The following story occured in 1994 when the Netherlands Broadcasting Corporation commissioned me to visit Brasilia. They were hoping that i would create a radio art work related to my Brazilian experience. I went to Brazil but i didn't make any recordings there. I didn't create a radio art work at that time. The events that i witnessed were too absurd. I found it difficult to concentrate on the purely aural aspects of my journey. When i returned to Canada i became engaged in other projects.

The soft core nightmare of my visit remained inside my head — until now. The names in this story have been changed. The relative time scheme has been compressed — separate scenes have been combined into single events. But this all really happened.

N: Mijnheer Oswald, this is Nederlandse Omroepprogramma Stichting, the radio of Holland. We would like you to go to Brazil to buy some records. O: Brazilian records? N: Ja. The transformation of the music of existing commercial recordings is the specialty Oswald is well-known for. He calls these radical, revolutionary transformations, which have garnered praise and wrath, legal battles and international success, plunderphonics. O: I can get the records here. There are lots of Brazilians in Toronto. N: We are already familiar with the scene in Toronto, We want you to go to Brasilia, the city of the future.We want you to check it out. Perhaps then you will make us a radio piece from your own perspective. Put a new spin on the music of Brazil. (i've never paid any attention to Brazilian music. There's samba, bossa nova, the Girl from Ipanema and Tom Zee, that's about it. Let someone else choose to change it. Why is the Dutch Radio Network interested in a Canadian's impressions of yesterday's city of the future? A jungle mirage of a re-emerged fashion concept of an urban tomorrow. Why are they interested in Brasilia at all. Is it just a fantasy escape from the depressing Dutch winter?) N: Perhaps Oswald will take the cliché of Brazilian music, and enable us hear it wit fresh ears. Everyone who visits the country is overwhelmed by the culture which is driven by the music. We want to send an explorer to Brazil to discover the source of this musical current. (These guys sound desperate to get me to South America. So be it. I decide to test their resources.) O: I only have a few days open in my schedule. N: When? O: Starting tomorrow.

O: I only have a few days open in my schedule. N: When? O: Starting tomorrow. [The details of the space between Canada and Brazil are obscured by a moonless darkness.] N: You will be taking an overnight flight. You will visit three cities, the capitol Brasilia, the megalopolis, Sao Paulo, and the holiday mecca - Rio de Janeiro. It's all arranged. The German Government Art Office will pay for your trip. Their chief Brasilia agent, Herr Blonde, will show you around and introduce you to their agents based in the other cities. Don't take any money with you. You won't be able to buy Brazilian currency outside of the country. Their inflation rate is 30% per month. The Germans will take care of you.

As the plane slides under the clouds my first glimpse of this southern continent is of an endless brilliant green landscape interrupted by one very white house and the imperious blue of a private swimming pool. P: Welcome to Brazil. Passengers arriving to Sao Paulo please disembark now. Passengers to Brasilia please remain on board. The flight skips from Sao Paulo international to Brasilia. The town itself is shaped like an airplane. As we are maneuvering to a berth in the airport of the nation's capital, the first thing I notice is the headgear of the ground crew. The men drive the proto-lunar vehicles typical of airports and wear the the usual large orange-cup ear protectors, but with the head bands resting on their noses, covering their eyes. Fashion or function? Levity or lunacy? Bracing for silliness. Brasilia.

P: Will Mr Oswald please meet Herr Blonde at the white courtesy phone. B: Herr Oswald. Welcome to my country. We drive into the capital. All the streets are freeways. There are no corners or right-angled intersections. Even residential areas are woven with clover-leaved speedways. Herr Blonde is telling me about the trouble with his new girlfriend. B: Life is good here but things are very complicated. For now the air is peacefully hot. Canada is white with snow. Brasilia is white with light.

Canada is white with snow. Brasilia is white with light. We pass government buildings, the presidential palace, a cathedral, a mausoleum. Herr Blonde drives out of this Alphaville. We pass through a brief band of jungle and arrive at a dusty shanty town, one of several where the people who have laboured to build the concrete skyscrapers of Brasilia now live.

B: Achtung! We stop at an open-ended tin shack on the dirt main street. A record store. The sign says Pizza Disc. All vinyl. Herr Blonde takes photos of the proprietor and his establishment. I buy Brazilian vinyl records of American pop acts with German Government Art Office money. Herr Blonde intends to use the photos as a reference in order to recreate the record store in an art gallery in Berlin. He will fly in the proprietor to sell records there. B: This is authentic. All the music is kitsch but this man doesn't realize this. He is sincere.

