Last night I stood in a warehouse space in East London, the kind where they lay a large Persian rug on a rough concrete floor and you sit in it and think about how good the parties might be there, and shook my body into strange and wild shapes.
I was at a NYX Vocal Workshop, an offering from a collective of musicians and experimental artists, which was probably the closest I’ve come to experiencing what some of that found footage of collective gatherings at ashrams in the Sixties looked like.