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"SOUNDTRACK TO LOVE" Kavida's books - Tantric Sex and Ultimate Erotic Massage - have each sold over 30,000 copies worldwide and counting... this Tantric Goddess can write! Now read this excerpt chapter of her first novel - a story of love, betrayal, lust, and all to the coolest music. A story told in chapters and letters to a disappeared lover that haunts and hurts while the music plays on. "Soundtrack to Love" will be published in 2012 as an ebook/ibook/kindle with playlists and soundtracks. However if you know a good tree-ware paper copy publisher who would like to read more, then get in touch! Kavida is an absolute musician as well as storyteller. Not many people know that she started out being trained as a classical musician and won a scholarship to Dartington College. She is a remarkable folk singer-songwriter and multi instrumentalist - she is also the coolest DJ on the planet. Kavida lives her life - always to the full, always in the name of freedom - and always to music. From mastering and producing the deep driving drumming of Africa, through tantric-trance induced sacred sex music, to deep house parties at private stately homes in the English countryside, she is known as a master musician. The music at her Sensual Soirees in London is legendary and takes the celebrants on a journey into freedom and discovery of themselves in open-hearted connections with others and the world. Telling her story and that of the world around comes naturally to her through music and it is now that she has defined a new way of storytelling - a book with a soundtrack. The music takes you deep into the meaning of the experience of heartache, loss of love, total lust, and finally to redemption as the light dawns and freedom in love is born within - the light shines out of her heart ...and into yours. An inspiration for our times. Everyone who meets her falls in love with Kavida - now you can read and hear why... Her second novel is well under way - so watch the skies for more from Kavida at all good reading outlets from Kavida with love... now read on... |
LETTER FIVE
Dear Lyle,
This must be a momentary break in the psychic clouds, some respite from the pain I contracted into, the second you walked out of the house that day. The pervasive ache of missing you has been like a cancer growing – a tumour that nobody can see from the outside.
Writing to you is one of the strangest things I’ve ever found myself doing. A futile enterprise on many levels, especially considering the fact that I don’t have your address, but I’m hoping that this simple act of uncensored communication will eventually penetrate to the agony source, and cauterize the root of it for good. I don’t enjoy pain, well not this kind anyway, and I’ve suffered a larger dose than I’m sure I deserve over the last few months. This particular type of persistent and protracted suffering leads to a scratchy impatience with those around and whining, which I also can’t bear, in myself, or anyone for that matter. How many times have I heard myself remind other people that they could be run over by a bus next week, which is, when you pick it apart, a truly stupid expression? It’s fairly implausible that one could be run over by something so huge. In life it’s the little things that floor you. When one is forced to deal with a major disaster, whether it be personal or communal, something else kicks in, maybe the adrenalin of primal survival and then there is an inexplicable frisson of thrill that runs alongside the fear. What I’m trying to describe here, this excrutiatingly slow, wrenching heart-break is harder to bear somehow, like the effect of chinese torture.
I have been having some fun though, inbetween the bouts of torment, and if I ever send these musings out to you I wouldn’t want you to think I’d become a twenty-four-seven melancholic, so here’s a letter that isn’t one big moan - and I’ve got no-one else to share all this stuff with anyway, so at the moment, the computer gets it. In fact, I’ve worn away letters from the keyboard with my cathartic confessathons...but back to the matter at hand (or mouth, or feet, or whichever bits you’d go for if you were here, within sucking distance of me).
I’ve decided to look in depth into a subject that’s truly close to my heart as a way to pass what I consider to be recovery time, in a more constructive way than moping.
My theory is thus – “There exists right now, somewhere on this planet, the perfect fuck album.”
I do recognise that this could be considered a subjective matter, and we have to take into account the fact that some people appear not to be able to make a distinction, at a basic level between good music and shite. But at the risk of sounding arrogant and for academic purposes, let’s try on a possibility— given enough time and auditory training, everyone in the world could acquire at least a semi-decent taste in music…what do you think?
It’s a relatively easy task to put together the perfect ‘fuck compilation’. You and I made our fair share between us. But what happens if you simply wish to pluck the perfect album, straight from the shelf, in the heat of the moment, one that’s playable from front to back without having to change CDs in the middle? Let’s face it, it’s un-sexy to leap off the bed, or up from the lambskin rug, or out of the broom cupboard - wherever you happen to find yourself being ravished, in the height of ecstasy, to play the role of DJ. Although I have to admit that I myself have driven a few otherwise patient men crazy, pulling away from a passionate embrace to stumble across the room in a state of erotic delirium to skip tracks.
Now, this is research that needs to be undertaken whilst ‘on the job’. It’s a completely different experience sitting and listening to a CD. You’re not going to be thrown off-centre while merely listening to music, are you? I mean, you’re not going to choke on your herbal tea at a shocking lyric, or drop your spliff upon encountering a dubious honky-tonk piano solo. But an album that might be perfect for a casual recline on the sofa could be potentially disastrous for a frolic under the duvet.