B: This is authentic. All the music is kitsch but this man doesn't realize this. He is sincere. Ah, here are the librarian and the driver from my office. They are authentic native Brazilians.They will show you the rest of the sights. Herr Blonde departs and the three of us proceed, stopping in the next town, which is built around an artificial lake, and populated by people dressed in brilliant robes of lamé, purples and oranges with high gossamer collars and silver and gold headgear. They walk along the lake in a procession apparently of the sacrificial-virgin variety, past concrete structures looking like amusement park dwellings designed to distract children. Everyone in this village wears fancy alien-wear for grocery-shopping, hiking, loitering; everywhere. We drive on. driver: Is anyone hungry? We stop by a mango tree in a farm yard overrun by chickens and children. The driver picks up a ten metre pole, swirls it above himself causing a rainfall of ripe mangoes. We gorge ourselves on red and yellow sweet flesh. The children stamp on the droppings. What we can't eat the driver loads into the back of the van. Next stop is a deserted state park run by laughing women. The spray of a large waterfall soaks away our coating of mango residue. The driver screams with pleasure at the torrents of water.

Returning to Brasilia, the librarian and i are dropped off at a truncated black pyramid. L: This is the crypt which houses the corpse of J.K.,the architect of Brasilia. The mausoleum is directly across from a guarded but otherwise deserted museum of Native peoples. L: Every once in awhile the leaders of the Xhingu tribes decide to come to Brasilia to visit the president of Brazil. They walk up through the centre of the city to the palace. O: What are they wearing? L: They are more or less naked. The president comes out of the palace and they have a picnic on the lawn. This is our national anthem… [ he whistles ] The librarian takes me to Blonde's office where i find him on the phone with the Dutch National Radio.

N: He seems to be in a hurry. What is he doing there? B:Our librarian is helping him to research Brazilian music. But here he is now. Herr Blonde has brought along his girlfriend, the General's mistress for me to meet. B: Look at her beautiful hair. This golden curly hair is the feature of all the girls from Goiania. They are all beautiful. Herr Blonde's girlfriend is wearing sandles and a garment called the dental floss, which is the current swimwear of the women of Brazil, providing erogenous coverage in front while closer inspection would be necessary to detect three hairlines of material circumnavigating the rear. He plays her a recording of my music. B: See, she dances. This music could be a big hit in this country. The Brazilians will like any music. She dances with her hips and her hair. She looks like she could find a downbeat in anything. Conversation, traffic, gunfire, anything. B: One of the generals has been accused of cheating the national lottery. He has won twelve times this past year. It is suspected that he finds out in advance who has the winning ticket and buys it from this person with money that the general could otherwise not account for. The prize money is tax free. The general says he is innocent. He says he has been very lucky. Herr Blonde and i are expected at the German Ambassador's residence. It's a party. Herr Blonde's girlfriend is not invited.

The German Ambassador struggles with his speech. A: I have nothing to say and i'm saying it. I'm saying it in words I neither understand nor respect but that are required of me in my position. So i say it. Nothing. Now here is an entertaining diversion. Meanwhile a large perambulant insect is traversing the German Ambassador's marble floor. Pausing in his speech the Ambassador approaches and presses the toe of his shoe on the bug. He kicks it several times until it is off the premises. Now here is an entertaining diversion. From reclining chairs we stare at the local talent, ill- prepared homage's to German culture followed by indigenous acrobatics/dance steps. I browse the ambassador's backyard,

a cultivated jungle sprouting furtive lovers, experimenting in diversions from the proscribed tedium. B: Let's get out of here. All the action is at the International Film Festival. The lobby of the international film festival seems to be populated with the same people we met at the German Ambassador's place.Herr Blonde introduces me to an Italian starlet. B: Seniorita, this is Mr. Oswald, the most famous Canadian movie director. He tells me he wants you to star in his next film. He says "How beautiful you are!" I would like to see you tonight. S: Ciao. It's late. Herr Blonde takes me to an empty restaurant which is attempting to close. He orders for himself. Bacon !

I take a cab to the hotel. Idling cars cram large car parks, furniture for lounging youth. The driver says, "Paul McCartney is beautiful." The hotel is a concrete hi-rise in a nocturnally deserted central section of Brasilia, with views of the freeways, offices, palaces and mausoleums. i open my balcony doors, sleep briefly. It's a car alarm which wakes me. It continues. A van parked below. Across from the hotel is a hi rise parking garage. The evenly spaced bleeps of the van horn echo through the empty tiers, tracing its waffled shape in sound. Time passes. Two guys in the uniforms of the service class emerge from the hotel and stare at the offending van. A few minutes later they retreat. Eventually the battery begins to die and the horn wheezes to a halt.

