June 27th 2019. An intolerably hot, midsummer day in the outskirts of Paris. The sun clenches the wheat fields around us in a deadly grip. Even the wind is afraid to move under the weight of the heat spell descending from the skies. The air feels so dense and sticky you could cut it in two with a knife.
Three sonic pilots: Neel, Sebastian Mullaert and Vril have just touched down in Aérodrome Melun-Villaroche…. 6000 square meters of aviation history in a hangar thick with the smell of machine oil, dust and the echoes of ghosts from times long forgotten. The site principal just shouted at us not to plug anything in the power sockets because the network in the building runs on double the usual voltage. Smoke machines are slowly filling the enormous space and the afternoon light, seeping through the windows, is cutting gigantic orange shapes though the room. The air is vibrating with a perfectly balanced mixture of tension and excitement. Half a ton of machines, all wired in the midst of it all, are ready to burst into an hour long fully improvised musical expression. This unsung mechanical symphony will become alive and take form in front of everybody for the very first time, as we have no plan or any clue where the flow of the music will take us all. And by all we mean potentially anybody, as we are broadcasting live on the internet, as imagined though the creative eye of ARTE maestro Sebastian Lefebvre and the seven camera operators waiting in position between the rusty aircraft.
Both humans and machines are overheating and driven to their very edge of existence. Vril’s 909 just collapsed from the heat… droplets of sweat are running through Sebastian’s forehead… Neel is gulping down one last sip of water before the film clapper drops down and the director’s voice reverberates GO through the room. What could possibly go wrong?