…so said transcendental revolution-fiend Ralph Waldo Emerson, but he obviously wasn’t looking ahead 100 years to the nightlife scene in Sydney where every door is very much a wall.
A wall guarded by a man-sentry usually.
In London, bars and clubs are usually open to whoever has the shekels to pay the entry fee, or at worst they’re patrolled by a genetically blessed 20 year old with film star teeth and a pretty clipboard. In Sydney getting into any bar above shack calibre requires cunning and guile. Once a full and valid passport has been produced and inspected, there are smiles to flash, feet to kiss and bribes to offer. A conversation to get into bespoke hotspot Tatler may go something like this…
Group of flouncy young things approach hidden door covered by iron grate. Eyes appear from the darkness
Group Of Flouncy Young Things (G.O.F.Y.T): Um, hello, can we please come in?
Eyes (seemingly confused): Why?
G.O.F.Y.T: Oh, to have a drink please, I mean if that’s ok?
Eyes: Oh
All concerned shuffle feet. Eyes disappear.
G.O.F.Y.T: um…hello?
Eyes (returning from distance): You want to come in…NOW?
G.O.F.Y.T: I mean that would be great, if it’s all right and all…my friend Nick knows the owner and he said that it would be…(trails off)
Minutes pass. Grate opens…money is exchanged. Flouncy Young Things appear relieved and smile gratefully at Eyes.
This is not uncommon. Upon approaching new, trendy venue, The Oxford Art Club, the chiselled doormen regard you as if you are walking into a family lunch wearing a G-string. ‘What are you DOING here?’ their eyes ask you. ‘What could you POSSIBLY want?’ echo their folded arms. They confer. At best, lowly punter is allowed to shuffle inside.
It’s a jungle out there. Even the locals can be seen bargaining, wheedling and full on arguing with the wall-door overlords.
If you are on your way to Sydney, don’t waste any of your charm on the air-hostesses, immigration staff or friends and family. Bottle it. You’re going to need it
Wednesday, 26 December 2007
Memory of a Goldfish…
When you’re a DJ, life must get tough. Records. The spinning thereof. Nonchalantly pumping your arms in the air…
DJs must just lie awake at night thinking about the creative endeavours of their life, wondering if the triple moat castle they built entirely out of Playdoh in Year 3 really will be the opus of their imaginative achievements.
I imagine it was during one of such sessions that a pair of DJs who operate under the alias of Goldfish managed to strike gold (fish). Harking back to the genius of their youth they gathered all instruments previously played only under direct scrutiny from aged aunts and cruel music teachers, dusted them off and merrily carried them to the nearest nightclub.
Two years and a thriving underground album later, the Smirnoff Ten stumbled upon said fish along with their merry entourage of saxophones, chimes and was I having a horrific music room flashback or was that a flute? Lordy. These boys really will stop at nothing.
Fortunately, the resplendent, beachy setting we found ourselves in went some way to assuage the pain of old primary school memories involving frosty music halls and eerie teachers covered in cat hair.
Twas a beachy night time. Balmy, sweet smelling, air feels like light blanket all over skin night time. The venue was Ignite, a trendy club kitted out with huge ‘arty’ vases and occupying the space above several summery cafes with a long, open air veranda. Said veranda is abundant with expensive looking sofas upon which the young, local populous lounge showcasing the latest in ‘beach chic.’ The DJ booth is visible from the wide sofas...or at least it would be if enough people to film a short remake of Gone With The Wind (complete with civil war scenes) weren’t busy hero-worshipping the pounding DJ booth.
Not content with just tinkering away at brass instruments, Goldfish throw in smooth vocals and gentle electro beats as well as old fashioned, wide smiled, dog with head out of car window style enthusiasm.
If my music teachers had offered even a smidgen of this heady concoction, I may have come away from school able to play more than ‘Merrily We Roll Along’ on a recorder. Goldfish should be made requisite on the national curriculum.
*Insert own joke about school, three second memories and goldfish here*
‘Yes, wipe your glasses, it’s a cello’
‘Out with the saxophone’
‘One fish and me (wearing giant piece of strange material due to extreme sunburn)’
DJs must just lie awake at night thinking about the creative endeavours of their life, wondering if the triple moat castle they built entirely out of Playdoh in Year 3 really will be the opus of their imaginative achievements.
I imagine it was during one of such sessions that a pair of DJs who operate under the alias of Goldfish managed to strike gold (fish). Harking back to the genius of their youth they gathered all instruments previously played only under direct scrutiny from aged aunts and cruel music teachers, dusted them off and merrily carried them to the nearest nightclub.
