I write about having gone out here a lot.

But I rarely write about the process of going out, for the obvious reason that I don't want to stop to write when I'm preparing to frighten all and sundry with my ludicrous dance-moves in a dive. I'm making an exception now, as I think I can write it fast. So don't expect too much elaboration.

"Going-out" music is holy. Always. Knowing that it's important to leave the house with a certain sheen of pop on your skin is one of the first rule of nightlife. If you don't, you probably don't get it. In fact, it's an even more important way of quantifying understanding the experience than enjoying dancing. It's serious.

Two ways I play it.

1) Listen to the most cool distilled, furious, inspiring records to cover yourself with a little armour. You don't walk. You strut.

2) Listen to the most ridiculous things you can find. Alternatively, for the same effect, hateful stuff which you can barely stand or - perhaps more aptly - barely stand standing. This leaves you bare, naked and ready. You don't walk. You're the progress of falling over, spread out over miles.

This evening, it's the latter, and a fairly extreme take on the latter.

This Town Ain't Big Enough for the Both of Us, Sparks.
Where are you Baby, Betty Boo
Ode to Joy, Mozart
Growing On Me, The Darkness
Misfit, Amy Studt
The Theme from Evangelion
Born to Run, Bruce Springstein
Just a Day, Feeder
Goody Two Shoes, Adam Ant
Delicious, Shampoo.

I'm a nude descending a star.

Heading out.