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6/18/2025, 6:42:16 AM
>>507821090
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MhpuYI9oen8
> The DJs had started playing B-side disco tracks made before the Iranian Revolution. Digitized film-reels of episodes from the variety show "Rangârang" were being projected on a wall across the wet bar, almost fifty years after they were first broadcast. The partygoers looked on as a girl in a miniskirt, Pantene hair awhirl with contrived gyration, danced and lip-synced to the Moogs and clavinets which swan-sang the end of that heady age.
> This was what a free man would have taken for granted an era ago—to hell with the free man, each thought secretly to himself. Damn those sappy old commercials hawking high-heeled shoes and bikinis, that static-marred “qâbil-e-enghelâb” drilled incessantly into them since birth to the point of mantra, the hushed eulogies delivered by their elders about the good old days’ death as if they were party to some grand secret just by living through them, and damn the posters pasted over Tehran’s grubby walls, done up in doves, debased devils, and raised fists clutching rifles and roses, their red, green, and yellow coloring degraded by sun-fade and soot-shade. Both were bygone simulacra constructed only for the viewing pleasure of their creators—yet their descendants kept living in their dilapidated setpieces, with little more than a geistless nostalgia to contribute from their own experience. The dissonance was becoming too great to bear…
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MhpuYI9oen8
> The DJs had started playing B-side disco tracks made before the Iranian Revolution. Digitized film-reels of episodes from the variety show "Rangârang" were being projected on a wall across the wet bar, almost fifty years after they were first broadcast. The partygoers looked on as a girl in a miniskirt, Pantene hair awhirl with contrived gyration, danced and lip-synced to the Moogs and clavinets which swan-sang the end of that heady age.
> This was what a free man would have taken for granted an era ago—to hell with the free man, each thought secretly to himself. Damn those sappy old commercials hawking high-heeled shoes and bikinis, that static-marred “qâbil-e-enghelâb” drilled incessantly into them since birth to the point of mantra, the hushed eulogies delivered by their elders about the good old days’ death as if they were party to some grand secret just by living through them, and damn the posters pasted over Tehran’s grubby walls, done up in doves, debased devils, and raised fists clutching rifles and roses, their red, green, and yellow coloring degraded by sun-fade and soot-shade. Both were bygone simulacra constructed only for the viewing pleasure of their creators—yet their descendants kept living in their dilapidated setpieces, with little more than a geistless nostalgia to contribute from their own experience. The dissonance was becoming too great to bear…
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