Two years and a thriving underground album later, the Smirnoff Ten stumbled upon said fish along with their merry entourage of saxophones, chimes and was I having a horrific music room flashback or was that a flute? Lordy. These boys really will stop at nothing.
Fortunately, the resplendent, beachy setting we found ourselves in went some way to assuage the pain of old primary school memories involving frosty music halls and eerie teachers covered in cat hair.
Twas a beachy night time. Balmy, sweet smelling, air feels like light blanket all over skin night time. The venue was Ignite, a trendy club kitted out with huge ‘arty’ vases and occupying the space above several summery cafes with a long, open air veranda. Said veranda is abundant with expensive looking sofas upon which the young, local populous lounge showcasing the latest in ‘beach chic.’ The DJ booth is visible from the wide sofas...or at least it would be if enough people to film a short remake of Gone With The Wind (complete with civil war scenes) weren’t busy hero-worshipping the pounding DJ booth.
Not content with just tinkering away at brass instruments, Goldfish throw in smooth vocals and gentle electro beats as well as old fashioned, wide smiled, dog with head out of car window style enthusiasm.
If my music teachers had offered even a smidgen of this heady concoction, I may have come away from school able to play more than ‘Merrily We Roll Along’ on a recorder. Goldfish should be made requisite on the national curriculum.
*Insert own joke about school, three second memories and goldfish here*
‘Yes, wipe your glasses, it’s a cello’
‘Out with the saxophone’
‘One fish and me (wearing giant piece of strange material due to extreme sunburn)’
Monday, 3 December 2007
Let's call a spate a spate
Hours spent in air to get here…10.5
Hours of life lost in translation…4
Packets of airline crackers eaten…2
Disappointment at scant reserves of airline crackers- unfeasibly, irrationally high
Newspaper in baggage check queue…
‘SPATE OF SHOOTINGS LEAVES THREE DEAD’
‘Spate of shootings…spate…I think spate would be my favourite measurement of violence…’
As we drop pass the Smirnoff Beach Ball through Cape Town airport I have high hopes for South Africa, spates aside. The sun is shining through the branded windows and a cheery man is guiding us through customs and to our waiting driver.
The ball passes easily through the group from Takesh to Ben, dipping over trolleys and at one point sailing directly past a stewardess’ head and into the check in for South African airlines. Spirits are high. After a divine comedy of meteorological misfortune (we’re all still paler than an anaemic rodent) we respond to any vague sunlight like vitamin D deficient orphans…
Cape Town is going to be good…
Hours of life lost in translation…4
Packets of airline crackers eaten…2
Disappointment at scant reserves of airline crackers- unfeasibly, irrationally high
Newspaper in baggage check queue…
‘SPATE OF SHOOTINGS LEAVES THREE DEAD’
‘Spate of shootings…spate…I think spate would be my favourite measurement of violence…’
As we drop pass the Smirnoff Beach Ball through Cape Town airport I have high hopes for South Africa, spates aside. The sun is shining through the branded windows and a cheery man is guiding us through customs and to our waiting driver.
The ball passes easily through the group from Takesh to Ben, dipping over trolleys and at one point sailing directly past a stewardess’ head and into the check in for South African airlines. Spirits are high. After a divine comedy of meteorological misfortune (we’re all still paler than an anaemic rodent) we respond to any vague sunlight like vitamin D deficient orphans…
Cape Town is going to be good…
The fur is long, with may a winding turn, that leads us to who knows where, who knows where…
IInto the darkness we go. Our most tangible Sao Paulo theme continues on our last night as we take a dive into Aloka, an after hours haunt in a trendy red light district. The queue is long and abundant with the array of miscreants we are rapidly becoming accustomed to. The door ‘lady’ a lively Britney Spears impersonator rules the rowdy queue with an iron fist, picking and choosing who gets to enter the shady realms of the iron studded door.
I’m not sure I have the mental capacity to describe what lies inside. I’ll leave you with the image of a Marilyn Manson video, unedited and more crowded.
From the darkness we await our chariot to take us to the airport and onto sunny South Africa, the perfect tonic after two weeks of madness…
Thanks for the memories Sao Paulo…they are certainly…vivid.
I’m not sure I have the mental capacity to describe what lies inside. I’ll leave you with the image of a Marilyn Manson video, unedited and more crowded.
From the darkness we await our chariot to take us to the airport and onto sunny South Africa, the perfect tonic after two weeks of madness…
Thanks for the memories Sao Paulo…they are certainly…vivid.
