TOMORROWLAND

Over three week-ends, Tomorrowland in Belgium brought together hundreds of thousands of people to share a frenzy in some overwhelming decors worthy of Star Wars.  Disc jockeys presided over waves of dancing or better, moving processed bodies. This "UN of Shakers" looked like a frenzy of flags and shaved armpits...the Woodstock survivors could not believe their eyes...and ears.

This costly extravaganza was without soul or merit, but the perfect organization, control, security and service were awesome. The event was chic-light, sect-like, an induced false feeling of belonging, to what? It was neither left- or right-oriented and appeared like a gigantic Euro or dollar rave.

The machine was formidable but in the end, it was nothing more than yet an other obituary for illusions gone. The coronation of the priest/disc jockey indicates how deep the fall is. This was no Coachella (where there is room for talent). It felt like a successful  post-transplant party, all wires, few scars, and a mild euphoria until the next edition. Even the bodies missed sex appeal. They looked displaced and maybe they were just that, a post-sex Generation X, desperately seeking the algorithm they lost on the way to the parking lot.