Every epic era needs its chronicler, and in Moon Juice Stomper, Goa has found its Homer. Set in a Golden Triangle for cultural exiles and outcastes, a haven for human flotsam and jetsam surging up the electric shores of the Arabian Sea, where bodies are levitated above the sands of distant languid beaches, this story does not release the reader from its spell. Remixing the music, politics, intrigue and psychodrama of the era, Ray Castle amplifies a movement in its un/making. Under the guidance of a master dada-jockey, we are transported through cosmo-psychic dimensions of this scenius, with the building tension achieving climax at full moon party under the Banyan Tree in 1988. In a story sculpted in peerless patois, and with attention to detail reminiscent of Castenada and HS Thompson, Castle commands a scintillating white-knuckled ride though the mystical anarchy of “Gonzo Goa.” Capturing the atmosphere of this freak nadir at its explosive peak, Castle gets inside the minds of the habitués of this remote crossroads, even as they’re going out of their minds. And in doing so, he does what any freakologist worth his salt should do: he delivers us into the heart and soul of the matter. — Graham St John, author of “Mystery School in Hyperspace: A Cultural History of DMT”
Asia traveller, Jules Nightingale, falls under the spell of a bewitching siren beckoning him to a party paradise where he dances out of his body. In Disco Valley, in a trance, an Omen is revealed to fashionista, Zsu Rivieria. Bollywood actor, Naresh Kumar, undertakes an undercover assignment in a subculture which turns his life upside down. Up-for-it enabler of edgecore dance floors, Doc Silver, on his Enfield chopper works the jungle telegraph between Spaghetti Beach and Joe Banana to keep the scene grooving against all odds. As a lost tribe of the future seeks redemption through rave, their party paradise becomes imperilled by its popularity.
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