The 9.15 at Sao Paulo
Aaaaaaand as the Smirnoff Ten round the final corner of Sao Paulo we can see John in the lead. This young colt has had an excellent race and doesn’t show any signs of tiring. Just at his shoulder we can see Steph, a determined look in her eye but pace slowing slightly and a pronounced limp in her leading hoof. The rest of the team seem hell bent on making their mark on this race as we reach the final stretch. Kareem looks to be heading for the outskirts of the field…on closer inspection is he following a bouncy young filly he met in Pacha? Kung is advancing at breakneck pace with fire in his eyes and drum and bass in his heart.
John and Steph pull away from the pack and as they near the final furlong take a sharp turn into a much darker part of the course…
Canter.
Canter.
Canter.
In the darkened background Scissor Sisters inspires four burly, bearded men to remove their tank tops and circle each other making low Red Indian whooping sounds. Contrary to the pumping, sparky chorus I Do Feel Like Dancing, Yes Sir Much Dancing To-day, so hurl myself into the pulsing, topless mass, hands raised to the DJ booth which looms above the dance floor, a rickety ladder climb away.
This is Torre, a wonderful, little gem that we found mention of in a Portuguese blog, which also notably offered handy tips on surviving the late night culture of Sao Paulo. It is 7am and this racehorse is determined to have a stab at continuous good form.
Amongst the thirty-legged Discomonster terrorising the filthy dancefloor are the aforementioned burly topless men, a colourful selection of drag queens, chiselled guys and after my enthused attempts at ‘working the room’ I discover artists, photographers and filmmakers amongst their sweaty mass.
During a quick bar break where I discover the measures are long and the glasses tall, a waterfall descends from the edge of the corridor leading to the dance floor and cascades prettily onto the cigarette strewn floor. How original I think. Contemplating launching myself under its gushing mass I point it out to John who excitedly captures this great original feature on our Smirnoff Ten camera. During the peak of our enthusiasm, my friend from earlier sidles over and casually points to a man above us furiously sweeping the favela chic tiles. Aha. So what we’re actually dealing with is raw sewage. Also original in its own right I reason.
As the music turns from poppy hits to pounding dance we delve deeper into the underbelly of Sao Paulo’s nightlife scene using a mixture of English, French and wavey hand signals. We learn that being out and about after dark and an obvious ‘Gringo’ equals near and present danger. We also learn about the favelas and the ingrained gang culture and social structure. We manage time to slot in some protracted conversations on art and badly referenced philosophy. Despite feelings that curious, squelchy matter has navigated its way into my shoes I am loving every moment of this bizarre descent into multilingual, conversational messiness.
As 9.15 rolls around the lights go up and a miniskirted, six foot boy and apparent make up aficionado hops over, sharp looking stiletto in one hand, cigarette dangling from lipstick smeared teeth,
‘Afterparty?’ he offers in Portugenglish…
Ah. Sao Paulo…the final furlong isn’t even close…
John and Steph pull away from the pack and as they near the final furlong take a sharp turn into a much darker part of the course…
Canter.
Canter.
Canter.
In the darkened background Scissor Sisters inspires four burly, bearded men to remove their tank tops and circle each other making low Red Indian whooping sounds. Contrary to the pumping, sparky chorus I Do Feel Like Dancing, Yes Sir Much Dancing To-day, so hurl myself into the pulsing, topless mass, hands raised to the DJ booth which looms above the dance floor, a rickety ladder climb away.
This is Torre, a wonderful, little gem that we found mention of in a Portuguese blog, which also notably offered handy tips on surviving the late night culture of Sao Paulo. It is 7am and this racehorse is determined to have a stab at continuous good form.
Amongst the thirty-legged Discomonster terrorising the filthy dancefloor are the aforementioned burly topless men, a colourful selection of drag queens, chiselled guys and after my enthused attempts at ‘working the room’ I discover artists, photographers and filmmakers amongst their sweaty mass.
During a quick bar break where I discover the measures are long and the glasses tall, a waterfall descends from the edge of the corridor leading to the dance floor and cascades prettily onto the cigarette strewn floor. How original I think. Contemplating launching myself under its gushing mass I point it out to John who excitedly captures this great original feature on our Smirnoff Ten camera. During the peak of our enthusiasm, my friend from earlier sidles over and casually points to a man above us furiously sweeping the favela chic tiles. Aha. So what we’re actually dealing with is raw sewage. Also original in its own right I reason.
As the music turns from poppy hits to pounding dance we delve deeper into the underbelly of Sao Paulo’s nightlife scene using a mixture of English, French and wavey hand signals. We learn that being out and about after dark and an obvious ‘Gringo’ equals near and present danger. We also learn about the favelas and the ingrained gang culture and social structure. We manage time to slot in some protracted conversations on art and badly referenced philosophy. Despite feelings that curious, squelchy matter has navigated its way into my shoes I am loving every moment of this bizarre descent into multilingual, conversational messiness.
