It was a nippy evening. After a hard days work selling smooth fusion to my BEE boys down at Plum (CDs and DVDs, good day?), I prepared to party. Although Toy-Toy proffered King of Town from 9pm, I had a little more work to take care of first at the opening night of JoziSpeak 2009, the national debating championship hosted, this year, by Wits. I’m the coolest kid in the WDU.
After that scintillating start, Toy Toy had moved on to something I didn’t want to see. Its not about liking or disliking Desmond and the Tutu’s – with Nic Dinnie doing his jazz thing at the JoziSpeak soiree, I was in fact inclined to liking. It is about how I didn’t really want to see a punk band before a disco DJ. How foolish I was…
Kitcheners Carvery provided the kind of pre-party I wanted. Kitcheners Carvery always provides the kind of anything I want.
Special mention must be made of the gigantic Bar Man. He doesn’t tend the bar – he just rests on it, mustache and mane glinting. He makes me feel just like James Bond. I would probably steal his cologne and put it on at night.
Electro duo Shuffleshame were doing their electro duo best when I arrived. They’re young, clean, good looking boys with style. They belong on a high stage, with big speakers, in front of a young, clean, good looking crowd with style. I haven’t seen this yet – which means I’m not convinced yet – but I’ll be looking out for them anyway. They ended their Saturday set by picking up a microphone and saying “Yo! Party! Yeah! Big up!”
Rabbit Eyed then tore them from pussy to pout.
Since his return to urban decay, Rabbit Eyed’s cruelty has flourished. Saturday’s opening was merciless, reactionary (something about wolves and sheep) and invasive – a shadow fell over the Bar Man; the disco ball spun faster. But of course that wasn’t all, and old Granny Kitchener appeared in the swirling lights of her own stomach, dry mouth wetting itself on the minute sounds building melodies like powdered sweets from a tin. The sweetness is still cruel – it is affecting and in that way disrespectful of the kind of social barrier we prefer to maintain. But its not hard to forget why boundaries ever mattered when the Digital Love synths rise high enough to be dropped.
And from that disorientating, cuddly wobble, we crossed the Nelson Mandela Bridge that still stirs the learned patriotism of my post(mid)struggle generation.
Loaded is a strange space – whether its something learned from Carfax business or something feng shui (which is my preferred theory), the entrance to Loaded feels like its arsehole. Entering the arsehole is some controversial shit; its never going to get a universal reaction.
The first thing I like to do is establish the key points in the scenario, so I can place myself accordingly in the sweet spot. The sweet spot is usually in front of the DJ, at the crux of the speaker lines. However, it took me at least 15 minutes to even find our Trev. There may be reasons for this that I’m at fault for, but whoever designed that set up has some explaining to do. There was a stage, with big lights mounted on it – and the DJ wasn’t there. There were two huge screens with superpimp visuals (provided by CHinxxx in a white wig, mmmmm) – and the DJ wasn’t there. The DJ wasn’t even way above the crowd behind another bright light – that was the lighting guy. Eventually we located him, awkwardly off centre on ground level behind a bland counter. He’s a good looking man, with nice thick hair, so he worked his work and made the place look good. But he certainly didn’t get any help from anything else. Concentration was dispersed. People danced in circles. Friends chatted.
Does that really sound good to you?
Luckily, the beats were banging. Explicitly sexy techy electro and some disco went through more and less techy patches. The percussion was intense, the bass was driving and nicely shaped melodies (mostly like Murakami’s fat cloud women) kept bodies moving easily. It wasn’t always forthcoming, but piece by piece he broke through to individuals and the dancefloor-wrecking circles melted a bit:
The circles are like glaciers, but a nice dance floor is like shallow warm wavelets around your ankles.
What I’m saying here is that, the party didn’t seem to be geared to a maximum appreciation of the music. The party was the party, and the DJ played the music at it.
It makes sense. Trevor Jackson’s background is playing Art Galleries and Fashion Shows – his audience don’t need him. However, if you want him, he’s got something hella tasty to give.
Around 3.30, though, there was this funny joke. An 80s song, of some form. Bee Gees? Michael Jackson, even, perhaps.
And, I don’t like funny jokes. I don’t even like Michael Jackson – I’m too young.
Instead of building the set to a single point, the living Jackson was continually knocking over his own sand castle. Breaks would be followed with unsettling restarts, disseminating all that broken energy, and then starting again as though none of that had happened at all. It’s certainly one way to do it – things stay fresh and light for a very long time. But its not the way I like it, at the end of the day.
It’s the way that leads to the necessity of laughter. "Laughter is defense" – and fuck that business on a dance floor. Everyone else seemed to enjoy it and the funny jokes went on until around 5am.
We can call it a good party. But it was still a good party through an arsehole, whatever that means to you.
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