The Age of Aquarius officially begins on January 20, 2025. The shift from Pisces to Aquarius, however, is a gradual one, which began influencing music on a mass scale with the invention of the electric guitar.
The influence of the forthcoming Aquarian Age transformed the music industry during the 1960s, when artists like Jimi Hendrix and Jimmy Page ditched their acoustic instruments in favour of electric guitars. The innovative sounds these gifted musicians created went on to shape the future of rock music.
A second seismic wave of ‘electric’ Aquarian energy hit the inhabitants of Biosphere Earth during the 1980s, when disco morphed into house and techno music in underground nightclubs across America, most notably in Chicago and Detroit. This new high-energy sound quickly crossed the Atlantic to Europe, where it was embraced in the Bright Islands, Germany and also in the Netherlands.
The acid house explosion was the most culturally significant sonic uprising since the psychedelic rock revolution of the middle ’60s.
This second wave of Aquarian energy peaked between 1987 and 1989. During this period, unlicensed free party raves sprang up across the length and breadth of the British countryside, as crews of travellers, towing huge sound rigs, threw massive love-vibe parties in fields, forest clearings and anywhere else they could find!
When the third wave of Aquarian energy peaks to usher in the coming Age Change, those tyrannical governments who seek to divide humanity’s collective psyche with propaganda and fear and set us apart physically behind barbwire fences will be swept away and the people of the world will finally unite, connected to one another via ultra fast, worldwide party facilitatin’ fibre-optics.
Ironically, there is a New World Order on the way… but the future will look and sound very different to the grey dystopian quiesce the Illuminati have planned for the world… instead, think colour, music and lots of fun without the criminal banksters and all of their criminal manipulation, violence and mega greed!
By 1989, the energy of the rave scene in Britain had spread to Berlin, where techno fanatics trooped the city behind a post-cold war caravan of flatbed trucks loaded with pulsing speaker stacks. German ravers named their wild freedom demonstration: Love Parade.
Back in the Bright Islands, the free party scene was getting bigger and bigger. Unlicensed outdoor events with free entry looked and sounded like fully produced festivals, with multiple stages, chill-out zones and vendors selling food and drink. The layout of these massive illegal raves continues to provide the conceptual blueprint for today’s commercial festival scene.
In 1994, new legislation outlawed the free party movement. The UK Government Group had begrudgingly accepted people’s right to party, but from now on the organisation and promotion of electronic music events would be controlled, licensed and taxed.
But before the movement turned commercial, we were lucky enough to catch the back-end of the Second Summer of Love before it fizzled out in the south of England.
In hindsight, it was like catching the aftermath of a tornado. You knew something huge had just ripped through the area prior to your arrival on account of the survivors, all of whom looked wild-eyed and freaky!
The only way to truly understand what had just occured was to take the acid test for yourself. And what we saw, heard and felt at those afterdark al-fresco gatherings changed our perception of reality forever…
The free party scene was illegal and the portable sound-rigs used to power these events were often impounded by police on route to the intended party site. To prevent parties being shut down before the first beat dropped, tribes were forced to engage police in a calculated game of cat and mouse.
Party locations were rarely advertised until the last moment, making it tricky for the cops to set up roadblocks in advance. Dummy convoys were also sent out to lead police away from the intended party site, while the ‘real’ sound-rig was being unloaded and assembled in some remote forest location.
Most of the time the party went ahead without complication.
On one occasion the police got to the airfield ahead of the rave caravan we were travelling with and impounded the sound rig and the audio gear before it could be unloaded, forcing us to turn back home in disconsolate silence.
As it turned out, however, the last minute cancellation proved to be a blessing in disguise!
Mendel had an empty house that night, so we stayed up DJing and getting stoned and taking more pills and LSD and whatnot, pushing the soaring serotonin rocket ride on and on until dawn.
The general rule was simple: the music don’t ever stop… on this particular night, however, Evander ‘the Real Deal’ Holyfield was fighting ‘Iron’ Mike Tyson live on pay-per-view. Which meant the rule got broke for once.
Everyone remembers their second encounter – the so-called ‘Bite Fight’ – but it’s the first Holyfield Tyson tussle you need watch… it was a fight for the ages… a pure mega dose of sporting shiznit!
Our sensibilities super-connected to the ether, we were glued to the action from the first bell… and it didn’t take long for us to realise that this was why the party had been cancelled – it was fate!
