- I walked into the room and there he was all blonde hair and shaggy surfer like. What came to my ears was the perfect soundtrack for a balls-out apocalypse end-is-near party where everyone was happy sci-fi and warm kissy-kiss. The crowd was in a great mood because we’re all coming to the end and let’s enjoy ourselves anyway. Zabiela was the gatekeeper, the intergalactic swingman with a silver key.
The floor was packed and people peered appreciatively from the shadows, their faces lit up like oil paintings from the tea lights. Zabiela was in the mood to experiment. Snippets of explosive head-banging breaks burst out before seceding into a Drunken Boxer undertow with an accidental beat. If jealousy had a sound, it would sound like this. The filmic energy equivalent was all Cassavettes. The pent up acid vibe felt like Gena Rowlands mouthing out terse unspeakable words while throwing porcelain at the wall. The music chattered, sputtered, shouted, accused and died down while nurturing epic drums of enormous vital-point accuracy. It’s all about nullifying anticipation by honestly examining the futility of release.
There was something new in the air every five minutes as the beat petered out and did a phoenix shift into an alternate rhythm that outdid its predecessor. What I liked about Zabiela was his prodigious ambition to put one manic record after another, never wimping out and going for the obvious crowd pleaser. He would lull the subconscious mind with an undercurrent of familiarity while suddenly pulling a record that made your skin goosebump and crave movement.
"...Zabiela linked records with a ghost beat that was never really there. It could have gone all disjointed cyborg but it was all there, connected like a jigsaw puzzle."
As time went on, Zabiela linked records with a ghost beat that was never really there. It could have gone all disjointed cyborg but it was all there, connected like a jigsaw puzzle. And the scratching! Oh glorious scratching! Doing baby turntablist techniques with a dropping beat after a tribal-tech assault? Sometimes I wondered if I was listening closely enough; that happens when you don’t want to miss a damn thing. The crowd danced down and occasionally stopped to decide what they were feeling. Obviously this was something new to them.
As the hours went by, scratchy, looping, aggro-trippy bass eggplants on dark jumpy fuzz sweaters adorned the acid groove and created a claustrophobic vibe with threats of total perception mayhem. This was a marvelous display of all consuming beat-space and sonic environment. I also liked the way the crowd reacted and kept pace with his frantic energy and razor sharp mixing. There was an affinity in exploring new territory. If his fingers were knives, the decks were paper bulls-eye charts made of water. It was like watching choreographed dragonflies skip from flower to flower while the rippling sound pool formed concentric circles that regressed into infinity.
Nurtured by Sasha, Digweed and Lee Burridge, James Zabiela has a talent for the unconventional. Listening to him play live meant getting a freedom pass in a riot zone. Everything was in the balance but still you get out unscathed because he was on your side.
Thanks to Esther Tan and staff at Zouk Singapore.