As 9.15 rolls around the lights go up and a miniskirted, six foot boy and apparent make up aficionado hops over, sharp looking stiletto in one hand, cigarette dangling from lipstick smeared teeth,
‘Afterparty?’ he offers in Portugenglish…
Ah. Sao Paulo…the final furlong isn’t even close…
Say hello to my scary friend...
Sao Paulo…
Nice to meet you…I fear you slightly and have heard some hairy things about you but I’m going to give you a chance…mostly because you gave birth to CSS and I love them but that’s ok…I’m sure we can get along fine.
So we’re in Sao Paulo and thus far have been doing our seeking new member business. Last night we went to a Smirnoff event, which gave us an energetic Brazilian girl who operates under the name of Louisa. I suspect there was some Jungian twist behind us getting her because in the few days before the final party we seemed to bump into her everywhere. In the street, at the beach, …there was Luiza smiling prettily. We love her.
So from here we have to set about making friends with Sao Paulo. So far I’ve found the club scene happens laaaaatttteeee, but halfway into a completely different day’ kind of late.
That’s cool though…we are the Smirnoff Ten…we have stamina, determination and guile.
AND.
GUILE.
Nice to meet you…I fear you slightly and have heard some hairy things about you but I’m going to give you a chance…mostly because you gave birth to CSS and I love them but that’s ok…I’m sure we can get along fine.
So we’re in Sao Paulo and thus far have been doing our seeking new member business. Last night we went to a Smirnoff event, which gave us an energetic Brazilian girl who operates under the name of Louisa. I suspect there was some Jungian twist behind us getting her because in the few days before the final party we seemed to bump into her everywhere. In the street, at the beach, …there was Luiza smiling prettily. We love her.
So from here we have to set about making friends with Sao Paulo. So far I’ve found the club scene happens laaaaatttteeee, but halfway into a completely different day’ kind of late.
That’s cool though…we are the Smirnoff Ten…we have stamina, determination and guile.
AND.
GUILE.
MEXICO
Mexico
Hours of life lost in translation…9
Packets of airline crackers eaten…7
Addictions to airline crackers acquired…1
Expectations of donkey sightings- high
Mexico…ey? Donkeys. Dust. Donkeys in dust. Dusty donkeys. Large, large hats. Donkeys wearing hats…
How wrong I was…
Things I found out about nightlife in Mexico
1. Tuesday and Wednesday are really big on the Mexican socialite scene. Yes I said socialite. They exist in wild abandon roaming the plains of Mexico City. Said creatures range from chiselled pop stars to moneyed ponytail enthusiasts who clog up the front rows in Mexican fashion week.
2. If I thought face control in Russia was mean then Mexico is at least on par if not worse. ‘Love’ in particular is known for its barbaric door policy, which involves a suave looking man named Jose or Chieppe (chief) being summoned from the bowels of the dance floor to survey the expectant queue. I didn’t witness anything other than subtle Gladiator-esque flicks of his eyes to convey a yes or a no but am informed he enjoys rolling around references to weight, expense of clothes and being facially unfortunate.
3. The Zona Rosa is a thriving cosmopolitan gay area. The bars are shiny and streets lined with foliage. Dust and donkey count is low.
4. At least one of my preconceptions was true…Mexico is full of tacos. You can’t swing a meerkat without hitting a burly man making tacos. They are amazing. Ask for bistek with avocado and your joy will multiply in abundance.
Our first week in Mexico was spent auditioning the contestants for ninth member of the Smirnoff Ten as part of contest called La Zona de Combate. La Zona de Combate is a joint ‘bands’ and ‘fans’ competition involving 15,000 bands competing for a record deal with EMI and thousands of ‘fans’ competing to travel with us hunting nightlife.
Happily we won Audette, a sparky Mexican femme fatale who charmed us all immediately. I would love to tell you which band won but after a week watching them they all evolved into a dark clothed, rocky mass of high follicle altitude.
Having sorted ourselves out with a ninth Smirnoff critter we set upon the Mexican social scene. Using the medium of chatting to strangers in bars, Kareem and I headed off to Nicky Hilton’s après fashion week party. From there we schmoozed onto Love and befriended the aforementioned fearsome Chieppe as well as a rabble of Mexican disco hounds ranging from bankers to singers to DJ’s. This allowed us a free pass to roam various elitist haunts for the next few days including a Mexican members bar called ‘Le Disco’ where we got behind the DJ booth and…I would like to say played some tunes or something like that but actually I knocked out a cable and the bass went off for ten minutes.
