Saturday, 27 August 2011

Night Rage

I love standing in a crowd of people staring at a regular looking bloke under some flashing lights while he plays some of his favourite tunes in a stylish, satisfying way. I love jumping up and down when one of those favourite tunes is also one of mine, and I love dancing until my shins feel like they're falling off and my clothes are covered in beer. I never really took to gigs, and I always wondered if the reason for this had anything to do with 'Live Music' being forever touted as the be-all and end-all of any music at all. I can count the amount of gigs I've been to and enjoyed on one hand. There's too much protocol - too many people, too  much standing around looking unimpressed, too many flying plastic pints of beer (you hope), and too few opportunities to actually hear the music as you pick yourself up off the sticky floor for the fifth time after a large gentleman knocks you flying while trying to generate some sort of mosh pit momentum. You're either really cool at a gig, or you're really, really sweaty and know every word, and I'm never either.

I suppose what I love most about seeing DJs play, (apart from, you know, getting to see them play) is that there really isn't any of that standing at the back looking aloof stuff. There isn't any space or point - it's too dark and sweaty for you to look good anyway, and if you're doing it properly, you should be either dancing or exhausted from dancing. Or so I thought.

There is a particular venue in Leeds I don't usually frequent. The place itself is fine, but something to do with it's dimensions, or location, or even just it's fucking stupid clientele mean that I often succumb to Wire Rage while I'm there. I've been told this isn't a totally unique phenomena, but I haven't really experienced it anywhere else. Let me paint you a picture.

You're happily jumping up and down because your 138593759th favourite song has tantalisingly peeped through the almost equally as good track currently playing. It's 2am, you're drunk, and it's very, very warm. Suddenly and without warning, an overly and somewhat ostentatiously-snappily dressed man shoves you out of the way, spilling your Red Stripe on your second favourite T-shirt. Okay, fine, you can cope with that. He's probably just drunk as well as a total wanker. You return to happily doing an impression of an energetic jellyfish, but you're shoved again by Mr Tweed Blazer's immaculately turned-out girlfriend. Fine, carry on. Oh wait, what's this? They can't be...they aren't trying to request a song, are they? They can't be. Why is he talking to the MC? This is too embarrassing and awful. Avert your eyes. Of course you can't though, because this is pure car-crash arrogance happening in front of your eyes. It's fascinating.

But wait, what's he doing now? Oh, he's tapping the professional photographer rather violently on the shoulder. Of course he is. Take a picture of you and your bird? Of course! I'm assuming that's what they hired him for! He makes him show him the picture. No, that one isn't any good. He doesn't look nearly drum and bassy-enough in that one. Take another. Go on camera monkey, do it.

Then, just as suddenly as they arrived, they have gone, leaving a circle of bemused faces around the prime front-line spot they recently occupied. Stunning. The music plays on, the gap is filled, you drink your beer and continue with the night. In the corner of your eye you rather happily notice the photographer deleting his previous two pictures. A triumph for bass justice.

No comments:

1. 4.
There was an error in this gadget
Related Posts with Thumbnails