Haezer in the Dogboxby Roger Young, images by Justin McGee / 10.05.2010
Silence. Darkness. The whiff of petrol, somebody is trying to start up a generator. Hundreds of people mill around in the darkness wondering when the power will stop playing havoc while the organizers run around looking panicked. My large gay friend however is fine with the darkness and confusion, he uses it to his advantage, I and several others have to keep fighting off his lazy attempts to get his hands into various pants.
A pulsing red light near the dj box flickers and then a squelching electronic throb blasts out and Haezer kicks back into action. It’s been a tough night at Dogbox on the roof but slowly it’s coming together, they scale down the rig and then finally the shit is going down. The roof is in darkness except for the space directly in front of the dj stage vibe, which has exploded like an exorcism.
Like a hirsute goblin on hallucinogens Haezer air punches his way through his brand of dirty grinding electro. With Electronic music you sometimes get the feeling it could just be played off the laptop, but not with him. Haezer makes you feel like he is creating it with his eyes; they pierce the crowd like a fun laser as the music resembles more and more the sound of Squarepusher and Mr Oizo being thrown out of a train at high speed, as it hurtles through a nightmare storm.
A beat that first makes you want to grind your ass like you’re holding a strippers pole and then flips into a sort of manic air pummeling as Haezer jumps up on his table and looks like he’s about to either swan dive or conduct the crowd. It gets ridiculous on the dance floor, sweaty and hard with electro that is self-referential (I tell you, what isn’t in these heady times) cheeky and banging.
With so much darkness time got muddled, I can’t tell you whether Cyberpunkers played their cleaner but no less ass swinging set before or after Haezer, maybe it was in-between, but when they’re on I have fended off one to many “friendly” gay ass grabs and struggled through the darkness for too long trying to find friends with wallets. I head down for food and end up composing a poem to Prudence, the boerewors roll lady. The night dissolves into random blood letting and danger. Sometime later I’m on the dancefloor wondering if I have become part of the organism when I realise, once again, that Sweatface has left me behind, but I don’t get emo about it this time, in the dirty darkness, grinding like a geriatric Beyonce on ketamine, I don’t mind getting left behind.
All images © and courtesy Justin McGee.