Everywhere you turn is psychedelia. A spree of colour, long hair, trippy sounds, flashing fractals, hand-crafted peace, love and film grain. Go to the festival dressed like a native American, stare into the strobe light. Burn brightly on 60s nostalgia none of us remember. Live half the dream. Why? I want full spectrum nightmares. I want the rest: the knife on the floor of Tate manor, teen junkies, Altamont raceway, Queen booed offstage at Sunbury, death, disorder, confusion, chaos. There has to be some sort of balance, some sort of consequence. History repeats when left uninterrupted. We learn nothing. ‘Harsh
Out’ is an autopsy report.
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