…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.
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