I Killed A Cat, And May I Say, Not In A Gay Wayby Roger Young, images by Liam Lynch / 03.12.2010
The night started with a tall girl, commando in a Sandton mini dress who drove a Jacks Paint car buying me tequila and flashing the early evening reggae patrons at Cool Runnings. Seeing as I am no longer the deputy editor of this fine example of free speech I take free drinks from wherever I can get them; a not too dissimilar a position from when I was working for Mahala but there you go. This of course ended up with me later playing a high speed version of mix-a-drink-Russian-roulette. Combine that with a fine tuning of my not-giving-a-fuckness and all I can offer you is the last in a long line of Mahala tradtion; a Roger Young gets too fucked to remember what happened at a Griet party and resorts to captions story. It’s a great pity that my camera losing sweatfaced buddy couldn’t make it but he had been maimed a few nights earlier by his life skills, so really it’s not a totally traditional piece; it lacks stupidly captioned overexposed pictures of people making silly hand gestures.
As we get in Sakitumi Sakitumi Sakitumi is playing his bouncy jazzy getting harder electronica but I’m in arrival confusion, I need a drink and start hunting Gert, The Patron Saint of Town Hall, I hurl myself through the ravey faces of chicks on the cutting edge of Jay Jays, Jocks and misplaced P town kids. I spot a short dude sucking a dummy and wearing a hip hop shirt, tight jeans and a jewfro looking like he’s been vomited on by Vuzu. The toilets are choked with smoke machine fog, like the sunrise mist on Clifton when you’ve been out all night on acid.
Mix kids Double Adaptor start their shit, like the soundtrack to an internet comment board fight; a joyous anonz releasing of rage. I be banging my back against the wall and airpunching when I spot a pair of stilettos lying near the stage. Total abandonment; be it while dancing, drinking, fucking or writing always leads to one thing, an eventual creeping embarrassment. Soon I am on the bass bin, stiletto in mouth, loosing shards of teeth and dancing to accelerated eurohouse on crystal meth and irony, without the eurohouse. Town Hall is fuck packed and the whole dancefloor, for once, is lit and moving. Only meat from the south is on the side, sitting it out in confusion.
I’m spent by the time Haezer starts but we all soldier on. I wish metal heads knew that was where the real headbanging had gone. It’s trebly, wobbly and relentless. This shit breaks my neck. Trance wind-ups double timed and filtered through a cement mixer loaded with iron fillings. It’s not hip music; it’s hands and knees. I seek refuge and hang on to a fire extinguisher; somehow I’m spraying the crowd when Gert passes handing me a drink and a warning glance. The glue sniffing squelches are droning, hypnotic, time shifts. I love it that house DJ’s don’t understand this shit. You see the Joburg jocks out the corner of your eyes, slipping away, not getting what the Baptist like fervour is all about, the hundred or so dayglo kids jumping like Masai; channelling frustration and youth into air-punches and mayhem.
Audiophile comes on and converts, same flavour but with pace shifts for breathing space; drained and sweaty kids are grateful. It’s the best set of the night because it stops short of total destruction and then starts again. By now, it’s emptying out a little but the floor is intensifying, shirts are drenched from the bubble machine, my hands are tangled in someone’s braids.
Hesse said it best “I wanted only to try to live in accord with the promptings which came from my true self. Why was that so very difficult?” The promptings at this point are to throw any of these girls, ANY, against the wall and fuck like an animal but mechanics, agh; so what I’m actually doing is jumping up and down on a bass bin while the bubble foam machine is aimed at my face. It’s getting slippery up there and I fall/climb down, smearing the black residue of soap and a thousand sneakers all over my arms. In the middle of the morass, a dude starts trying to talk to me about writing for Mahala and the value of criticism and it’s a total release to be able to say “Fuck off I don’t care about that shit no more”.
*All images © Liam Lynch.