At Home on the Dance Floor
I tacked on a few days of play to my first official business trip as a Co-Pilot at Whywander — mainly for a good dance session. I was yearning for a solid 6+ hours on the dance floor; spent right in front of the DJ or hugging a speaker. Naturally, a day party on London’s last Sunday of the summer was a fine choice.
Making my way East, I walk towards a converted warehouse, zipping my way through the barricades, guided by the muffled music through the walls. Security guard clicks his people counter, tap down search, pay entry fee, stamp on inner wrist. Ready.
Upstairs, I find my friends dancing on the terrace; sun shining and beats blazing. The crowd is unfamiliar, terribly young, with a whole lot of cleavage, fake nails and high ponytails. Most partygoers are live streaming the entire evening; their phones extensions of their arms, their flash messing up the light of this sacred landscape. In awe of the amount of footage being captured, I wonder where it all goes, who watches it, and what does it mean — a signifier that “I was there”. I too struggle with the call to capture and Shazam, or wholly give myself to the moment.
It didn’t take me long to get into my groove; sweater wrapped around my waist, pockets full of essentials, dancing shoes on. Our group of four is on a synchronised yet unspoken dance schedule; bookmarked by shared beer and water runs, cigarette and bathroom breaks. Subbing for singalongs, our faces form smiles and frowns simultaneously, annotated by occasional screaming; indicators of revelling in the joy of the beat.
With my foray into rave culture, my first learning was the importance of stretching and massaging. When you’re so dedicated to the beat, your legs and shoulders eventually tense up — an issue that can be resolved with my signature Danssage; a massage on the dance floor. Seldom have people rejected the offer — and when a girl gets intimidated that I’m massaging her boyfriend, I give her a massage too. As a recipient of a lifetime supply of massages, I’m well-versed on the pressure points calling for a knead or squeeze.
Dusk falls as the sun sets behind the terraced houses of East London; grading the sky with hues of purple and pink. The new Harvest moon shines brighter, inching us into the night. We move indoors for the next act — unannounced, the music switched from house to reggaeton. The party felt more like a black high school prom in a multipurpose hall — blue cotton candy and popcorn abound. We are the whitest kids on the dance floor. Where did all the white people go? Unsure, we continue to dance — this time less thumping and more swaying. The girls around us are twerking and jumping in sync; each stars of their own music videos.
As we head out, we find another party room across the street — the music draws us in. We mark our territory way up front for the next 3 hours. Obstructed by the booth, the DJ’s legs are invisible — I only see a pliable torso bopping to the beat of his own drum, with the power to energize the entire room. The DJs took us on journeys, passing the baton to each other with almost seamless transitions; building momentum and taking us to the crescendo. The apex of my night was towards the end — when the security guard, decked out in his reflective yellow vest, swaggered through the crowd. Here was a man on duty, with so much soul, getting his dance on, even if just for a few minutes.
Nights like this break us down and build us up. They bind us to strangers and friends alike. They are both an artistic expression and an improv performance.
