Translation and Gonzo-style edit:
No one could fault his taste. The task of the poet is to confront the truth. "Shout it from the rooftops. Yes, on the hot tin roof, we must not stir. "You mean demolition?" I think you're imposing your views, then on others. "Isn't that when the bouncers throw you out," said JG, who then clicked on an hour-long clip of his work. Patrons cleared out before the first line even began. "True poetry will get you in trouble," said JG, reading a poem from Airstrip: from Phnom Penh to Bangkok: 17 Plane Killers. Often, I had no clue what I was listening to. Luckily, I had the Inundations manual as a reference.
I had Javanese dancers visiting, their heads spun as they danced their taut asses off to the five books of Floods. That’s where I first met DJ JG, at the stadium. The military-led management adored his tunes. They sold more ecstasy. Ravers missed Ibiza and flew to the dirty Kompong, known as Jakarta. If you couldn't pull a hooker at the Stadium, there was always Block M and the cemetery around the corner. Java had the blues. They missed the Dutch. They simply couldn't live without the wicked influence of the bule. "Does bule mean foreigner?" Max asked.
I saw DJ JG approaching something. His legacy and hard hat were just one more concert away. I felt it in my weary bones. To aid him, I suggested an old French fort on the Mekong delta to wake them up with his thought-provoking tunes. I tossed a coin, heads for Vung Tau, tails for Kampong Cham. "Why not both venues," said DJ JG. Personally, I was keener to test the Killing Fields. And they weren’t in Phnom Penh. My senses detected them where the parrot's beak begins. "They're all around," Max said, "how else do you kill half the population. They had to be buried somewhere."
But the French airstrip looked inviting. "That was a fucking American airstrip. It couldn't be, Max, the USA wasn't supposed to be in Cambodia. And if they were in Cambodia, there would have been no killing under Pol Pot." I saw DJ in a hard hat thrilled with Vung Tau. "Never been to 'Nam, but I heard something about the Ho Chi Minh trail. Well, fuck the coin," I said, and in two hours of hard driving, we were on the southeast coast of 'Nam, among sandy beaches and girly bars. Vung Tau is a confused place. You can come by hydrofoil or car. Apparently, it's an island.
Two weeks I spent there, I was so shit-faced I was surprised I ever made it off the island. Usually, I handle booze well. Just don't drink it. But if your guide's an alcoholic, it's hard to stay sober. He was generous with hash. But now, we were coming back for the concert. I managed to get onto the island without any hassle. Surprisingly, Google Maps works in Vietnam too. I had no idea how to change the language, but for some reason, technology still functions when I'm in a foreign country. I know technology drives us. I try to tell Google as little as possible about my stay. But for some reason, they still know where I've been. "Sign out of Gmail, and you won't be tracked," Max said. He was a bit more tech-savvy than me. So what do you use for navigation? I asked him. "I use Apple Maps in Safari so no pop-up ads or tracking cookies." Well, fuck the duck, Max was slick. He raised an eyebrow. "I work for the fucking CIA; being up-to-date is one of the job requirements. Well, why the hell do you hire me then?" Max was silent. I saw he was looking forward to viewing the French fort on the cliff where we had set up for the upcoming Saturday night party. Vung Tau is like Rio. I bribed the local cops, and they replaced Jesus with a statue of DJ JG. "A perfect representation of myself," said the DJ, who seemed pleased with the turn of events. "Watch out for snakes," I warned the production team, which consisted of me, Max, and JG. I had a huge inflatable image of Najib and Mahathir. I knew the Vietnamese wouldn't care. As long as we showed them in a good light, if bad-mouthing neighboring politicians did their job, they'd leave us alone. So there stood JG on the hill, arms spread, and as we detonated Najib and Mahathir and directed the spotlights into the floating droplets, onto the distant hills of Vung Tau, which had once
.jpeg)