This was all great fun, but my favourite times were a few random after party type efforts we ended up at; including a sing-a-long with a Mexican DJ/singer and a night out in the suburbs with three random Mexicans in a gated complex with a trampoline. We also tried a highly original drink called “Astronautes”, a shot with vodka, lime, coffee and sugar.
With all the tacos, celebs, 90’s chart music and finding Audette, Mexico was one of my favourite places. Donkeys are great and I respect them for their work but Mexico seems to be getting on fine without them for now.
Hours of life lost in translation…9
Packets of airline crackers eaten…7
Addictions to airline crackers acquired…1
Expectations of donkey sightings- high
Mexico…ey? Donkeys. Dust. Donkeys in dust. Dusty donkeys. Large, large hats. Donkeys wearing hats…
How wrong I was…
Things I found out about nightlife in Mexico
1. Tuesday and Wednesday are really big on the Mexican socialite scene. Yes I said socialite. They exist in wild abandon roaming the plains of Mexico City. Said creatures range from chiselled pop stars to moneyed ponytail enthusiasts who clog up the front rows in Mexican fashion week.
2. If I thought face control in Russia was mean then Mexico is at least on par if not worse. ‘Love’ in particular is known for its barbaric door policy, which involves a suave looking man named Jose or Chieppe (chief) being summoned from the bowels of the dance floor to survey the expectant queue. I didn’t witness anything other than subtle Gladiator-esque flicks of his eyes to convey a yes or a no but am informed he enjoys rolling around references to weight, expense of clothes and being facially unfortunate.
3. The Zona Rosa is a thriving cosmopolitan gay area. The bars are shiny and streets lined with foliage. Dust and donkey count is low.
4. At least one of my preconceptions was true…Mexico is full of tacos. You can’t swing a meerkat without hitting a burly man making tacos. They are amazing. Ask for bistek with avocado and your joy will multiply in abundance.
Our first week in Mexico was spent auditioning the contestants for ninth member of the Smirnoff Ten as part of contest called La Zona de Combate. La Zona de Combate is a joint ‘bands’ and ‘fans’ competition involving 15,000 bands competing for a record deal with EMI and thousands of ‘fans’ competing to travel with us hunting nightlife.
Happily we won Audette, a sparky Mexican femme fatale who charmed us all immediately. I would love to tell you which band won but after a week watching them they all evolved into a dark clothed, rocky mass of high follicle altitude.
Having sorted ourselves out with a ninth Smirnoff critter we set upon the Mexican social scene. Using the medium of chatting to strangers in bars, Kareem and I headed off to Nicky Hilton’s après fashion week party. From there we schmoozed onto Love and befriended the aforementioned fearsome Chieppe as well as a rabble of Mexican disco hounds ranging from bankers to singers to DJ’s. This allowed us a free pass to roam various elitist haunts for the next few days including a Mexican members bar called ‘Le Disco’ where we got behind the DJ booth and…I would like to say played some tunes or something like that but actually I knocked out a cable and the bass went off for ten minutes.
This was all great fun, but my favourite times were a few random after party type efforts we ended up at; including a sing-a-long with a Mexican DJ/singer and a night out in the suburbs with three random Mexicans in a gated complex with a trampoline. We also tried a highly original drink called “Astronautes”, a shot with vodka, lime, coffee and sugar.
With all the tacos, celebs, 90’s chart music and finding Audette, Mexico was one of my favourite places. Donkeys are great and I respect them for their work but Mexico seems to be getting on fine without them for now.
Friday, 16 November 2007
All The World’s A Rave...
And all the men are merely…WOAH! Wait…there are SO.MANY.LIGHTS. The blue one looks like it’s coming towards me…or does it look like …
AN EEL?
Oh. God. It is an eel. No nonononono it’s a light…yes…and so pretty.
Something soft is in my hand.
The ground is not even ground. There is so much mud I can only see my upper calves. I trudge.
What is in my hand? There are so many people in front of me that my right arm is being tugged and is pulling me forward but in front of me is stranger upon stranger being shoved as I am forced through their masses. All I can see are looming dark backs and lights everywhere. Ouch…pain in foot. Ballet pumps squidging with filth-o-mud.
I reach a small clearing and the warm mass in my hand transpires to be yet another hand. Hand. Repetition of the word hand. Must get thesaurus. Although is there another word for hand? Holding vestibule?
The holding vestibule is attached to a smiling Argentine. A small one but an Argentine nonetheless. Suddenly I can see more than the contorted black shapes of the dancers in front of me. In fact suddenly there’s a centaur…. no a topless man ON TOP OF A TENT BIGGER THAN MY HOTEL! He’s dancing right in the centre where the two tent pieces meet. There are more of his half-naked, sweaty kind hanging like nubile simians from speakers, which are suddenly all around me.
