Music is a bridge—but skweee is a bridge packed with 25 million people shivering in simultaneous 3-minute sonic orgasm. At least, in Beijing, a city of true scale.
Each morning, as our cabbie offs his motor in third-ring gridlock, we commune with millions, packed like hot dounao into the traffic around us, joining them in meditation on the ultraviolet membrane that separates truth, illusion and Skandinavian synth fønk.
This is how we—Fløøød and Verktyget—became intimate with 42,000 of Beijing’s 76,023 cab drivers. We take a lot of taxeees. We sit in a lot of traffic. We play a lot of music for taxeee drivers. In fact, many tracks on this EP were composed in Beijing taxeees, and at least one was set on course by a cabbie, who whispered the classical Beijing skweee chengyu: “If my tiger’s ass don’t shake, the snake’s song is a bubble of shit.”
You now hold the key to turning gridlock into Gongti: an ancient celluloid medium seething with shimmering skweee hymns. The “cassette”, as it was known during the Northern Skweee Dynasty, is a Chinese music tradition, which, though few today carry the tools to play at home, interfaces perfectly with the stereo technology of the Beijing taxeee.
The text on the cover of this cassette reads “Master Cabbie, let’s listen to this!”
So, he will know what to do when you hand him this tape: look long into your eyes, ease it into the stereo, press his sock hard on the pedal, and drive you ever deeper into Beijing’s heavenly smog of sonic rapture.
Note: These three tracks are the "Fløøød" half of the 87非87 Taxeee Tapes. The "Verktyget" half still lurks in the tape decks of China's last analog soldiers, those of the Beijing taxeee drivers.