Music plays in the distance with the first notes of dawn. I lay on the bed. Dogs bark. In an instant a black wave of bats explodes from beneath the bed, banks into the darker recesses of the room and ricochets back and out the balcony opening. The air is still. The bed begins to quaver and shake. In a few seconds the earthquake has passed.

O: Hi. B: Herr Oswald can you meet me at the airport? I have been detained. O: Did you feel the earthquake this morning? B: I felt my headache. I don't think they have earthquakes in Brasilia. Today we are flying to Sao Paolo. There's a man there who knows bird songs who i never get to meet. At the airport Herr Blonde has his shoes polished. N: Hello boss? Mr Oswald has a proposal. In Brazilia there are sound cars for hire, for parties and propaganda, hatchless american subcompacts. The posteriors of these cars are packed with amplifiers and loudspeakers. Mr Oswald wants us to arrange for the German Art Office to hire three of these public-address Pintos, He will supply tapes for each, containing interrelated, repeating fragments, of samba, villa Lobos, the national anthem, xhingu chants, etc., with instructions for the cars to follow the freeways of Brazilia at high speeds, past the presidential palace and the malls at prescribed intervals, broadcasting these familiar selections in overlapping patterns. B: Brazilians are the noisiest people in the world. N: Brazilia's sports hero Ayrton Senna has just died in flames. This high speed dirge of its national music will be called Sennecade. B: They will love it.

We stay at a Bavarian Inn in the centre of Sao Paolo, one of the world's largest cities. The noon sun is directly above. Shadows are small puddles around shoes and buildings. B: Hey, here are Herr Schwartz and Herr Silber. We've arrived at a shopping mall. Herr Schwarz is the bearded Sao Paulo agent for the German Government Art Office, and Herr Silber, an older man with an impressive white mane, is their Rio de Janeiro agent. S&S: Herr Oswald, we have been looking for a record kiosk for the benefit of your research. Let's ask these frauleins. Herr Schwartz and Herr Silber approach two teenage girls ostensibly to ask directions. Herr Silber begins to fondle one of the girls. A couple who are likely the parents of the girls intercede, and soon Herr Schwarz and Herr Silber have hurried off in opposite directions, perhaps to confuse anyone giving chase. Herr Blonde and i proceed to the record shop.

B: No, not that section. That is all kitsch for the masses. Here are the latest sounds. We must check out the discos. Sao Paulo is where the discos are. There are no good discos in Brasilia. The taxi rides in Sao Paulo seem endless. We are taken to a large arena deep-pile carpeted with people. B: Yes here we can research the music of Brazil. I find a vantage above the swaying dancers and watch Herr Blonde pass through them. His arms crossed, he is a splotch of white in a dark crowd, the only one moving against the music. He is doing research.

B: Its midnight. The evening proper is just beginning. We are taken to a street of bars frequented by transvestites, where we meet up with Herr Schwarz and Herr Schwarz's wife, a dancer he has met during his term here in Sao Paulo. O: So do you know Will B. High? T: You have worked with Mr High? A brilliant choreographer. Of course I have heard him. But I have also heard that he is dead. O: When i spoke with him early last week he was very much alive. I hope he still is. T: I hope so too. And I trust that he is. The news in Brazil is not always the truth. A table is moved into the street where we have a prime view of all activity around the bars. Auto traffic, which inches along, and is cajoled by some demonstrative transvestites, is further impeded by our presence. The absolute whiteness and imperial attitude of the German Art Agents seems to ensure certain privileges. The tallest and most beautiful trasvestite is blocking a creeping tourist vehicle. Remarkably agile in stiletto heels, she steps up on the bumper, twirls, sits on the hood, crosses her legs, sprawls back arms akimbo, glances over her shoulder at the driver, and purrs, T: eiiii, me tira daqui / oooo, take me away B: Ah, come sit with us darling. Where is that dog Herr Silber? Has he returned to Rio? S: He was almost arrested for consorting with those virgins in the shopping mall. But he won't come with us tonight because he will only accept classical music. The tall transvestite sits at our table and waits for a light. B: He can't accept that techno will dominate the future. Herr Schwarz, you should tell Herr Oswald about the troubles you have with your wife. He is very good at giving advice. The tall transvestite says that she is flown in from Rio de Janeiro every weekend by local businesses to socialize along this street. B: Now this is a real woman. Mr. Oswald, which would you rather have, this one or Schwarz's wife? O: You are both very beautiful. Mrs S: Did you feel the earthquake? O: Just now? Mrs S: No strange man, early this morning. O: I was in Brasilia and i felt it there. It scared a herd of bats from under my bed. Mrs S: I hope that's a good omen. But, by the way, it's a coven of bats, not herd. O: I heard them. No one else seems to have noticed the earthquake. B: Brazilian women know how to fuck. Mrs S: Some people only notice their own cravings. B: Not like German women. The only trouble with Brazilian women is they bring their whole family into your house. You're marrying the whole fucking family. Mrs S: I suspect he would like to fuck my whole family. B: Let's go to a disco. We need to do more research !

