BE SVENSDEN - DRIFTER
BNP007 / 10-06-2017
Beat & Path are delighted to announce two of the family's favourite artists will be featuring on our next release - Be Svendsen and Madmotormiquel. Needing little introduction, Danish oracle Be Svendsen has cooked up an original mix that ebbs and flows with distinct folk-lore flavours while still capering to the warm punch of a well sculptured kick and bassline.
On remix duties, URSL head honcho Madmotormiquel has delivered another delicious cut. Bringing the tempo up a notch, his take leaves the melody in check while letting the sub frequencies speak groove into the dance floor atmosphere. We trust these two tracks will find favour with your ears as they have with ours.
A lonely blood red full moon peers from behind passing clouds, observing from above as a deserted drifter follows his path toward the beat that calls him. The wildwest watches quietly as the man walks, getting further from nowhere and closer to nothing. There is no time in this western world where all that is seen is merely what it chooses to reveal.
This man is neither awake, nor asleep, simply guided in trance to walk. In a world without time there is no way to know how long he has been on this journey. Like a tumble weed with no intention he drifts from place to place, never staying anywhere long enough to be noticed. His hat is stolen by a gust of wind that taunts him and drops it onto the dry earth meters ahead.
As he approaches it he hears the sound of rattles, discovering the sounds source by lifting his hat from the ground. Beneath the hat lays a seductive rattle snake that calmly slithers toward the drifter who trustingly stands still. There is something familiar in the eyes of this serpent, they have surely met before.
The snake has its mouth wide open with dripping fangs bared, toward which he reaches out his hand in offering. In a moment without tension, neither creature is intimidated. An unspoken agreement takes place as the snake slowly bites into the drifters hand, pumping its potent venom into his bloodstream. The eyes of each being stare deeply into the others, recognising themselves as clearly as if they were in front of a mirror. The snake winks before releasing its bite, turning and slithering ahead, its tail disappearing like a dream that leaves little proof of its existence behind. A lone bite mark, a signature dose of venom, a wavy trail in the sand. The drifter, eyes down, follows the trail until it too vanishes into a puddle of unnaturally still water. He looks into the water to see his reflection but instead sees the snake looking back at him. It winks again, before he splashes the water onto his face. With another look he sees his normal reflection, only now with an abnormal setting. It is day time inside the puddle but night lives where he is. The drifter looks up, his trust having lost faith in the honesty of below, to discover his surroundings.
Five fire lanterns cast light upon a dozen women in dark coloured dresses, dancing the flamenco. A moment of confusion is extinguished once the attention of the dancers becomes focussed on him. The drifter no longer cares why, how or where these beautiful women came from, all he thinks of is the 12 sets of eyes that lay on him as they move, directed by the violin being played by a mysterious woman dressed only in her long black hair and the flickering shadow light of flames. There is something familiar in her eyes, surely they have met before. A fork tongue flicks out of her mouth as she winks at him and orchestrates her environment.
The dancers draw closer, circling and surrounding as he is hypnotised by the spiralling beauty, it's rich scent clinging to him as he is engulfed by the mesmerising display. His breath quickens as senses reach new heights, hairs stand and pupils dilate.
The lantern light vanishes suddenly casting a blanket of darkness that falls upon and hides the women, taking the sounds of violin with them. The drifter is lost, before opening his eyes to see the tail of a rattle snake disappearing ahead of him like a dream, leaving little proof of its existence, only a wavy trail in the sand. He looks at his hand to discover no bite mark and continues to walk, drifting like a tumble weed carried by the clinging scent of a beauty that challenges reality.