In front of the lovely Argentine is a vast tent filled (and filled like a Harrods’s jelly bean jar not a discount jacket potato) with car-sized disco balls spinning concentrically at different levels. At the end of the tent is a huge DJ booth and superstar DJ Tiesto spinning the crowd into a writhing, smiling, dark mob.
Aside from the MTV events to help us find Smirnoff 9, Tango lessons, exploration of the gay scene and late night steakfests (steaks aaaaahhh) this was my favourite original Buenos Aires nightlife experience. At the heart of it was a commercial DJ but the atmosphere wasn’t like any of the warehouse parties, festivals and raves I’ve been to in England. Instead of the usual hands in the air, wild flailing it felt more like an erudite sensory attack with invasive lighting, unfathomably large-scale speakers, decorations, tents, lasers and a wave of sound that took over everything deep in the middle of a park.
Do I sound like an 18-year-old in Ibiza for the first time? Sincerely hope not! It was on par with the jungle parties out in Thailand…go to BA…try it!
AN EEL?
Oh. God. It is an eel. No nonononono it’s a light…yes…and so pretty.
Something soft is in my hand.
The ground is not even ground. There is so much mud I can only see my upper calves. I trudge.
What is in my hand? There are so many people in front of me that my right arm is being tugged and is pulling me forward but in front of me is stranger upon stranger being shoved as I am forced through their masses. All I can see are looming dark backs and lights everywhere. Ouch…pain in foot. Ballet pumps squidging with filth-o-mud.
I reach a small clearing and the warm mass in my hand transpires to be yet another hand. Hand. Repetition of the word hand. Must get thesaurus. Although is there another word for hand? Holding vestibule?
The holding vestibule is attached to a smiling Argentine. A small one but an Argentine nonetheless. Suddenly I can see more than the contorted black shapes of the dancers in front of me. In fact suddenly there’s a centaur…. no a topless man ON TOP OF A TENT BIGGER THAN MY HOTEL! He’s dancing right in the centre where the two tent pieces meet. There are more of his half-naked, sweaty kind hanging like nubile simians from speakers, which are suddenly all around me.
In front of the lovely Argentine is a vast tent filled (and filled like a Harrods’s jelly bean jar not a discount jacket potato) with car-sized disco balls spinning concentrically at different levels. At the end of the tent is a huge DJ booth and superstar DJ Tiesto spinning the crowd into a writhing, smiling, dark mob.
Aside from the MTV events to help us find Smirnoff 9, Tango lessons, exploration of the gay scene and late night steakfests (steaks aaaaahhh) this was my favourite original Buenos Aires nightlife experience. At the heart of it was a commercial DJ but the atmosphere wasn’t like any of the warehouse parties, festivals and raves I’ve been to in England. Instead of the usual hands in the air, wild flailing it felt more like an erudite sensory attack with invasive lighting, unfathomably large-scale speakers, decorations, tents, lasers and a wave of sound that took over everything deep in the middle of a park.
Do I sound like an 18-year-old in Ibiza for the first time? Sincerely hope not! It was on par with the jungle parties out in Thailand…go to BA…try it!
Monday, 12 November 2007
Come fly with me…
Day 1 (nearly) Buenos Aires (nearly)
Hours spent in air to get here…immeasurable at present without direct airhostess contact but allegedly 15 hours.
Hours of life magically lost in translation… due to be 4 hours.
Unexplained boxes of tampons found on plane seat…0
Moments of unadulterated joy after finding film eclipsed only in its brilliance by the sun…1
We meet again. I am on a plane bound for Buenos Aires and this IS the first chance I’ve had to write a single english word since Moscow.
Before we get down to any of that Moscow chat it’s important that I tell you about THE film so resplendent in its wonder that I am toying with ways to sustain a head injury so I can block it out and watch it all over again.
You will forgive me for this tangent after following my instructions to sell whatever you have to to buy a ticket to see/ copy of ‘Knocked Up.’ It is a fat kid sized slice of heaven. Forget all else. Forget work. DON’T GO TO WORK. Watch Knocked Up. Now, if not sooner. I have never been so indebted to in-flight entertainment. I realise this exuberance may be a result of high altitude and sleep deprivation but my instincts tell me no.
Rambling asidem let’s take a personal moment. I have left London for good. Very tricky that one. After being busy 24/7 in selection week then being tossed ruthlessly into training, media training, Smirnoff training, other words involving training and so on THEN going to Moscow, this is the first chance I’ve had to reflect. I’m not ashamed to say that in the cold light of the morning after my leaving party the prospect of being away from my delightful friends and family was in no way pleasing. Globetrotting or nay. Since then I have cried shamelessly in taxis, on tubes and once in the street after a homeless man played a particularly sad melody on a rusty flute. Am emotional wreck.
