Once upon a time, there was a man from the land of Albion, who fancied himself a lover of electronic music. He would strut around with his powdered wig and frock coat, speaking ill of Detroit techno and other genres he deemed beneath his lofty taste. His only pleasure was in the pursuit of track IDs in the sets of Redacted, a disc jockey he lusted after with the fever of a madman.
This man was a fascist, you see, and like all fascists, he was a simpleton. He believed his opinions to be divine truths, and anyone who dared to disagree with him was met with a sneer and a fist. He would attend raves and dance wildly, flailing his limbs about in a grotesque display of self-importance, all while screaming obscenities at those around him.
One day, at a rave where he had travelled far and wide to hear Redacted play, he found himself in the presence of a man who was his complete opposite. This man was from the land of Anatolia, and he was a master of the davul and zurna, the traditional instruments of Turkish music. He was a humble man, with a wit as sharp as his drumstick, and he had no time for the likes of the fascist.
The fascist, who was so caught up in his own ego, failed to realize that the Anatolian man had been hired to perform before Redacted's psytrance set. As he watched in horror, the man began to play his instruments with a ferocity that shook the very ground beneath their feet. The fascist clutched his ears in agony, unable to comprehend the brutal beauty of the davul and zurna, so far removed was he from the majesty of traditional music.
The Anatolian man, meanwhile, was in his element. He played with a smirk on his face, relishing the sight of the fascist writhing in pain. He knew that the man was nothing more than a pretentious fool, and he took great pleasure in exposing him for the shallow, egotistical creature he truly was.
The fascist tried to escape, but the sound of the davul and zurna followed him wherever he went. He could not escape the terrible beauty of the music, and soon it began to consume him. He became a shell of his former self, babbling incoherently about track IDs and Redacted's sex appeal. He was a broken man, utterly defeated by the power of the davul and zurna.
And so, the Anatolian man emerged victorious, having proved once and for all that traditional music was far superior to the fascist's beloved electronic psytrance beats. The moral of the story? Never underestimate the power of a good davul and zurna player.
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