Discoredia, p.13
Discoredia, page 13
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Half a bottle of champagne had already gone when he arrived in the VIP bar, and the two girls he spotted in the garage were well on their way to being wrecked, as was the young lad at the bar who could barely keep his eyes off them. Over by the pool table, John was still drinking from a pint glass. His girlfriend, Emma, seemed to have a taste for the fizzy stuff judging by the virtually empty wine glass in her hand.
He poured a glass from the bottle on the bar. It was far from his tipple of choice, but he could stomach one, two at a push, and after taking a sip, he had to admit it wasn’t too bad. He introduced himself to Chris, then Wendy and Gabby, and then Emma and John. Steve was right; they seemed okay, but only time would tell. With any luck they would disappear into the main room once things got going, rather than hang around irritating the artists. Steve already warned him about Little Miss Pink’s style fixation. For now though, there were only the six of them, the barman having vanished into the backroom.
“Thanks for the champagne, Mr. Charlton.” It was Emma; he could sense the effects of the alcohol in her voice, not slurred but a little lazy.
“Cheers,” he raised his glass and she raised hers. “But you can thank an associate of mine, Mr. Woodrose, for the drink. He sent it. As for me, I guarantee you a night to remember. You can thank me for that as you leave. You not keen on Champagne John?” Warren enjoyed small talk as much as Steve, and checked his watch as he asked the question. Should be opening any second.
“Bubbles get up my nose. I’ll stick to the lager, thanks,” said John and promptly finished the dregs of his pint.
“Fair point.” He was tiring of the taste of the champagne himself. “More of a whisky man, personally.”
John smiled, “I’m partial to the odd dram after a few of these.”
“Well, when you’re ready get yourself one on me, and tell the lad behind the bar to give you a drop of mine, not the cheap crap.” Warren said.
“Come in, Warren,” the radio clipped to his belt crackled, interrupting their conversation.
“Come in,” he answered.
“All set to go,” said Steve.
He walked over to the two windows that formed the corner of the room and looked out into the main hall before beckoning the others to join him. He raised the Motorola to his lips and pressed the send button. “Open up.”
CHAPTER 19
Two hours in and no major problems. Steve was starting to relax. Stu Allan’s set had gone well, a mix of classics, new stuff, and the anthem bashing he was known for. Then Mark E G really got the crowd going with the hard dance and the obligatory on-stage shenanigans, which included running around the stage, and mixing, with Whizzkid on his shoulders. Scott Brown and Neophyte were pumping out the nu-style gabber and the room was almost full, the crowd seemingly well up for it.
The second room was also rocking. With Outblast and Evil Activities playing the inaugural set, it was packed within minutes of the doors being unlatched. There had been a couple of grumbles that the set clashed with Neophyte’s, but everyone seemed pretty content.
The old school room, where Vibes had taken over from Slipmatt, was a bit quieter, and the chill out room understandably quieter still, but overall the place was buzzing.
Steve was in the VIP bar. He asked for a Coke, signed for it, downed it in one, suppressed a belch, and looked around. The room was full, mostly regular punters who’d either paid the extra tenner for the privilege of a fast track queue, and a chance to mingle with the stars of the hardcore scene, or those who’d been upgraded for free after providing proof that their birthday was that week. There were a handful of DJs, MCs, a table of squad member footballers, B-list celebs, and a table of local people of significance, the most notable being Charlotte Jennings, the 19 year old well on her way to being a junkie, daughter of the local Chief Constable.
Steve averted his eyes before she saw him looking over. The girl was a grade A in pain in the arse that always wanting something. But, like Warren frequently pointed out, Will Daddy really sanction a raid when his precious daughter may get caught in the ladies with her panties down, a stocking tourniquet around her arm, and a needle full of smack in her vein?
There was no sign of the five who won their VIP tickets. Gabby was one of the first into room two, and clocked Wendy going mad for it at the front in the main hall, but hadn’t seen the other three since leaving them after the tour. Then again, it was hardly surprising, the place was heaving and he hadn’t checked the old school room or outside for a while.