After all, if the rave had gone ahead like it was supposed to we wouldn’t have been ringside to watch GOOD slug it out against EVIL for just over an hour, live on pay-per-view.
Occasionally, you get a sporting encounter like this, where the forces of light and the forces of darkness appear to choose sides and gamble their entire energetic capacity on the shoulders of two opposing fighters or teams who are poised to hammer it out toe-to-toe inside the coliseum.
When Mendel’s father returned home in the early morning, we did our best to relay the spectacular significance of the boxing match we’d just ordered on his satellite account.
Interested from the start, he fried up platefuls of eggs, bacon & beans for everyone, then pulled up a chair to listen attentively to our latest spiritual hypothesis – delivered in-between full-flavour forkfuls – that rival archetypal energy forces do, every so often, choose to align themselves with rival sporting bodies for temporal periods of time in order to slug it out within the density of Biosphere Earth, inside a ring or a closed cage or upon a delineated games field, with a view to figuring out who really is the biggest dog in town… or in this instance, the WBA Heavyweight Champion of the World!
* there were noise abatement orders sent to one address, but one of my female co-signers was to blame for going total bitch-mode, so I took the booze off them & kicked them out as soon as I returned home on account of the loud music & even the front door was wide open & the following day I filled the hole in the wall with expanding foam… but everything was in my name… & thank God it was, because she was only half-sharp & thus totally daft with money & now I knew she could not be trusted at all.
How did we fund our non-stop party and pay-per-view kicks back in 1996? My mates and I worked loads of different jobs! Shifting boxes in warehouses, loading garage doors onto huge metal racks, catering jobs…
But by far the best job I ever had growing up was at Silverstone Circuit, an international raceway located a few miles from home.
At Silverstone, I worked as a race marshal for the onsite Karting Centre. This entailed waving red, yellow and black & white chequered flags as required, in addition to making calculated sprints out onto the track to drag crashed karts out of the tire walls and restart conked engines whilst dodgin’ oncoming race traffic!
My bosses were fair people and after the corporate types were done enjoying the amazing hospitality gig we provided and the venue had been given a proper rigorous clean and polish to ready it for another hired tomorrow, we’d grab a helmet and have a good ‘hack’ around the track for ourselves.
Most of the other marshals and event coordinators were either semi-professional or professional kart drivers, so it took me a little while to get up to speed. The trick, my colleagues explained was to ride your kart to the absolute limit. “Eventually, you’ll feel the twitch and ride on the edge of it,” my mate JC grinned wisely, before flipping down his visor and speeding off again.
Learning how to ‘ride the edge’ meant plenty of wipe-out spins into the tire wall.
But eventually I got a decent feel for hacking those little karts full pelt around the track… and whenever I was pushing too hard and could feel the quiver coming, I’d just lift off the throttle ever so slightly to prevent a wipe-out without losing momentum or race position.
In hindsight, the driving experience I enjoyed during my two-year stint at Silverstone was invaluable in aiding my ability to control the many different vehicles I would drive in later life… and as a result of all that practice and professional instruction, I’ve never suffered the nightmare of a recorded road traffic accident and still absolutely adore driving!
When the royal, warmongering, Empire-building, speed-gun toting, ‘we’re gonna pedo police you’ ultra weirdoes have been kicked out of power here in the Bright Islands, the State education system will undergo an immediate overhaul, starting with the current transgender sex education lessons, which will be removed from the school curriculum at once.
As an alternative to being taught about the benefits of puberty blockers, God’s children will – when they hit the age of their 14th birthday – be offered, instead, an opportunity to drive and repair go-karts on a weekly basis in order to prepare our next gen of boys and girls for life on the roads… which during the Age of Aquarius will be a much safer and more respectful network to cruise… not to mention a more joyful transit… and damn right the fatter highways will be faster moving, yeah…
I guess what we’re trying to say is: summertime in the Northern Hemisphere was still busy with crucial lessons even on those rare weekends when the pedo protectin’ cops cancelled the music or we were fresh out of cash and needed to put in a few extra shifts at work.
But don’t get confused here, nothing bettered being outisde, dancing around in the forest!
One summer night – who knows exactly where or precisely when – I recall hundreds of us dancing hard, cradled inside what felt like a dense woodland dome, the party now in full swing. Looking up through the wild canopy, we saw a police chopper coming in low, a single sweeping searchlight breaking the treeline in thin white splinters.