Quivering emotional status aside I have to tell you at least something about Moscow. Since my last twitterings we had to do some interviews and have pictures taken and such. I built my first official human pyramid at a press conference which was a high point as they don’t usually get capured in a media capacity. After that I went to Red Square with FHM to kick off our partnership with them and did a lot of leaping around on request.
MORE TO FOLLOW ON RUSSIA… ANIA DRAGGING ME OFF TO FILM…
Hours spent in air to get here…immeasurable at present without direct airhostess contact but allegedly 15 hours.
Hours of life magically lost in translation… due to be 4 hours.
Unexplained boxes of tampons found on plane seat…0
Moments of unadulterated joy after finding film eclipsed only in its brilliance by the sun…1
We meet again. I am on a plane bound for Buenos Aires and this IS the first chance I’ve had to write a single english word since Moscow.
Before we get down to any of that Moscow chat it’s important that I tell you about THE film so resplendent in its wonder that I am toying with ways to sustain a head injury so I can block it out and watch it all over again.
You will forgive me for this tangent after following my instructions to sell whatever you have to to buy a ticket to see/ copy of ‘Knocked Up.’ It is a fat kid sized slice of heaven. Forget all else. Forget work. DON’T GO TO WORK. Watch Knocked Up. Now, if not sooner. I have never been so indebted to in-flight entertainment. I realise this exuberance may be a result of high altitude and sleep deprivation but my instincts tell me no.
Rambling asidem let’s take a personal moment. I have left London for good. Very tricky that one. After being busy 24/7 in selection week then being tossed ruthlessly into training, media training, Smirnoff training, other words involving training and so on THEN going to Moscow, this is the first chance I’ve had to reflect. I’m not ashamed to say that in the cold light of the morning after my leaving party the prospect of being away from my delightful friends and family was in no way pleasing. Globetrotting or nay. Since then I have cried shamelessly in taxis, on tubes and once in the street after a homeless man played a particularly sad melody on a rusty flute. Am emotional wreck.
Quivering emotional status aside I have to tell you at least something about Moscow. Since my last twitterings we had to do some interviews and have pictures taken and such. I built my first official human pyramid at a press conference which was a high point as they don’t usually get capured in a media capacity. After that I went to Red Square with FHM to kick off our partnership with them and did a lot of leaping around on request.
MORE TO FOLLOW ON RUSSIA… ANIA DRAGGING ME OFF TO FILM…
Russia (post Ania)
Takeshi and I were dispatched to interview Mark Ronson and Kelis for MTV Japan. Not being Japanese in any discernible sense this was a lucky break and decided to capitalise on it by remaining very still and silent and letting Takeshi have his moment. Unfortunately we had a few Dave* moments where we both looked at each other then back at Mark Ronson/Daniel Merriweather/Kelis staring expectantly at us with their big multi-album selling eyes, and were like ‘uuurrrrrrrrggggghhhfortheloveofgodthinkofaquestion mmmmmmmmmmmmmm’.
Mostly we survived though and struck up enough of a rapport to have a late night chant-a-long in our hotel lobby after the event without too much awkward dithering. The choice of dressing gowns as attire (as seen in the pictures) I will leave to your imagination.
The event itself had something of a 3000 Russians meets Midsummer Nights Dream, bathed in red with a few more trees thrown in (birch if you must know) and a stage suspended way above the baying crowd. Upon said stage Kelis cantered along on the cacophony of wailed ‘ohohohohoho’s’ (Trick Me) and Ronson led Merriweather through an original rendition of Stop Me. From our perch in the V.VIP (which John and I had snuck into using the last reserves of our charm and guile) we then witnessed the huge ‘Smirnoff Experience’ projection part with the flick of a canvas to reveal Faithless floating onstage in a cloud of charisma to meet the Russian Orchestra. This was pleasing. Having occupied myself mostly with swing dancing and enthusiastically seeking out snacks in between acts I was quite ready to settle into Jackanory mode and plant myself on a high stool to watch them from the balcony. This continued… with increased head bobbing during Maxi Jazz’s on spot bouncing.
As we’d been so busy with the event, we had to scramble to fit in some more Russian nightlife before we left and decided the best place to start (as with any quandary) was with midgets. So we headed to the inventively named ‘Vodka Bar’ to…I’m going to say ‘get down’ but don’t worry I don’t mean it…to some Russian trancey dance while enthused midgets danced above us on a flame covered bar. We also went to some uber swanky bars and restaurants but in terms of originality they were up there with beans on toast. They do have an ultra nice policy of ‘face control’ in Moscow though where basically if you’re not rich or beautiful you are encouraged not to darken their doorstep. We’re talking Prince Philip rude. In fact he’d probably be blushing were he through a cosmic twist of fate to find his royal self in a queue for a Russian nightclub.