The cars are white, the suits are white and the patrons are white; an expensive place for the international set which could be anywhere; as is the music, borderless, anonymous. Herr Blonde and Herr Schwarz stand with arms folded, doing research. The wife of Herr Schwarz and i dance. [ alarm goes off / phone rings ] B: I'm coming to pick you up. We've got to get out of here. Rio de Janeiro appears from the air to be mountains, hotels and beaches. We are being picked up at the airport by Herr Blonde's Rio girl friend from Ipanema, who is an actress in a TV soap opera. O: So, how did you meet her? B: I saw her on TV and thought, 'this is my type of woman'. I phoned up the television station and got her home phone number. I told her that I would come to her immediately. She said her husband wouldn't like it. I got her to tell me when he would be at work. The soap opera actress takes us to lunch on the terrace of a big american hotel with a bigger view. But everyone is staring at us or rather, at her, surrounded by Herr Blonde and i like quotation marks. She drives us to various beaches and hotels and mountains. In Sao Paulo anyone other than a transvestite is conspicuous wearing anything other than a suit or jeans. In Rio one is conspicuous wearing anything other than a dental floss bikini or speedo briefs. I'm still adapted to Sao Paulo wear. Herr Blonde is wearing a tweed jacket. B: It is now the time of preparation for Carnival. It's an inherited rite, 'these fashionable shrove tide carnivalities, almost a transcript of the ancient Saturnalia of Rome: carnelevarium: 'the solace of the flesh' which Herr Silber takes quite literally to mean 'piece of mind is peace of ass'. 'The carnival of my sweet love is past, Now comes the Lent of my long hate.' The soap opera actress drives us to the ocean. B: Take absolutely nothing onto the beach. It will be stolen. 'He saw the lean dogs hold o'er the dead their carnival — Like distracted masks' B: For a whole month the city of Rio stops for the festivities. It is the centre of their world. 'One half of the remaining part of the year is past in remembering, the other in expecting the future Carnival.' The soap opera actress drives us to a restaurant. She pulls up short, in the intersection. A: I must return to my husband. Can I just drop you here? Herr Silber is waiting for us outside. S: Blonde you dog. You neglected to introduce me to your wench. She looks familiar. B: Silber you sly cat. I think she already knows you 'for your carnival concupiscence.' S: 'Feasting on wonderful and uncanny — but very dainty dishes is another important part of carnivaling.' After our dinner i will take you to a rehearsal out by the airport. Outside the restaurant Herr Blonde is staring at a woman who is sleeping on a cardboard mattress, partially covered by a cardboard blanket, surrounded by children, presumably hers. B: Do you see this? This is incredible. Ha-ha! Their home is on the street. It is the ultimate in kitsch sentimentality. The woman is awakened by Herr Blonde's outburst. She stares up at him wide-eyed, as if expecting to be kicked. B or S: Herr Oswald, where are you going? I catch a cab and head to the airport, past Blonde's latest installation, past the beach, past the carnival rehearsal, on my way to Canada.

P: Will Mr Oswald please meet Herr Blonde at the white courtesy phone. Blonde has followed me to the airport, but i am already through customs. I have nothing to declare. In the pre-flight lounge, the Brazilian television news is featuring continuous coverage of the transatlantic return via a commercial airline of a missing politician who had been picked up in a London restaurant arguing about a reservation made in his own name. He is suspected of having his wife killed. She was found in a cave. The television coverage shows him eating his airline dinner. From the window of the plane as it taxiis along the runway i can see Herr Blonde, a tiny figure in a tweed jacket. He has gone on to the Carnival rehearsal which is taking place in an old airline hanger. Hundreds of musicians, mostly percussionists are arranged on a huge bandstand, competing to be heard over the passing jets. Herr Blonde stands at the mouth of the hanger with his back to them, his arms raised in a rallying gesture. He breaks into a march, half samba, half goosestep, coming towards the plane. The musicians remain on the bandstand but Herr Blonde continues to march forward as a convoy of government vehicles break off an access road and race across the runway towards him. Appearing through the open top of the lead car a man in a military uniform indicating high rank is raising a hunting rifle as the plane lifts and banks away, heading North. O: Yes i left some vinyl records in Brazil. The ones i bought at the Pizza Disc. But i really don't think i'll need them. I can get any Brazilian music i want here in Toronto. O: No i don't think i will be going back to Brazil. I have enough / I've had enough O: OK Bye.