the ibiza dinosaur

There are but a few people out there who come to visit our island who come to be aware of the infamous Ibiza dinosaur.

Lurking in the darkness of VIP parties, one may stumble onto one of these rare specimens. The dinosaur is recognised by its grey tones, fading colours and hopeless expression of nonchalant disappointment and rolling eyes. I recommend that you only approach this creature if you are prepared to put a serious damper on your evening!

So let me explain exactly what I mean, by recalling, from my own experience, the very first time I made contact with this miserable distributor of depression: it was 1991, and I was swinging on a dance floor, in the throes of all engulfing love and music when I headed for the bar to drowse myself in the refreshments. In my all-consuming elation I turned to the next individual and stated: “this island is amazing! I absolutely love it!”. To my shock the dinosaur turned to me and said: “well, it used to be… but now it is all over”. Huh?! I proceeded to ask the ancient relic, if they were joking? Apparently not! And so I witnessed for the first time the ridiculous mantra these creatures recite: “A few years ago, it was amazing, the clubs had no roof, but now, it is all over…”

Now this was 1991, and this pessimist was referring to 1989. In just two years, a combined 100 square meter roof construction, evenly distributed over all the clubs, had destroyed everything that this poor soul could possibly enjoy on the island. I was completely perplexed, having the time of my life, underneath the roof. At the time I believe this to be an individual case. But it was not to be so. I soon ran into hordes of lamenting cry-babies, who’s only occupation seem to be informing others that they:

80’s Hair-disasterious: “were not having fun”, “didn’t understand”, “arrived too late”, “missed the boat” and “doomed to a life of misery”, and the insulting “You were born too late.”

Me: “Huh?!”

As I moved on, slowly penetrating many of the inner circles of fancy socialites, I experienced even older specimens: First the disco queens, who informed me that:

Disco Dinosaur: “You see, young ignorant tourist, it was already over in the 80s! The 70s was when it really took off. Franco stepped down, and the discotheques were built, and soon cocaine and disco music arrived. This was the time! It has been downhill since then…”

Me: “WTF?!”

Escaping into nature I eventually found myself on beaches riddled with hippies of yesteryear. Apparently, this much older specie, denies the fact that anybody really had any fun in the 70s. The argument goes something like this:

Unwashed flee-colony: “the clubs ruined everything. We were free and naked and live bands played acid rock. But this was all commercialized by those money grabbing love haters!!!”

Me: “I am so sorry for you… NOT!!!”

At this point I concluded that that would probably be the last remaining, and oldest specimen, of these dinosaurs. Wrong again! I had the interesting encounter with the person who were old enough to experience the beat generation, also called the beatniks. For those who do not know what a beatnik is let me explain in brief: the beatniks were the intellectual movement in universities across America who refused to restrict their education to that of the Western world. Looking to eastern philosophy, they opened up for existential debates and questioned the very fabric of the modern mindset. In other words: they were the great minds who’s writing and poetry inspired the rise of the (somewhat less intellectual) hippies and the nonviolent revolution of love. Among these people you will find Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs. I had the great honour of sound tracking the last European reading of Mr. Ginsberg in Italy. He, like many others of his kind, traveled to Tangier in Morocco, in search of cheap boys and smack for inspiration. It was on these travels, that many of them stopped off on a phantasmagorical Balearic Islands called Eivissa. To my surprise there was no negativity in the recollection:

Beatnik: “we were hanging out around the campfire on the beaches as we wrote, read and burned, one poem after another. Then we would ride horses bareback in the nude (no pun) up and down the beach in the full moon light. Those were great times.”

Me: “Wow!”

At this point I was convinced that I had finally found the primordial prime mover; that minuscule snowball that set off the avalanche that eventually resulted in the conditions that you and me enjoy here today. Wrong again!!! In 2004, I moved to Hollywood for six months during the winter, to engage one of the greatest challenges I have faced: Recording and remixing the Henry Mancini catalog together with his son, Chris Mancini (fastest ears in the west), together with the Henry Mancini Institute Orchestra. It was during my time there, that I found myself in one of the many West Hollywood private parties. I was, as always, hanging out in the back room reserved for producers, technicians and stuntmen. Let me tell you: there is nothing like partying with Hollywood stuntmen! And the technicians are the finest in the world: they know the exact combination of which one of 1000 lightbulbs, 40 types of film and 200 shades of Max Factor lipstick you would need to select in order to get that Kubrick red lips. So at one moment, the butler arrives, asking for: “the gentleman from Ibiza”. He proceeded to inform me to follow him into yet another back room, because the hostess requested my presence. It was here that I meet, a wonderful and graceful lady in her 90s. She had only one question: “please describe to me, what the island looks like today”. After a careful recollection of local infrastructure and events she looked at me with glowing eyes and thanked me profoundly, for she had been here, on our precious island, many years ago, and had nothing but the fondest of memories. She went on to explain: “when I was a young girl, I was considered extraordinarily pretty, and the young prince from Estonia, whisked me away on a romantic journey to a little island in the Mediterranean. It was so beautiful and quaint, and the people were lovely, openhearted and eager to exchange ideas and Philosophy. This was the Ibiza that she had come to know. She had never been back, but she would never forget, what had become the single most romantic experience in a long life of plenty. So obviously I could not help myself but ask:

Me: “When was this?”

Fabulous lady of timeless grace: “1922.”

TAKE THAT, DINOSAURS!!!

So what I am trying to say is this:

This island is a multi-verse projected through time.

Happiness is a choice, not a consequence of external events.

Your age has nothing to do with the accumulation of years.

Keep your heart light and your mind open.

Each and every moment is the finest ever, you either get it or you don’t.

Answer all the dinosaurs out there I have only this to say: Roll-over, your time has come. The petrification process of fossils takes millions of years: Now THERE is a party that YOU are late for!

P.S. Don’t feed the dinosaurs.

P.S.S. Francisco (the man on the picture) is all but a Dinosaur, in fact he is one of the few that, wherever you see him, is having fun, holding up the good spirit. A living proof that the party is over when you decide it is, not anyone else.