At the bar sat Ravealot and Oddball, each one nursing a glass of Absinthe and Lemonade, their customary tipple prior to taking the stage. He gave them a slight wave as he scanned the room. Over in the corner, by the pool table, sat MC Gabbababe, Kate to her friends. Her appearance may have seemed a little bizarre––jodhpurs, red thigh length boots, frilly white blouse, ivory waistcoat and a riding crop––if it weren’t contrasted by that of her boyfriend, Phil, a.k.a. Dra-Cool-Ah, the Master of Horrorcore. He was big, six foot five, and sported a red Mohican that made him seem nearer six eight. He also had two inch long spikes set in his forehead, a set of stainless steel vampire fangs, black leather trousers, no shirt, and a black leather cape lined with red silk.
Steve shook his head. Shade over the top mate, he thought, and decided to head out on his rounds. He waved at Kate as he went, pondering how many of her fans actually knew that by day she worked as a bank clerk.
The music from the main room, minus the lyrical enhancements of the MCs, was playing through the speakers in the bar at a volume that allowed one to think and converse with ones companions without the need to bellow and shout. The fact that the volume would be much higher at the other side of the door was well known to Steve, but even he was unprepared for the auditory onslaught that assaulted his eardrums as he stepped onto the VIP balcony.
Looking down he could see such a wide variety of humanity––white, black, male, female, barely eighteen, pushing forty, that he wondered how anyone could say hardcore had limited appeal. Most of the crowd appeared to be male, and he could make out certain elements that conformed to the usual stereotypes applied to ravers. The stompers at the front: shirts off, shaved heads, all muscles and tattoos. The archetypal ravers: yellow waistcoats, tracksuit bottoms, white gloves, whistles in mouths. The pikeys, chavs, and scallies, pushing through the crowd as though they owned the fucking place. As for the ladies there were also the usual suspects, some in tracksuits or sports gear, some dressed to the nines, others barely dressed at all, and a few in clothes that would never see the light of day outside club land, or perhaps the bedroom. His eyes wandered further, taking it all in, filing away the details just in case. The redhead in the nurse’s outfit, the bloke in the cyber gear with a bloody Tigger back-pack strapped to his back, the muscular black fella with the dreds, decked out in camouflage trousers and khaki vest.
There were also those whose attire was far from suitable for their figures, and if Steve had his way, all flyers would read, “Over eighteens only and no fat bints with exposed midriffs. Leave the spare tires to Michelin.”
Irrespective of those who conformed to the expected, there were plenty of both sexes who didn’t. On the far side was a guy in a suit raving like there was no tomorrow, and feeling completely unselfconscious in the sea of Burberry, Rockport and replica football shirts. At the front, spinning like a whirling dervish, a kid in a wheelchair, his whistle clamped in his mouth and blatantly off his face.
Other than the single glass of bubbly Steve shared with his staff before the doors opened, he hadn’t partaken anything mind altering, yet the vibe was infectious. The music was unrelenting, and even when it did switch to a trancey riff or euphoric hands in the air breakdown, the crowd continued to dance to a beat that was only present in their hearts and minds. The MCs were earning their money, whipping the crowd into a frenzy, giving them lyrics to sing along to, catchphrases to complete, congratulating them one minute, “The best crowd in the fucking country!” Berating them the next, “Where the fuck are ya? You’re all too fucking quiet.”
Whistles, horns, lasers, strobes, MCs, music, smoke, lights. Giant video screens, one minute showing fractals, then live footage of the crowd, then the DJ, followed by a clip from a roadrunner cartoon. The dancers on stage encouraged further mayhem, Doodles and Rainbow carrying out a choreographed routine one minute, freestyle the next, and when they shared a brief kiss on stage, the blokes at the front rushed to grab their phones and capture the moment. Steve allowed himself a wry smile as the camera flashes went off, all of them too late, as Rainbow and Doodles were as gay as he and Warren. It was all an act, part of the show, but damn effective all the same.
