I don’t like people who don’t like dancing.
I’ve said similar things before, and regretted them slightly. One of my pet hates is people who say things like “I simply don’t like people who don’t like XXX”. Really? What kind of freak are you that someone’s vague tastes in pop-culture dictate the foundation of your friendships?
Of course, they rarely mean it. Of course, I’ve seen exceptions – Manics Fans, mainly – but most are doing it for reasons of pure posturing, which is moderately despicable in itself.
(Before anyone says anything, there’s nothing pure about my posturing, which means I’m immune)
But still. I think that despite it disgusting me, the phrase “I don’t like people who don’t like dancing” is still true. It’s important to note the implication. It’s not “I don’t like people who don’t like to dance”, though I don’t really understand them. To enjoy dancing isn’t the same as participating. I hope, as a broken down no-legged elderly man, I’ll look across the floor of family Weddings and enjoy the vicarious pleasure of people in touch with themselves and in touch with the rhythm, lost in music.
(I still do now. Housemate Dan Gridle-octopus was doing exactly that this evening, collapsing, sweat kissed to just enjoy the sight of his friends enjoying himself. He’s almost immediately disturbed by Jon Hicks wandering over to ask if he’s okay and if he wants to talk. This is Life)
Such thoughts are in the air as I’ve just got back from a night at Club Resurrection. This is the relatively new venture by Ian, the gentleman who DJed at one of the more formative clubs in my Indie-Kid existance, Fusion. Fusion existed beneath a hotel, and could only be found by the dedicated and the informed. It was, generally, an Indie-metal club and since this is in the middle of Britpop, the home to a genuine small-city culture clash. Because Bath was, outside London, the one place where there genuinely /was/ a mod revival post-blur. Beneath the cargo-netting in the far corner skulked the black PVC forms of rockers and metalheads. In the far right, around the corner, clustered feathercutted boys and girls with perfect eyeshadow and cheap second-hand suits. And inbetween, I flitted with my social group, trying to sleep with everyone.
(One of the people I went out with tonight, Beccy, first met me at Fusion. I was unaware of this until she told me. Fusion, being a generally friendly and immensely sweaty venue, had a free attitude to water. Pints of the stuff were placed on the side for people to grab as they fell off the dancefloor. Apparently, on my journeys, I used to pick up extra glasses of water and deliver them to her and her (extremely cute) two friends. Of course, I have no memory of this, as this was my Wonderslut period. I’d have slept with mud if it was wearing a skinny fit T-shirt and expressed an interest in The Holy Bible.
For local colour, it’s worth nothing that one of them – Amanda – is now Jim’s girlfriend. Small fucking town for fucking.
EDIT: Apparently, this is simply not true. I'm rubbish, me.)
Anyway – Resurrection is in a similar vein to Fusion, but with a few changes. Mainly, the playlist. It’s simply the most Pop Indie-club I’ve ever been to in my entire life. That isn’t POP!!! in the post-Bis fanzine manner, or the lazy way of dropping a few current S-Club tracks into the mix (Though it does do that too). This is pop as a genuine Indie-pop night existant purely to get as many people on the dance-floor as possible. Check last month's playlist here – and that was considerably more obscure than the stuff they threw into the mix this week.
(I look at the dance-floor around one and think that – christ – it’s fucking packed. And then look around to the bar, and see the rest of the venue is virtually empty. An audience who is up for it and a DJ who wants to give it them. This is the heart of any good night out)
Except where it /really/ works is that rather than being a pure retro night, it side-steps into the area of a pop-night. It plays old favourites, but also threw the cutting edge of guitar-pop in as well. It’s the first chance I’ve had to dance to Hot Hot Heat, for example, and for that I’m grateful. You can never really tell how a song works untill you’ve thrown ludicrous shapes in a tiny venue to it.
The evening’s packed full of minor moments. Take the tall, coltish blonde who dances to every single song as if her life depended on it, but in the manner of a US bar dancer. Take the tiny Karen-O clone in a pink-dress, dressed as a fashion victim but clearly in love with the operatic noise-pomp of System Of A Down, hands arcing in the manner of angels. Take the glance between Alec and Myself as the B-52 guitar line of Gay Bar starts up. A small, business like nod. And then we’re on the dancefloor, attempting to combust oxygen with our limbs. Take leaving the venue and the eternal thrill of trying to work out whether the blessed rain has come at last, or whether it’s just the sweat racing out into the heavens.
Or take one blessed, unique moment when I collapse into the bloke’s toilet – after noticing the iconic man sign has had his bottom half rubbed off, leaving his a paraplegic eunuch – to find the lights all off and a row of restaurant-style candles placed along the urinal.
The light flickers. Men laugh. It’s the most romantic piss of our lives.
Time for bed.
Goodnight everyone, in every sense of the word.
Kieron Gillen's Workblog, foo'.