The cops hovered, but they didn’t land yet. Were they embarrassed by the impenetrable combination of music and nature they’d encountered during their dumb sortie into indigenous-controlled airspace? Or was there a ground assault coming?
Above us, the chopper of doom continued to circle the party site, while all about us our fellow party mutants began preparing for a dust up. But in the next instant the Nazis darted away again into the pitch black void like sneak thieves in the night.
What’s their fucking problem, man?
Tribalism. They don’t want people coming together to form a single tribe that might rival their armed crime syndicate.
Yeah?
Yeah. To hold on to power over the people, the Illuminati gotta keep Humanity divided into small groups. When different creeds, cultures, races and religions come together on the dancefloor and realise they’re all victims of the same Masonic divide and conquer con, the Brotherhood natually lose a sizeable percentage of their power and influence over the people. And it is at this stage of the game that the Brotherhood’s bullyboy cops are ordered out of their fortified Roman barracks and into the woods to kill the beats and smash as many skulls as possible on behalf of their panicking pedophile paymasters.
In the wintertime, when it was too cold to party outside, we began organising rave parties at lots of different venues.
There was the Football Club, known for attracting a boozy, somewhat slutty crowd. The Crown Hotel, with its long 600-person capacity backroom. And the much bigger Town Hall – an elegant two-floor stone building situated in the heart of Brackley’s historic market place – which was ideal for bigger events.
We also held our own traveller-style free parties on the old railway line between Mixbury and Evenley… but we came unstuck on Finmere Aerodrome when our little rave was busted by a nasty gang of road cops.
I quickly unhooked my mixer, tossed my record bag over my shoulder and took my girlfriend Amanda (who looked a lot like Whigfield) by the hand and we fled into the long grass carrying decks and sound gear and vinyl – the speaker stacks and generator were way too heavy to carry and would have to be left behind. Then we doubled back to Frankie’s house, where we spent the night chattin’ softly on the topic of sociology & dabbin’ MDMA whilst listening to Colin Dale & Colin Faver tapes on super low volume cus we didn’t want to wake Frankie’s mum!
MDMA is granulated ecstasy & the effects are very much like ecstacy, with plenty of high energy vibes & trippy feelings, only way more powerful.
I always remember MDMA being small, yellowish crystals. MDMA is not a plant; it’s synthetic. Which is why it’s best to avoid this corrosive drug & opt, instead, for natural highs such as Full Spectrum Cannabis oil, which will make you rush – a feelin’ somewhere inbetween coffee & cocaine – & make you trip – a feelin’ somewhere inbetween mushrooms & the word ‘sharp’.
& if you microdose sensibly & turn off the idiots on TV & eat no junk food, RSO will help heal your body & mind & it’s also as a powerful nootropic.
Ideally, RSO should be used at least once a month in conjunction with the lunar cycle as it once was on these islands prior to the Ripper Gang pirates landing & taking over the schooling of the tribe. as a substitute for weed, the Nazi Rippers gave you alcohol, which is a solvent… but the Nazi Brotherhood truly are pirates & solvents is what pirates like to drink – it’s like their tradition!
They don’t, however, got a taste for cannabis since it screws with their heads, cus at their very core, the Ripper Boyz are almost completely daft & worse still, a lot of them are brainsick maniacs…
Speaking openly about drugs & drug use is extremely important in preventing stimulant addiction & drug deaths as a result of a lack of basic education on the subject of narcotics… a fact clearly lost on many of today’s stuffy politicians.
To our suprise, Donald ‘The Don’ Trump, 45th President of the United States, is also a bit down on plants.
During a flurry of television interviews that followed his stunning election victory in November 2024, Trump remarked how Harry Windsor might soon be deported from the US on account of his smokin’ weed & droppin’ pills occasionally. Apparently, this sort of open, honest talk is totally taboo in the US, where everyone gotta pretend like they’ve never got wasted just in case they get arrested by crews of coked-up military Masonic battle troopers from hell!
It’s a backward situation that nobody can explain with a straight face & the situation needs addressing immediately on account of the fact that these daft social taboos are contributing to the unnecessary deaths of over 100,000 young people on US soil every year!
Havin’ a converstion about drugs & growing a little herb is also super taboo talk here in the Bright Islands.
& as a result of all the dark age-style daftness, the city-sized mega hospitals are full of loons ‘n’ smack addicts & the mortuaries are busy-to-the-brim with innocent teen.com deaths.