So, from Faithless, pyrotechnics and Doorman cruelty, now it’s onto South America where we shall sharpen our spears and hunt and gather some rreeaally original nightlife and grab two new members while we’re there. I would say something like ‘stay tuned’ but I wouldn’t mean that either.
*Dave; Male, 35, Balding, Found in the Banyan Tree at Glastonbury 07…paused in the middle of performing a particularly fruity version of Champagne Supernova, looked hastily right, left, right again, stopped, seemed to see for the first time the 50 or so soggy strangers staring back at him rubbing mud from their eyes. Then. Calmly got up and left.
Mostly we survived though and struck up enough of a rapport to have a late night chant-a-long in our hotel lobby after the event without too much awkward dithering. The choice of dressing gowns as attire (as seen in the pictures) I will leave to your imagination.
The event itself had something of a 3000 Russians meets Midsummer Nights Dream, bathed in red with a few more trees thrown in (birch if you must know) and a stage suspended way above the baying crowd. Upon said stage Kelis cantered along on the cacophony of wailed ‘ohohohohoho’s’ (Trick Me) and Ronson led Merriweather through an original rendition of Stop Me. From our perch in the V.VIP (which John and I had snuck into using the last reserves of our charm and guile) we then witnessed the huge ‘Smirnoff Experience’ projection part with the flick of a canvas to reveal Faithless floating onstage in a cloud of charisma to meet the Russian Orchestra. This was pleasing. Having occupied myself mostly with swing dancing and enthusiastically seeking out snacks in between acts I was quite ready to settle into Jackanory mode and plant myself on a high stool to watch them from the balcony. This continued… with increased head bobbing during Maxi Jazz’s on spot bouncing.
As we’d been so busy with the event, we had to scramble to fit in some more Russian nightlife before we left and decided the best place to start (as with any quandary) was with midgets. So we headed to the inventively named ‘Vodka Bar’ to…I’m going to say ‘get down’ but don’t worry I don’t mean it…to some Russian trancey dance while enthused midgets danced above us on a flame covered bar. We also went to some uber swanky bars and restaurants but in terms of originality they were up there with beans on toast. They do have an ultra nice policy of ‘face control’ in Moscow though where basically if you’re not rich or beautiful you are encouraged not to darken their doorstep. We’re talking Prince Philip rude. In fact he’d probably be blushing were he through a cosmic twist of fate to find his royal self in a queue for a Russian nightclub.
So, from Faithless, pyrotechnics and Doorman cruelty, now it’s onto South America where we shall sharpen our spears and hunt and gather some rreeaally original nightlife and grab two new members while we’re there. I would say something like ‘stay tuned’ but I wouldn’t mean that either.
*Dave; Male, 35, Balding, Found in the Banyan Tree at Glastonbury 07…paused in the middle of performing a particularly fruity version of Champagne Supernova, looked hastily right, left, right again, stopped, seemed to see for the first time the 50 or so soggy strangers staring back at him rubbing mud from their eyes. Then. Calmly got up and left.
Tuesday, 25 September 2007
Cometh the hour, cometh the ten.
Heathrow airport. 8am. Looking around at seven foreigners that ten days ago I wasn’t aware existed, although now I’m lying on one of them (the Canadian one) discussing the merits of Heat magazine interviews.
I have also discovered that Canadian people also don’t understand the hot tap vs. cold tap feature.
‘So it freezes you, then it burns…freezes…burns... and you people have… come to accept this?’
Perhaps I recap. Today is my first foray into the world (literally not metaphysically) as part of The Smirnoff Ten, a melting pot of ten filmmaking, globetrotting creatures from ten parts of the world. Although at the moment there are only 8 of us. I’ll explain that later.
This is my first quick blog post to get the ball rolling and after a rigorous selection week my poor, warped little mind has no gems of wit or wisdom to offer but fear not, we speak again my friend…in Moscow!
I have also discovered that Canadian people also don’t understand the hot tap vs. cold tap feature.
‘So it freezes you, then it burns…freezes…burns... and you people have… come to accept this?’
Perhaps I recap. Today is my first foray into the world (literally not metaphysically) as part of The Smirnoff Ten, a melting pot of ten filmmaking, globetrotting creatures from ten parts of the world. Although at the moment there are only 8 of us. I’ll explain that later.
This is my first quick blog post to get the ball rolling and after a rigorous selection week my poor, warped little mind has no gems of wit or wisdom to offer but fear not, we speak again my friend…in Moscow!
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