February 29th, 2004
107804213227717420
The Galaxy Chillout
…esta noche corazon…
It’s Saturday night, and I’m waiting for the last train bound for Kawasaki, so I can get off at Shitte and walk a mile and a half to Mikiko’s for a home-coooked bowl of convenience store udon. All things considered, I’m in a pretty good mood. Unshaven like Grizzly Adams, but content.
I’m listening to a questionable rip of [this journal's namesake] Chicane’s The Galaxy Chillout, apparently off of some radio show. Everytime I queue it up it’s the same thing- I start with the intent of only listening to the incredibly catchy first minute and a half [Espiritu - In Praise of the Sun], but find myself caught in the quick, well-timed transitions from mellow vibe to vibe. Next thing I know it’s fifty-four minutes later and my mental playlist has evaporated with any corporeal misgivings I may have had.
Chill out is a genre I first discoverd during my Seattle rennaissance in a string of blanketed, sandalwood-permeated tents housing peaceful pockets of patch-bag ravers. The more esoteric variations are harder to find, living mostly on thin, vinyl planetoids in a cosmos of head shops. The slightly more commercial, European ballad strain is just as calming as its psychotropic cousin, though certainly more mainstream.
The music has been kind to me, always wrapping a corduroy hand around my cold shoulder when I need it. When I focus, I can feel the callouses of consumer living fall aways, and my muscles melt into velour.
