In 1999, during a particular bus tour with Aphex, Squarepusher, Russell Haswell, Cylob, DMX Krew, Ovuca, and Wallace, I had a shitty, brown, wool coat. It must've fucking smelled like piss. Who the fuck wears wool on tour? But I was blissfully mired in some kind of lucid haze, conscious yet on autopilot. Like a pig in mud.
More mysteriously, they let me stay on the bus. I was Perce Blackborow, that Welsh sailor who stowed away on Shackleton's failed attempt to reach the South Pole. Somehow, I'd blagged my way on board but fuck if I knew what I was doing or where I was going.
I do remember gigs and alcohol and going absolutely fucking mental on the energy steaming off of the dancefloor. It never got old. My existence was like some kind of extended out of body experience. To this day when the trifecta of early morning, cold blast of air as you exit the venue, and smoke enter my senses I temporarily exit, like rave PTSD.
There's a popular trope in movies where a young somebody unearths a dusty, long-gone nobody. When some kind folks asked about doing this Disciples thing I was bemused. It is less to do with humility than a self-assessed impostor syndrome that I wonder how I've been able to squeeze my way in, again.
- Bogdan Raczynski