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I don’t actually hate Bob Marley per say, in fact I quite like some of his chirpy songs about emancipation and other songs of freedom, love and getting completely off your tits. Also, apparently, he was a very nice chap, so I don’t hate him at all. But what I hate is how his songs have flooded every tourist spot in the world. “ No woman, no cry” blaring from every other bar, he is worse than Coca Cola, Mac Donalds or Jesus Christ for the gentrification of local beach culture.

Nobody though is allowed to say that they hate Bob Marley. It seems OK to have this smiley Rasta face with a big spliff jumping out at you, whether you be in the Andes, a lost beach in Mexico, someplace down the Congo, Bognor Regis or here in Goa. He has become synonymous with the freedom of travel, the father of relaxation, the Grandfather of de ‘erb (Whatever that is).

Are we stuck with him? Has musical time stopped? Can we move on? No it seems. For every white, young, middle class, busker on their gap year has adopted a Marley chord play to their repertoire and will fall back on it to engage any group of stoned, white,  young, middle class, types on their gap year. It seems uncle Bob is here to stay.

Whilst on the subject of music, the other thing that drives me nuts is the sitar. Used correctly it is a fine instrument with a sound that quentisential to Indialike no other. However, used in progressive house and trance, it becomes a repetitive plinky plonk that would be better suited for a mental asylum. I throw in the terms progressive house and trance to try and convince you that I have some vague idea as to what I am talking about and it makes me seem youthful, neither of which is true.

I came to Goa, expecting to not really like it, but in fact I love it and as such will try to avoid saying anything nice about it. Goa is not India, there is nothing remotely Indian about it. It is like saying America is English. We know it should be, but hehwhat can you do about the weak leaders of history. You won’t hear Hindi spoken, scantily clad ladies wander in great abode, the worship of Hindu gods few and far between in favour of the man on the cross.

Most notably it is quiet and relaxed, which is not like the rest of India. Noise abatement laws have now come in, keeping the music down to a low key and off at 11, even for Bob. I was expecting raves and thumping German techno, to be vibrating me off to sleep every night. But no I can hear the sea, the birds and the woodworm working its way through my, already flimsy, wooden shack. So where do the stoners, tattoos, dreadlocks, pist English, Israeli and Russian new money crowd hang out?

Headphone parties it seems. I have never seen anything quite like it. Walking into a silent party with a full dance floor. There also seems to be a weird psychology to it too. If you have headphones on you are compelled to dance. I asked one dancing raver what the music was like, “crap” was his response and then carried on dancing. From an outsider, non headphone wearing, point of view though it looks more like something from One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest.

Silent noise is the future, people in their own little canned up worlds, how on earth does anyone meet anyone else. How on earth do the ravers get to breed.

Maybe this will change good old fashioned house parties. Neighbors will be banging on the door complaining of the silence or the fact that the inmates of the local asylum have been let loose in the garden.

Maybe I am a little old fashioned because I like my noise that should make noise to make noise. Maybe I am socially irresponsible and should be shunned from society like smokers at a bus stop or flashers.

Beware, this is your future too.

Most of all I will miss Bob.

Right I am off to have my penis pierced. That will learn ’em.

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