Kaskade. Kaskade, Kaskade, Kaskade. For a guy who started out in the mailroom at OM Records you sure have come a long way—and I’m not just sayin’ that. I mean, if one’s importance can be judged from the random stupidity of one’s tour flyers, well, you’ve just buried your competition, planted a bundle of roses on their graves and made hot and imperial love to their wives (or husbands). Love so EPIC that it will not soon be forgotten by those who keep track of such things, let me tell you. Certainly, this is a masterpiece in the honored tradition of Haight-Ashbury “happenings,” from those halcyon San Francisco days in the 1960s when a surreal concert poster was, in fact, a sign post for the nutty, the illegal and the illicit. It might have nothing but animals rendered in an “unlikely” or “psychedelic “style. Set against an eyebrow-raising backdrop, perhaps cosmic in nature, one would know that there’s certainly NOTHING pro quo or establishment that’s gonna be going down at THIS show! Strap it on motherfuckers, call in sick for work ahead of time and get ready for something out of this world, something SO unconventional that there need not even be a complete sentence expressed on the posters, flyers, ads, etc—you either KNOW or you don’t matter! Whoever this musician (DJ) is, they’re playing by their own rules with more creativity than the house can cover! They care not a whit for money and would rather catalog the secrets of the universe as whispered to them by a master yogi, learn the true nature of infinity while on shore leave in the Himalayans or bask in the innocence of a child’s laughter than take (it pains me to even suggest it) American dollars for tracking video games such as DJ Hero 2 or remixing/producing the soulless Vampirellas of the corporate musicmachine like Beyonce, Britney, Paris Hilton, Lady G or (god forbid) Madonna. This man, this ARTIST, is a true and soulful renegade who plays by his own rules, won’t take no for an answer and lives by a pure coda where payment in coin is not accepted. Sorry. Check yo’ plastic foolio, truth is the only commodity my man Kaskade accepts.
Look him up and he’ll tell you straight: “Stick your tongue, or butterfly, in the mouth of the universe and hope for the best.” Now. I’ll just get an intern on this to check my house music facts here and… no worries.