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2010, 2011, 2012 – I call those melted days the ‘Holy Trinity’. In your twenties you have carte blanche to do whatever the fuck you want; my modus vivendi was getting absolutely melted at trance events on the continent. Sadly, those days are over, but I do enjoy a wee throwback video from time to time, drinking Peach Schnapps in my living room, swinging a glow stick around like a demented spacker.
As for Amsterdam, it’s a bit of a hovel (too many ruffians, too many bikes) but the Ajax strip is lovely and their stadium permits all manner of chav behaviour in the summer.
Tim Berg, a.k.a. Avicii, especially after his ‘sudden’ death, always reminded me of Roy Batty in Blade Runner (1982) by the sheer *supercalifragilisticexpialidociousNESS* of his output coupled with his ridiculous youth, and the fact that he simply … looked like him.

The documentary Avicii: True Stories (2017) is a captivating watch, but mostly for all the wrong reasons. A shy lad reaching optimum capacity, he frequently appears on the verge of complete physical and psychological collapse.
A true artist – not one of these self-aggrandising nincompoops who chucks the moniker around with casual abandon – is more than capable of pushing the envelope to such extremes that the dangers become one of mortality. Avicii, whether one is into so-called ‘EDM’ or not, can be ascribed the term ‘artist’. The tunes are simply awesome, an autodidact’s fantasy.
Now, take me back to the Eurotrip summer of 2011, with Levels the daily opera to all activities.
‘Oh, sometimes. I get a good feeling, yeah ….’