Which is why, rather than tossing Harry out of the country, Don would be better hiring him as his new drugs czar.
Indeed, Harry would be the perfect fit to educate Trump’s new America on how they might enjoy the ingestion of certain psychedelic plants safely & responsibly.
& God knows it’s about time someone influential started speaking openly on the topic of narcotics over there in the settlements… after all, the US jail system is currently wall-to-wall with millions of incarcerated Americans ‘living’ in overcrowded & violent prisons that only tend to make people crazier & more corrupt.
But not Howard Marks, who was quite calm & lucid when we spoke to hin 2013, on these & other pressing issues relating to the transportation of narcotics over international borders.
Indeed, our lunchtime meeting with Marks was wonderfully refreshing. & no doubt he would agree with us that someone like Harry – with his own crazy life history – would be of great service to the US federal prison system in identifying those inmates who, rather than being criminals meriting incarceration, are simply the victims of an outdated, prohibition-style, Matrix societal system that is pure Sin City vibes in every which way.
I was arrested for possesion of a little squidgy lump of Moroccan hashish when I was 13-years-old.
It was a big deal for the fat 50-year-old cop who arrested me & forced me into the back of his car & then drove me to the local barracks where I was locked up in one of the cells for about an hour, prior to my being released back into the wild. & I was extremely grateful for being freed… because I hadn’t even made it to the party yet!
To be part of this epic, 90s, tribal, truthful, psychedelic, freedom-first, nature-aware rave culture was very exciting. Indeed, the best parties we attended resembled a collage of freeze frame scenes lifted straight out of Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, everything bordered by a twisted vista of trees.
There were fire breathers guzzling gasoline from rusted jerrycans. Pixie lights amongst the oaks. Collarless mongrels wandering stoned without care or direction. Big campfires at the edge of the dancefloor spitting thorns. & how about those beautiful traveller women – dreadlocked & tattooed – who taught us to think and dance like Shamans because they said it was vital that we ‘know’ about these things.
We were just big kids really. & apparently we should have been at school. But thankfully the lure of music & nature & psychoactive mind-altering stimulants that brought us closer to God always won in the end!
& so off into the countryside we would roam. Fields. Woodland. & it was all empty. Nothing happening for miles in any direction. Just hedges cutting spliced sections of scorched earth. Abandoned airfields. The viaduct. The old railway line. & we learned to build camp fires & smoked more weed & more hash until it was impossible to stop laughing! & then there was the backroom… beanbags, always sets of Technics SL-1210s passing through for sale, a Super Nintendo (SNES) – eventually replaced with a Playstation – & so many incredible 80s & 90s movies relayed on VHS & later DVD that taught us how the world really worked & why. What a mad head rush, what a super mad trip!
If a particular teacher was good fun or if there was a lesson we really enjoyed, we’d head back to school ‘n’ say hello to everyone. Science & geography were ditched early on, obviously… but football was hardly ever missed.
The only gripe I had with school football was that my classmates refused to take training as seriously as I thought they should. It was one of the few lessons I attended & therefore I was laser focused. The rest of the football boys were good lads & went to every lesson. For them, training was two hours of freedom from the classroom & they used the time to relax & lark around.
To cope with their contempt for the game, I would quite often attend team training sessions stoned out of my mind. On one occasion, after smoking quite a lot of bright orange (almost glowing) skunk, I played so intuitively that I had to apologise to my team mates for being so ‘on it’ during training… but I felt like a little buzzing bee… everywhere all at once… & totally in tune with the bounce of every ball, yay!
At college I ran the team myself. This entailed picking the squad, organising training & setting a good example.
Was my managerial career enjoyable? Absolutely.
Was my managerial career succesful? Not really. The results were a mixed bag at best. We destroyed some very good teams in such convincing style that I felt genuinely unstoppable.
Then we started losing… my job on the line, I told the lads they oughta relax from now on. But it was a mistake. We needed more aggression rather than more control. Nevertheless, our next two matches still had to be cut short due to minor scuffles on the field of play. It was nothing really. The teachers, however, had their concerns. & I do think, ultimately, that this is what got me the sack after a year or so in charge of a fairly average, but brutally committed side.
One Monday morning stands out above all the rest. We found ourselves in a stubble field at dawn, sitting atop a colossal hay bale stack at least 30 feet in height, waiting for the Sun to break the eastern horizon.
