We Are Messyby Nathan Zeno / 14.12.2009
The Vice room was empty and struggling for relevance and I was tired of drinking free rum and cock sucking, so walked out onto the main Ass floor and saw a bro hug result in an elbow taking out an emo girl, it was as if the Assembly’s Second birthday party was designed especially for me.
What struck me, being an old person, was how little fun everyone seemed to be having, of course this has nothing to do with me being old, just the fact that I have always expected too much and had got there too early. When I arrive at a party I expect to be attacked by a million girls who want to have sex with me all bearing drinks and party tricks, proclaiming my cleverness and hipness and all that. But instead I was greeted with indifference. How rude? Well not total indifference, shortly after I got there the Spanish arrived and his buddy regaled me with stories of a porno he shot behind a DJ box years ago. The only thing left was to discuss textbooks, physics and crappy cameras with, well, the people who talk about that shit.
Finally Them Tornadoes came on and I was struck immediately by how slick they were in their rawness. Basically it’s a bald guy in a bad pseudo medicine man hat and a guy in a kilt with drums (yeah somebody else, who can remember) playing some kind of rockabilly crap and a fair slab of covers. Was it a joke? Half the audience couldn’t tell (the dancing half), the other half couldn’t care (the staring ironically half) until it started to go on a bit long, I mean they were rocking and everything but, well, fuckit, it was a birthday party, I suppose everyone’s invited.
When I was at school they taught me that you only write something down if you’ve got something to say, a point to be made, intro, argument, conclusion, y’know. But the uglier it got, in the nicest possible way, I found myself wondering around the Ass looking for conclusion, argument, even an introduction.
So there I was perpetuating my stereotype and dancing like a white person, my short tyrannosaurus rex arms flailing and slapping my ass when the Doomsters struck a perfect pose. I struggled around looking for my photographer, don’t see her, start grabbing random photographers who look at me like I’m insane, when I finally find her the moment has passed and she’s flapping around the dance floor herself, I tell her to shoot the bands but she’s out of film, I mean, memory card space. But KIDOFDOOM were basically ripping it up and all relevance was forgotten.
The bar was a crush and I was more into dancing but the main floor seemed too obvious musically so I stayed on in the, as I got increasingly drunker, the increasingly relevant Vice room. How do I know it was the Vice room? The same four fashion shoots and a logo projected on the wall in a loop. I had to keep dancing away from the wall and there’s no buzz kill like the smug face of Terry Richardson smothered amongst hotness when you know you ain’t getting any tonight. As the electro vibes got trashier and trashier until I broke my shoe. So I limped out into the main room and sat there for a bit until this girl in a knit cap sat down to let me hate her for her magnificent nose.
This is the part where I attempt to wrap it all up in some clever observation. I’m gonna go for the lazy obvious one. Someone should put DJ’s at the Engen. DJ’s who play death metal and throw pigs blood at you if you order the last steak and kidney pie when I want one.
All images © and courtesy Illana Welman.