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I Love You But I’ve Chosen Dogbox

by Roger Young, images by Justin McGee / 06.09.2010

Somehow it’s 3am and I’m bleeding. I’m looking up at the lights that are swirling past while lying in the back of a strange bakkie. I saw a sign to Joburg a little while ago so I know I’m safe, in a manner of speaking, and I pass out again.

By ten thirty the venue has hit capactity. they’ve already had to close the doors, well stop people coming in, there are no doors at Hotbox Studio, a place that reminds me of my inbred cousin’s house in Pinetown. Everytime I’ve been here I’ve woken up in some new and strange room feeling slightly abused.

Loosely, I’ve hooked up with a group of people who fell out of a car, clutching five litre wine jugs as I was walking down the road. They’re bitching about the 18 year drive from Joburg. We shuffle in through the bounced fifteen year olds in the driveway and are smacked in the face with a seething mass of electrokids and tuksdrinkers. It’s a battle to the death between flouro and plaid. There is some kind of offensive psspspsptsppspssppspttbwooooooonbwooooon sound coming from the patio that’s become the stage. It’s one of those moments where you wish the word “awesome” hadn’t been so over fucking played. It’s a joyous fight to the bar to start drinking Sparberry Rum as quickly as possible. My heart is sore and I want to do some serious forgetting.

Double Adaptor are playing, Macaulay Culkin’s Party Monster voice wheedles out over the cheeky dancey electro. Screens everywhere, a screen on the roof even, light bouncing off the suburban business district trees; a mass of stupid colour and skank is stomping the dancefloor, the danceground, the battlefield. It’s an epic celebration of release. An incredibly good looking man and his boyfriend climb on a table and make out furiously to the sounds of Daft Punk, the table collapses; they fall like trees, hit the ground hard without separating; a fucking beautiful orgy of style and rut.

Le Castle Vania breaks his set in hard with electro legendary tracks from “Head’s Will Roll” and rave cheese, “What is Love (Baby Don’t Hurt Me)”. But soon he’s macking the entire floor with his spacious bouncy squelchy vibes, his blondness nothing more than superficial, this is a man with dark hair. There is an angry raver chick in leather giving finger to the sky. Some girl on the dancefloor is dancing so hard she starts peeing down her leg. Pretoria, so there is a collective accepting shrug and the beat air punches us through. I need Sparberry Rum like it’s blood. I need a spaceship. I need air. I find myself in the kitchen. There is a bearded man literally sweating from his face and directing a savage black man with amazing hair and fearsome teeth into assaulting passers by. Haezer is playfighting with some dude and they’re throwing themselves into pine cupboards. It’s an explosion of pre-school regression. It’s fucking beautiful.

Haezer comes on the decks like the barrels in Donkey Kong are filled with robotic hornets. It’s a mosh pit of electropunk; dark and dirty. The whole smiling and hard dancefloor is pulsing like a VHS copy of Tron. The lighting guy is toyi toying on a speaker. The angry raver is getting down deep, sometime during “Here Come The Punks”, some guy next to her grabs her bag off her shoulder in glee and decides to share it with the audience, he sails it out over the crowd and she turns and in one swift Ralph Macchio move punches him in the face, laughing, laughing. She hits him again, he hits the floor, people move away, “WTF!” She screams into a gap in the music. And when sledgehammer beat slams in again, she pulls him up and they dance like mad children. Haezer climbs on the decks and stage dives into an unaware crowd, they part in panic, he hits the ground, hard and bounces up like some deranged slinky. I need a hot dog and go outside. The bounced fifteen year olds, obviously still waiting for their moms are huddled around the driveway. The cops arrive and shut it down.

Exhausted, my anger, my hurt and my mischief thrown all over the dancefloor; I’m weirdly sated; relieved and sad, because I know I can never go home again. I get on the freeway and start hitching. The last thing I remember thinking is, do people even do this anymore?

Hotbox Studios

At Dogbox Fuck You means I Love You

Hotbox Studios

he only guy here not having a blast is the guy smoooshing his face into the yellow shirt

Hotbox Studios

What do you wanna do tomorrow Pinky? Take over the world? Again! Nah, let's just nap

Hotbox Studio

I want Squelch, I don't need Oooonts! My Jacket is Oooonts.

Hotbox Studios

There are angels within angles within something. Just press send bitch!

”]Hotbox Studios

Dishwashers on fire, sailors and rich girls. I love you, the end.


Background girl is background


It's okay, let your dirty mind do it. She's even thinking it.


In twenty years kitty paw moves will be the new Hammer Time.


Fuck Yeah! As defined by people with shitty t-shirts


Obligatory everything worked out okay in the end picture

All images © Justin McGee.

Read the Origins of a Dogbox Story and Dylan Muhlenberg’s Imaginary Account.

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