Imagine you're walking through a north African souk, feeling breathless in the heat and slightly light-headed from the sun, the smells, the blinding whitewashed walls. You're being pushed this way and that, losing your bearings from time to time and struggling to keep up with the sea of people ebbing and flowing in and out of the squares, the narrow streets and courtyards. You hear the feminine wailing of the muezzin echoing in your head from the previous evening, you hear drums and gradually a beat begins to form around you, a tense, insistent patter of percussion that presses against your head. You're getting dizzy and the people, the market stalls, the houses are beginning to spin around you.....and you find you're the one spinning around, losing yourself in the insistent seduction of the music.
But then you come to, and realise you've been smoking opium and listening to Jean Michel Jarre in Finchley. Bah.