Lyrics are a crucial factor in finding an album to fuck to. They simply have to be right. Or rather, they absolutely can’t be wrong. During lovemaking there’s nothing more disturbing than moving from a sweet, sensitive love song into a heavy metal explosion about government corruption in third world countries, or a melancholy ballad about poverty in Ireland at the turn of the century. Indecipherable lyrics are perfectly acceptable, in fact sometimes preferable. Let’s reminisce a little, jump back in time to the eighties (as an aside, I have to say that not a lot of good fuck albums were produced during this decade) and analyse the appeal of Talk Talk, who reached the height of musical perfection (and gave a tiny bit of dignity to the eighties) just before they split up.
Who can understand what Mark Hollis is actually singing about? It’s great! In fact, what I’m saying here is, if they’re a serious contender for the best band to fuck to, it’s indeed better that we can’t. The last record they made together, “Laughing Stock” is a fantastic fuck album. It’s got delicious rhythm in unexpected places to keep you moving, and moments of delicate introspection, where you can gaze meaningfully into each other’s eyes, and stroke each other gently. It remains just this side of heavy, and meanders into strange musical territory that’s the right sort of weird. I’m sure if Mr Hollis ever came to tea, and told me what the album was actually about, I’d have to stop fucking to it immediately.
Let’s analyse the word ‘weird’ for a moment.There are many kinds of weird when the term is applied to music. Some weird is good, some weird is bad. There’s weird that makes you act stupid on the dance floor and give your mates a laugh – take the New Romantics of the 80s, for example. Then there’s weird that makes you dash to the stereo to change the CD when the kids are around, for fear of them realising what an embarrassingly outlandish mother you actually are – like Bjork. (I’ve given up trying to play Bjork when the boys are at home) There’s also weird that causes you to question whether or not you’re with the right partner, and you definitely don’t want that when you’re in the middle of a hot sex session. Note: avoid anything by The Smiths or Radiohead. However, there’s a kind of good weird that works wonderfully when you’re in the throes of blowing each other’s minds in bed.
Take Massive Attack, for example. They make great fuck albums. Their music gets seriously weird in places, but somehow they always make you feel scintillatingly alive. I’ve fucked to “Mezzanine” recently and, wow, that album rocks in the bed department. Most of the tracks from their latest work of genius “100th Window”, also work a treat while indulging in carnal capers, but sadly it won’t make it into even the top ten, due to the fact that on track six Sinead O’Connor gets angry (her perogative) and sings about children being slain (a worthy topic). See what I mean? Great for the couch, bad for the bed. It’s a shame though, because it moves into track seven, which is a majorly sexy fuck-groove of the highest order. Yet another fine example of a song where you can’t hear what they’re singing about, so it’s all cool. He could be mumbling about shooting up heroin for all we know, but it really doesn’t matter - it’s a groove, an ambience, a mood you’re after, not the intellectual content. The last track ‘Antistar’ most definitely makes it onto my “Best Fuck Trax of the Decade” compilation. I’ve even read the lyrics and am embarrassed to admit that I still don’t understand what the hell the song’s about. It seems dark and shamanic and profound. Probably something to do with drugs and death, but all I know is - I wanna fuck to it.
This is important - you need an album that moves, that takes you places. You don’t want to get stuck in one territory for a whole hour, unless you’re in an extremely meditative mood. Or very tired.
I guess I should also make a distinction here between fucking and making love. Making Love is a deeply spiritual, connecting act, that involves a profound heart to heart intimacy. It’s a beautiful thing. There’s a whole number of albums you can choose for that. But sometimes, let’s face it, you just wanna fuck - to get down and dirty. If you’re the woman about to fuck, you’re looking to be inspired to pull out those 8 inch heels and rubber mini skirt. Music can inspire wonderful and imaginative acts of depravity. Try Goldfrapp’s brilliant and pornographic “Black Cherry”. If you’re the man, you may need the musical motivation to get the mask on, pull out the handcuffs, blindfold her and call her a slut... You know, the material stuff, the gizmos and gadgets and contraptions that aren’t normally part of Making Love. Sometimes men just can’t be bothered to try something new. Watch how he’d much sooner finish the ten o’clock news rather than try on that new PVC vest you picked up for him in Harmony and whip you, with an “On your knees, bitch!”.
So, a good fuck album will drive you to all sorts of places, destinations that haven’t been visited before. It’s like a good tour guide. There’s an idea - perhaps I should write the “Rough Guide to Fuck Music”? I could make millions...
Anyway, back to the research. It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it. It’s crucial to have a partner who’s willing to experiment, and most importantly, not take it all too seriously. I do have a couple of noble research assistants who have recently been subjected to the most exhaustive tests in front of my newly installed bedroom hi-fi. Not at the same time, I might add. They deserve a large acknowledgement at the end of my thesis - if I ever get beyond the research stage to compile the data.
This is an ongoing project, and I’ll keep you informed of my progress. If I ever write that book, I’ll hide my Number One Fuck Album as a code in the story. How about that? You’ll have to read the whole book to find out. Are you man enough? Surprise me!
Love Joni
PS As you know, I love Radiohead. Just not in bed.
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