Behind us, deep in the forest, the party was still going strong. We could hear the drums hammering out & always the grumble of those big diesel generators. Take yourself away from the party until it becomes invisible & you can still feel the acoustics reverberating over the land. High on LSD, nature overloads the senses – it’s a beautiful feeling!
From our high vantage point we could see further than ever before. In the distance, the roads were busying with early morning traffic. Commuters on their way to work. Our hopelessly obedient classmates bussing it to school for more conditioning. That’s when you start to question things. You look up at the clouds & you think: I’ve never looked at you before… how could that be? & why aren’t ‘they’ teaching me about you & whatever it is that made you?
In the years that followed, we trawled the planet seeking the same freedom vibe, seeking music to match the psychedelic traveller beats we’d heard playing in the Buckinghamshire woods during the last echoes of the Second Summer of Love.
Sweetie & I tapped a main sonic nerve in Leeds, England, between 2004 & 2007. The period was dominated by a fast fusion of minimal tech & breakbeat funk sounds, inspired, in part, by the resident DJs running Technique at Mint Club in Leeds, DC10’s rise to power in Ibiza & also by London’s fabric nightclub, who were in the process of launching to the world a new CD mix series decorated with stunning abstract artwork.
But inner city clubbing isn’t really my thing – life looks & sounds super mean at 6am when you rise up out of the dying embers of the party & the blacklight sleaze that greets you when you step outside the venue is invariably damp & dark & typically cordoned off with police tape because someone was either shot or stabbed overnight during a blizzard the news stand headlines claim is set to return tomorrow night.
These are not the kind of hard visions I enjoy channelling into my consciousness at 6am in the morning with my head still passionately aflutter with soft ecstacy love vibes.
& so one rainy New Year’s Day, during a come down at a friend’s tower apartment, we stood peering out over the grey expanse of the city via the floor to ceiling glazing & made a kiss pact to venture south in the coming months, to a much prettier somewhere, to a much prettier place.
Embrace the unfamiliar was my unofficial mantra at the time, which meant packing up my stuff & moving abroad didn’t faze me much at all.
I’d travelled to Amsterdam a few years prior as an aspiring writer seeking employment & everything worked out just fine & motivated by the news that a few of my uni mates had scored jobs in Ibiza the year before, I headed out in early April on general reconnaissance seeking good writing work & a good apartment for everyone to live in.
During our super fun 10-year stint in the Mediterranean, a selection of Ibiza‘s best trance, techno, rap, R&B, chill, deep house and esoteric tech parties genuinely moved us. Not only is the music and pageantry on the Spanish party isle the absolute best in class, many of Ibiza’s premier nightclubs are connected to nature in one way or another, all of which heightens ‘The Love Experience‘.
Sweetie & I also got to meet loads of amazing DJs, musicians, rap stars & real life movie stars during our time in Ibiza… many of whom devoted their entire lives to educating the public on the subject of Illuminati oppression via their poetical lyrics.
One of the most radical conversations we had was with Howard Marks, the controversial anti-establishment international cannabis trader who visited Ibiza to perform at Pikes in July 2013.
Marks said it was essential that the general public be told the truth about their world since properly identifying the causes of our reality is essential to leading a fulfilling life… & as such, he provided Sweetie & I with a super lengthy list of books to read in order to bring us up to speed on the topics of banking, law, mind control, sociology, philosophy & warfare.
Many of the books Marks recommended to us can be found within the lattice-like structure of this Moksha Guide.
& yet, in hindsight, and despite meeting so many amazing counter cultural revolutionaries in Ibiza, we felt as if there was always a significant something missing…
On reflection, it was the trees… it was the trees that were missing. Because something quite magickal happens when you roll high-quality techno music through huge speaker stacks in the middle of a dense woodland forest in the middle of the night.
You might say Mother Nature joins the party. Woohoo!
And when Mother arrives on the scene, the engendered mood she creates feels a lot like a trillion spiritual zephyrs rushing over firing DNA nucleotides… and the sonic lullaby that rides the ether in her wake sounds a lot like a tribal battlecry… and that’s why the greed-mad pedophiles wanted us out of the forest and back in school, because they knew the ciphered communication we were busy downloading from our devine Mother beneath our feet and our Father in the Heavens was a storm inducing, pirate ship wrecking instruction manual entitled: EMPIRE BOMB.
Music created using electronic machines will indeed define the coming new age. We know this because Aquarius is an air sign and electricity is ether. So for the next 2,160 years, just like everything else, music will be electric!
