In no particular order.
- I like the nightlife because it makes me feel alive at night.
- I like the nightlife because it makes me feel alright.
- I like the nightlife when it’s full of music, mischief, magic, mayhem and happiness.
- I like the nightlife but it’s full of magic, music, mayhem, mischief and… well, not sadness, but anger and hope and diversity and happiness… and sadness too.
- I like the nightlife because it makes me want to boogie.
- I like to boogie all night long, even when my arm is in a sling.
- I like the Railway Club in Brighton and I love evenings put together by Nadia Buyse.
- I like the nightlife when it’s full of mysterious characters and outrageous liaisons, cheap pints that don’t taste like pints, intrigue… and yes, hope.
- I like the nightlife where you can argue about Nick Cave being a present-day Elvis Presley and where strange performers cuddle and feed even stranger doll-like figures with NikNaks, and where every moment feels special and different, and where conversations afterwards resonate for years, and where three of those punters over there… yes, those three there! – their ages must add up to less than one of me.
- I like the nightlife because it makes me feel more than alright.
- I like the nightlife.
- I want to move over to you to see the way you’re standing.
- I want to move over to you to see just what you’re planning.
- I want to shout in capital letters and smile, and embrace the chaos and the beauty and the stupidity as the chanting and tablespoons and hope become louder and louder.
- I want to move closer to you.
- I like the nightlife.
I gave up writing music criticism because I do not want to dispel the magic. I do not like viewing the world through a screen that makes me feel I have seen the Northern Lights with my naked eye even though of course I have done nothing of the sort. It is the transitory nature of live performance that makes it so enticing, so boogie wonderful – it cannot ever be captured again no matter how often you try to document and eyewitness.
Let me give you a few, very small pointers.
DUBAIS: magic haunting, magic walking through the air, stalking every breath. I have no idea what Italo-disco sounds like and neither do you. I have no visual memory no. All I remember are my dreams. All I visualise are dreams. The cat becomes the human becomes the disco queen becomes all of us. This is Dubais.
I can’t touch it.
MATTRESS: More fun than any of us deserve, Richard Hawley and Ian Svenonius reimagined as a disco king, and of course Alan Vega and Suicide with glittery gold suits and deadpan, humorous, observations. Everything links. My favourite moments are your favourite moments are everyone’s favourite moments. Pause. My favourite chords are your favourite chords are everyone’s favourite chords. Pause.
I can’t touch it.
STIGMARIA (not pictured): someone remarks, “R.E.M. in a cardboard box” but honestly? This duo are way, way better. I am thinking my caustic 2000s sweethearts Lesbo Pig.
I can’t touch it.
BEEF CURTAINS: words are meaningless here. I, i, i, i, i… honestly? I like music that makes me question my place in the world. Very rude, very feral, very naughty, so much fun. I’m not sure that **** ******** even managed to get through 90 seconds of “music” (noise, feedback, screaming, thunderous mega-drumming, silence) without everything falling apart again. In places, they remind me of super-early Slits performances… not that I was ever lucky enough to see those. In places, they are jaw-droppingly brazen but they feel so inclusive and wonderfully free, unshackled by expectations. The blast is such a blast, heightened by the fact I am standing next to the band’s parents ******* themselves with laughter. One song sounds distressingly similar to The Clash’s ‘London Calling’ (well, it is, but with the words changed) but there again The Clash were never so outrageously fun. One song is a meows harmony version of ‘Teenage Kicks’. (This may have been the point where all the amps packed up, and the entire band sang everything vocally. It may not have been. I was too busy being awestruck to take notes.) There is an intro about teenage boys jacking off to a picture of your face. The entire performance lasts around 20 minutes, three and a bit songs, and is so much more life-enriching and mind-melting than 2000 thousand of whatever the **** it is you’ve been enjoying recently. The following evening, we are at a fireworks display in a house in Bevendean and for three seconds, the entire ******* sky explodes.
This, my friends, is **** ********.