The shot heard round the EDM globe, so to speak. This whole campaign began with a CO2 BLOW, a direct hit at way close range, hitting Martin Solveig as he attempted to crowd surf during a Laidback Luke set — something that could have been very serious, yet the two have made serious light of the entire situation.
Here is a brief rundown of the happs if you haven’t been following this story. I saw as Solveig himself recalls the blow from the cannon, reliving the pain and trauma as he is forced to every time he takes a stage. He shivers, lifeless each time that forceful frozen blue poison is unleashed on a sea of sweaty ravers. Oh the agony he suffered in that cryogenic moment, having something like a near death experience.
What actually transpired between that moment and this one is as unclear as the haze of three hungover best friends. Where did reality turned to surreal or vice versa? Have they all melted together?
Retrospectively, it all seems too formulaic, the great troll of 2013. The haze grows and I am again confused. Maybe it is a little
“spray of life,” the reinvented CO2 blast, the result of that fateful blow that turned Solveig and Luke from the heroes they once were, their only mission prior to this was big sounds in big houses making big noises for big fun. Oh, and big drops. Life is meaningless without the drop. Wait for it…16 more counts they ain’t ready. But this is when the DJs start jumping on decks and trying to stage dive even though security is being dicks and advises against it. It is all fun and games until the term blue balls takes on an entirely new meaning.
Greatest job in the world, right?
Is it? With all these guys go through, feels peddlers. All they do just to get one girl to sit on her boyfriend’s shoulders and flash that heart in the air. They are empty without seas of fists, and tired from one nameless city to another faceless crowd. Who could envy a lifestyle this challenging? But the music.
These guys are not trolls. They are DJs. Laidback Luke dons handmade superhero costumes. He and Solveig are professionals at putting on a show, and somewhere in this equation they became comedic actors and entrepreneurs, with a product and a plan. And we are all a part of it. Sheep. Stupid. Laughing. Sheep. Just waiting around in the meadow for these dudes to Drop the fucking beat. The bass. Drop something. We don’t have a fucking clue what we’re doing here. The guy in charge is slaughtering the fuck out of this set is all we are told, and I am still waiting for that fucking moment. Is that the baaaaahss drop, I wonder?
My rational mind wonders, was it a hard blow of frozen poisonous gas that conjured this ridiculousness inside Solveig’s head? Maybe Luke’s costumes were going to his? Who knows if it was one’s idea or the other. Some combination of the two like the radioactive spider or the alien abduction, maybe involving a probe or neuro-transmission, or the parents dying or whatever else breeds hero complex.
Then I think of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Maybe they had no creative control to begin with. Maybe some marketing executive watched that one unfortunate incident from behind the scenes and saw an opportunity to cash in, avert a PR nightmare, prevent having to ban CO2 cannons from festivals. Suits crunching numbers until 100% of losses were prevented. If anyone could spin this disaster into…suddenly I realize the wolf in sheep’s clothes was actually just a terrible troll. The plastic, creepy ass multi-colored motherfuckers come back to return the favor of all that wasted money. Middle school was such a stupid time, as I am cowering in the corner because troll dolls multiplying and coming at me like Teddy Killerz. This isn’t real. This cannot fucking be real. I just keep telling myself that I must be fucking tripping.
Miniature CO2 cannons filled with a fragrance, or essence, as the commercials say. The first stars Laidback Luke playing Bruce Luke, a nod to Kung Fu icon Bruce Lee, and there is the recognition that even if this is a troll, or was a joke, that this product is real. That the commercial is an actual ad, a very funny ad that entices viewers. It is so funny, that you get lost in some sort of brainwash set up by those assholes in charge. They are like men behind the curtain, and they have their hooks in you that the holographic image isn’t necessary. DJs are already so larger than life, that one blow from a CO2 cannon set this plan in motion.
It’s just, this feel like a fucking troll. I mean, I don’t think that I am the fool in this scenario, because I can see what they are doing. This cannot be real, I kept thinking. Except, it totally was. Another blow, as it sold out at the distributor before the release of a second commercial weeks later. A marketer’s wet dream, especially with some small side project of two house DJs. It seemed people were too busy laughing this off to consider it an actual fad.
I see now the strokes of genius, individual notes in the mix being spun by whoever had control of the decks at this point. When Dillon Francis showed up as Olli Springer in the second commercial for this little reenactment of what should have been a terrifying moment for DJ Martin Solveig, this little spray of essence that was actually building a fucking market as a bonafied product, I simply laughed at the likeness to the comedic genius of Ben Stiller. I watched the thing almost as many times as I did the original movie.
I am smarter than this. I can see it now, as I recount the story to you. I swear to you. I can see what is going on here.
Oh fuck, this is some subliminal shit. I am horrified as I didn’t even realize clicking the purchase link, the powers of persuasion overtook me so much so that I was reaching before my wallet. I don’t have money to order blow. Cue the laugh track. And I crack a smile, getting the joke, seeing how I walked right into it, like Solveig and the CO2 from that cannon, and realizing I will continue to do it over and over.
