zweikommasieben Magazin

Oh, Jack! Giver of my beat. Founder of my rhythm. Jack, how good you sound. [jak]: teeth form the groove. Whipped out of the diaphragm, spooned out of our own primordial soup. Oh well, not spooned. Drummed! Jack, you old liberator. You are the swing of our thing.
Oh, how you shuffled and sweated, buddy! Body music! Work it! You showed us the moves. Thousands of hours we’ve spent in each other’s arms, dancing. In a lonely club. In the promised land. Jack, you mighty seducer. You were the arsonist, the big bang, the supernova of the sun of our synapses.
Thanks to you, Jack, we will dance on for all eternity. Chuck Roberts sang you a ditty. With incomparable vibrato. There you grooved as a founding father, bumcheek-to-bumcheek with the Wiggly Worm. How bravely you preached the good word about this thing called house. And suddenly you were everywhere. In Amnesia. In Shoom. The Haçienda. And because that which
thou had done was ok, a broad smile broke across your yellow face. The world was round and drunk on love. Basslines squelched.
But really you were always dancing. In Harlem, in the twenties, we jigged along. Wildly. You came out of blood-drenched sugar plantations, before that you drummed in the jungle. You were the father, the preacher and the teacher. You founded the nation; you were our president and the top man on the totem pole. You were our savior; you saved us all. No, we dissolved, dancing with you.
Boy, you are insatiable. You were all over my face. You wanted to ride my baby. You moaned interminably. And you just couldn’t keep your hands off of my man. Jack, you permanently sexing beast. It was because of you that we lost control. And then we regretted it for a wee bit to have jacked around with you. But not for long. You are our friend. Forever.
Jack, my love.
Where is your house?
Jack.
Jack.
Jack.

Accesskeys

Ode to Jack.