As he scanned the room further, it was difficult to take everything in. It was complete sensory overload, an audiovisual feast to sate the appetite of the greediest hardcore glutton. Part of Steve wished he was down there with the crowd, one of the crew, but he was too old for that; he had his fun in his youth, and he had a job to do. He walked along the balcony, helped a guy who was leaning over it like he was about to puke, to a seat in the corner, walked around a couple getting pretty amorous in the middle of the floor, smirked at the bloke having an animated conversation with a gargoyle, and entered the relative quiet of the corridor, which served as the VIP entrance.
At the top of the stairs, leading down into the main room, he saw Gary playing with his mobile. “Any problems?”
“Nah,” was the muttered response. “Few trying to blag their way in but nowt untoward. Seems a good night.”
“So far,” said Steve, he would only view it as a good night once everyone was home and safely sleeping off the effects of their chosen poison. He’d no problem with people having a good time and taking drugs, but he knew the inherent dangers as well as any man. “You seen Mike and Paul recently?” he asked, referring to two of the other doormen on duty and wishing Gary would do him the decency of giving him his full attention for a moment, rather than persist in fiddling with his museum piece Ericsson.
“Went on patrol in the main room,” answered Gary, who finally managed to look at his boss, before returning his attention to his phone.
“And Jay? He’s supposed to be in the VIP area keeping the punters from harassing folks too much.”
“Dunno,” was as far as the reply went.
Steve left him to it. Gary was a good bloke but not the best doorman. He looked into room three, the old school arena, and noted that it was starting to fill. The tunes Rainbow in the Sky, Discoland, and Toytown, filled him with nostalgia. It was the smallest of the three rooms, sharing the floor of the tower with the VIP entryway, but that only added to the atmosphere. Once again he wished he were fifteen years younger.
Leaving the room to those reliving the past and those too young to have experienced it the first time around, he wandered into the main room. Again, his senses were under attack––the noise, the lights, the smell of sweat, plus the aroma and taste of dry ice in the air. He passed the early casualties sitting at the back, some on chairs, others on the floor. Some were sweating profusely, pale skin, clammy, and drained of all color; some were shaking, a young girl sat on the floor with her knees pulled against her chest and her head bowed. He knelt down and shook her shoulder. Thankfully she looked up and smiled. Her pupils and the grinding of her teeth gave her away, indicating the presence of the amphetamines coursing through her system, but she was okay. Probably be bouncing like fuck in ten minutes time. He moved on. A young lad in an England shirt patted him on his back, shook his hand and spun off into the distance. Everywhere people gurning, breathing heavily, tripping, rushing, buzzing, some dancing like maniacs, others slow and lumbering like dancing bears. He passed an early casualty that stood rigid with his head back, eyes clamped shut, teeth chattering, and rushing his tits off. Best not to disturb him, he was standing, so couldn’t be that bad. He carried on, past a paramedic, and pointed out Mr. Rushing His Tits Off. “Keep an eye on him.”
At the other side of the room a scrum of bodies were around the bloke filming the official event DVD. The cameraman waved at him, but Steve pretended not to notice. The fella thought he was a regular Scorsese, and though he made a decent event vid, the fact that he never shut up about his intention to make a seminal film for the ‘e’ generation, a hardcore Quadrophenia, really got on Steve’s nerves. Moving on, he smelt the pungent and unmistakable aroma of cannabis, but couldn’t see who was smoking it. Half the crowd seemed to be smoking normal fags too, in direct contravention of the law, but he wasn’t bothered. You could hardly pull someone up for lighting a Royal when ninety percent of the crowd were smashed out of their skulls, and the law was an infringement of human rights anyway, as far as both he and Warren were concerned. You can encourage people to blow up trains and claim freedom of speech but can’t light up in a club where everyone, and that includes the staff, is there of their own free will, and hence have no grounds for complaint. Total bullshit. Not to mention the town centers becoming a no-go zone, what with all the pissheads being forced onto the streets to have a cig.