I am just realizing now just how brilliantly funny this has become. So much of it seeming unintentional, so much seeming like coincidence. I am smart enough at least to know when I fall victim to marketing schemes, am usually not trying to fall into the slimy hands of those fucking trolls.
Dillon Francis, immortal troll god, and his loyal servant DJ Nappy command, Do Not Give A Fuck Or Shit. None of this is real, I tell myself, watching the ridiculousness grow. Funny, all it took was a little blow. That is what the vocals in the track say. The track that matches the spray of life that is the essence of these DJs in a bottle. The CO2 they so plausibly reinvented, glamourized and packaged so neatly for their adoring fans.
And these DJs are spinning straight gold, not even in records or big room hits. Without even producing a sound. They are just DJs after all. Artisans of this age old craft known as spinning. Except, it isn’t records. It isn’t vinyl or serato, or even fucking CDJs. Just a wheel and a lot of yarn and a dude that looks a lot like Rumplestilskin.
And suddenly you are the one who is spinning. It is Skarkeisha. It is the death of Brian. It is Electric Daisy Carnival Philadelphia. It is BLOW. How many times has that one got you? Maybe you are caught in the trap and you don’t even know it. Maybe you never will. At least I am smarter than this. I am better than it too, the ease with which I can troll those not as wise as myself.
It sets in that maybe I have forgotten some of those fucks I was supposed to give. Maybe if people don’t want to be trolled, they should get smarter. But wait, am I telling myself to get smarter? It’s a fucking trap.
But as the promo for this final installment is delivered to my inbox through a colleague, maybe a black belt in trolling. I didn’t think twice, maybe even saw the names BLOW, Martin Solveig, and Laidback Luke and immediately jumped right back in to the crowd. Waiting for the drop. Craving the essence. Putting all of this power in the hands of whoever is controlling the decks, blasting a house rhythm that just keeps going von deeper.
It never ends. Martin Solveig brings this whole thing full circle with his commercial, his character Cheyen talking about and showing us the life of a superstar DJ, and the entire world of electronica for that matter. It is funny because it is true and the irony in that is a bit painful.
I keep falling victim to these fucking trolls. It is almost like I enjoy it. I am actually smiling right now as the music video for the track by Laidback Luke and Martin Solveig rolls through my YouTube playlist. A deep house voice and a clapping big room beat, the sexy female voice begging the question that makes no fucking sense, but has all the innuendos one could possibly insinuate, and I feel like maybe this isn’t even real, “How can I grow, if you won’t let me blow?”
I am angry all of a sudden and I don’t even know why. Just watching international sensations Martin Solveig and Laidback Luke take over the globe inside the music video that has serious real life implications even though I know this is all just one big troll. They are not the characters they play in those commercials. They aren’t the dudes controlling the decks.
And here I go clicking my heels three times only to wish me back to the beginning of all of this where I again fall victim to the plan. Just give me the fucking spray of life already or tell me it was all a big joke, but like I can’t even be mad as I am laughing at it all still, wanting to believe this is all in good fun. I’ll continue this gullibility as I encompass the definition of insanity. Even my brain is glitchy, the matrix fucking up. But really I know we are all mad here, and I am just not hiding my wide smile or pink and purple stripes. I wave my freak flag high. Fuck it.
But really, don’t I mean it was all in good pun? The man or men behind the curtain will sing that tune all the way to the bank. Stuffy suits who don’t even get the joke because it’s never at their expense. It is those fools, buying this essence in a bottle, probably nothing more than a scented air compressor used to blow the dust from tight spots. Do people really believe it is that easy to do what any of these guys do? Sure. They’re just the DJs right. Put on a deep V, no von deeper, and spray the essence on your neck and chest. It smells like dry ice, surging a freeze throughout your chest out to each little hair sticking out from your shirt. It all chisels right off. The process is mildly painful and extremely uncomfortable, but you figure after this is all over you’ll be that guy Skillet serving up levels, yea levels. You’ll be on another level. And then WHODONTOENO…
STAHP. You cannot EDMs yet, and you’re breaking the interwebs. This is un-fucking-PLURR. Try taking a little responsibility? It is the last R. Ugh, fucking basics.
But hey, my almost 1500 words probably don’t mean shit to you. If you are still reading, and you ignored the advice of his holiness and continued to go von deeper with me, you’re probably more confused than me at this point. This video will take you back through it all with visuals and an interview with the BLOW creators and spinners of circumstances and music, masters of the feels. Is it propagandist mind fuck tactics, or no harm intended just for fun laughs? Maybe it is a greedy plan of marketing and exploitation, feeding off that craving for the feels, promising a drop that lasts forever. You believe in the magic, all you want is BLOW. You are sold on a delusion.
We are all fucking sheep. Except for the trolls.
Where is that fucking rewind button again…