereby destroying the very purpose of a review in the first place. Are you expecting an honest, detailed, and realistic account of what Shambhala is really like? You won't get that here. Go to the website for that. My goals are different than every other reviewers'. I aim for Discord and Subterfuge. Apples are meant for fucking, and music festivals are meant for ontological anarchy. So let's begin, shall we.