He’d reached the base of what was the front left tower and Jenny and Bob confirmed all was okay in the toilets––a few whiteys to help outside and clean up after, a handful of smalltime dealers to move on, but no dramas. Taking the side door out of the tower, he entered the courtyard. It was bitterly cold and the wind was biting, but the sky was largely clear. Over by the DJ booth, he saw a group of regulars from Valhalla. If the police arrived they were the ones who would be “thrown out” just in time to make a scene for the authorities. It was a standard agreement with free entry to the next event given as payment. In the distance he could see the chopper heading toward civilization and he hoped the relatively good weather would hold for the rest of the night, as the majority of the headliners were aiming on using the damn thing. In fact, if memory served him rightly, there was only M-Zone and Topgroove who planned on coming by car after the joint Diz and Uprising event ended at three. At least they could play a set each, rather than the back to back they were scheduled for, if things did go pear shaped, and he expected a couple of other DJs and MCs, Peta Pan and Space perhaps, would be making the trip with them.
Deciding that it was too cold to hang around outside he turned back, passed the toilets and headed into room two. Even before he walked through the door he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand it for long. The room was packed, dark and boiling hot, condensation ran down the sides of the walls and dripped off the ceiling. He made a mental note to get maintenance to check the air-con.
The music was deafening and rattling along at machine gun pace. Speedcore was not his cup of tea but the crowd was going wild. The MCs took a minimal approach, but performed a valuable function, providing a focus for the ravers and giving them the praise and criticism needed to push them higher and higher. The speedcore stuttered and a piece of classical music kicked in, which he recognized, but had no idea what it was called. Then it stopped.
I don’t like bullshitters, You’re fired, boomed a vocal from the speaker to his left. The beat kicked in and the phrase repeated over and over, You’re fired. You’re fired. You’re fired. He judged that it was time to move on just as the track went quiet again. You’re a fucking shambles. You’re fired, before another track took its place, sampling what sounded like an air raid siren. As he reached for the door he turned to take one last look and there, near the front, he spotted Gabby, punching her fist in the air and weaving her body from side to side as she stomped. It was clear that she normally played second fiddle to her friend Wendy, and ever a sucker for the underdog, he skirted around the room. Upon reaching her, he put his arm around her shoulder, guided her around the end of the stand off barriers, and helped her onto the stage. Her beaming grin made the gesture worthwhile and her appearance seemed to stimulate the crowd, providing an alternative focus from the MC. He raised and spread his fingers, ten minutes, and both the MC and Gabby noted the gesture. Feeling quite satisfied with himself and the way in which the night was going, he chose to move on.
CHAPTER 20
“Fucking take it then. See if I care.” Emma was fuming, her face flushed with color, her eyes on fire and her tongue loosened by drink.
“I didn’t say I was going to take it, just that I was thinking about it. Just the one can’t hurt and what’s the chances of getting tested? Even if you get a positive it’s only a fine, confined to barracks for a while and a loss of leave. It’s not like you get kicked out or banged up. I could just do a half, probably barely have an affect.”
“Fuck you.” It seemed that she could swear like a trooper when sufficiently provoked. “And fuck you, too. You planned this all along, didn’t you, you bastard?” Her venomous accusation directed toward Chris, the entente cordiale between girlfriend and brother was truly over.
“I told him they were being given out free. They are good like. Want me to get you one?” Chris was well and truly pilled up, completely oblivious to the fact that his brother and girlfriend were engaged in a major row and entirely genuine in his offer to seek out a pill for Emma.
“Of course I don’t,” she was still shouting, but her anger was subsiding and she was starting to cry. “Why does everything have to revolve around drugs and hardcore with you two? Can’t the pair of you grow up?”
Neither of them answered. They were standing in the courtyard next to the door, which opened to allow three lads outside, two of whom were half-carrying, half-dragging, the third.
She rubbed her eyes, “There goes my make up. Give me the car keys, I need to sort this mess out.”
“I’ll come with you,” said John.
“No you won’t. You go and play with your little brother.”
“I won’t take it if you don’t want me too.”
“Do as you like, John. You’ve made me lose my temper and look stupid in front of everyone. I just need a bit of time. I’ll be okay. Sorry for swearing.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Really, I’m sorry. I won’t be long.”
