Travel Photography, Writing and Photoblog from Matt Feldman

Ping... ping... The abstract geometric graphics swirl and twist on the massive overhead screens, as if a deranged architect is directing a computer-generated war between multicoloured polygons. Lights pivot and twirl, hurling coordinated blasts of photons around the basketball arena-sized room. And with extraordinary quality for a venue this size, the horns and woofers and tweeters housed in the massive batteries of speakers, push out sound at an incredible volume.

The music is electronic. Atmospheric. Ambient. Subtle, yet anything but simple. The layered beats and thick bass line are part of the rich sonic textures coming from the three men on stage and the crowd is of rapt attention. Gradually, the pace quickens and thousands of heads bob faster, certain of the rhythm and focused on the performance. The intensity — both in the crowd and on stage — is palpable, which is almost counterintuitive considering the nature of the music, but thousands bounce and sway as the threads of an amazing aural tapestry are woven. But I can't figure out where the musicians' French horn is going to fit in.

I've come to Sonar2004, one of the world's largest and most renown annual electronic music festivals, for a change of pace. And on stage, as Ryuichi Sakamoto and the two other members of Human Audio Sponge are proving, a change it is. Far from the brain-dead ridiculousness of "techno" that is typically familiar to bar- and club-goers, Sonar is where electronic music comes out of its shell to breathe and to thrive and to grow and evolve.

Into the synthetic sonic stew of beats and clicks and pops and keyboards and vocals, the live introduction of a French horn underscores that the vast genre of electronic music — with seemingly infinite specializations and derivations — is anything but stagnant. For almost two decades, Sakamoto, like many of the genre's luminaries performing at Sonar, has been at the forefront of electronic music, both carving new paths and revisiting the past to reinterpret and reinvent.

Tens of thousands are here tonight, spread across a cluster of several arena-sized buildings in the dock lands of Barcelona to see some of the giants of electronic music under the best conditions. Techno is aboveground at festivals like Sonar, no longer confined to dingy clubs with cobbled-together sound systems and primitive, Atari-grade multimedia setups. And like any first class performance of any other genre, everything is top shelf at the Sonar festival (including the prices — my ticket for tonight is €35), now in its eleventh year. But tonight, with almost two dozen artists on the three-stage roster, there is something for almost all progressive tastes.

Sakamoto and his group shift into a slightly faster gear now and to the beats and bass lines he adds vocal samples, but not his own. Various children read questions that simultaneously fit the minimalist music, the dynamic graphics on the overhead screens and the time in which we live. The recordings of the children start out distinct. "Is war as old as gravity?" Their contemplative and provocative questions are played sequentially, but are spoken by different voices. "Are there animals that like peace?"

Like the music, both on stage and the entire genre beyond, Sakamoto's composition evolves. Individual questions gradually overlap and morph into a new query. "Are there animals that like war?" "Were farmers the first warriors?" Bass guitar comes in and Sakamoto joins on keyboards for a soaring, majestic fusion that could not be further from the popular definitions of "techno." The rich and complex piece builds and grows, spanning almost ten minutes now, until its crescendo, with one child's question that asks it all: "Are we doing the right thing?"

In Barcelona, things turned ugly. Well, ugly if you happen to be my liver. The bottle of Vodka, with me since the Moroccan duty-free extravaganza, took one for the team. In a single night. The team, of course, comprising myself and Samy, my friend from graduate school at Notre Dame, who is spending the summer in the south of France with his family and who has joined me for about 10 days of sightseeing and troublemaking.

After meeting Samy at Barcelona's bus station, we scoured the streets beside Las Ramblas for accommodation. Turned down at an entire guidebook page worth of small hotels, amidst a long section of construction scaffolding, we stumbled upon a partially opened gate with a sign indicating a small, family run pension. Perfect. And we were in luck. The room was the colour of a peach, but it had beds. With both of us in equal, dire need of clean clothes and booze, we found a laundromat, a convenience store that sold juice, and proceeded to get hammered.

But after four days in Barcelona, we've had enough. Gaudi's churches were gross. Miro's museum was amazing. Sonar was hot. Seafood paella and sangria at a hole-in-the-wall diner rocked our world. Chicken and fries did it again the following day. But that was it. Never have I been to such a big city, seen so little of it, and been so comfortable with that. Next.

New Rule: If you don't like your food, your waiter, or both, hit him. Very, very hard.

I swear it was an accident. Not an accident that I terribly regret, but an accident nonetheless. Samy and I and an Aussie couple from the hotel were having dinner in one of the famous plazas of Barcelona. The restaurant, with its outdoor tables, was one of those overpriced, under quality type deals that exists solely because of the scenery. In this case, scenery is defined by hammered American kids falling into the large fountain in the center of the palm tree-lined square.

With varying degrees of disgust at our meal and the service (my €12 "entree" consisted of exactly eight baby shrimp in some butter with a half a clove of garlic) we headed back into the square and towards Las Ramblas, the main street. The Australian couple in the lead, they passed our waiter, who was doing his best to barely serve another couple a few tables away. The waiter, slightly bent at the waist to better feign attention, apparently had enough of the patron's nonsense (what we quaintly refer to as "ordering") and quickly spun around on his heels. Directly into me. His face impacted my shoulder hard enough that before he stumbled backwards, Samy and I saw his eyes roll back in his head. We hated the meal, but the tip was sufficient: "Dude, wear a helmet."

From Barcelona, Samy and I head to Perpignan, France, to stay with his aunt and her family. It is an exciting three nights of cultural immersion, culminating in the highly enriching experience of an elegant night of fine French cinema at its intellectual best: The Punisher (in French).

Which is an ironic choice, considering our company. For days, Samy's cousin, a 14 year old boy with the mouth to match and an inability to go more than nine seconds without throwing verbal or physical punches at both of us, receives what could only be described as a constant beating.

A return visit to the Medieval fortress city of Carcasonne is next on our list, followed by a visit to the beautiful little town of Avignon. From there it's onto Marseille where Samy will rejoin his family and I will progress along the Riviera before heading into Italy and Slovenia.

So with that, I bid you adieu, because football is on tonight and wine needs to be purchased.

With a baguette in hand,
Zidane