If you’ve ever been uncool enough to turn up to a gig before the venue has even opened, then you’ll know how slowly time goes as you wait to be let in. Luckily for me though, the Metro backs onto an alleyway off George St, which was always bound to bring out some colourful characters. After getting bored of making fully sick beats on the bricks with my fingertips, I decided that leering seedily at an approaching woman seemed appropriate.

Oh yes, she was a glamour. Impossibly delicate fabric flowed across her subtle frame; her silky locks brushing against that model-perfect jawline. She strode with purpose towards me, each footstep perfectly placed in front of its predecessor as if she was the world’s most experienced tightrope walker. As this vixen made her way towards my end of the street, more of her face came into view. Steely grey eyes pierced my soul as her lips parted ever so slightly, her Adam’s apple jerking upwards as she swallowed.

Her Adam’s apple.

Now feeling uncomfortable about everything in life, along came a man who would show me that things could be much worse. Taking almost two minutes to walk ten metres up the footpath, he is possibly the most intoxicated person I’ll ever see – and where was he going? To the bottle shop of course! Having recovered from my mid-Friday crisis, I happily walked through the finally-open doors of the Metro.

The human tapestry inside the venue was equally as vibrant. Before Slow Magic roused the crowd with his glitchy lullabies, a lone groover slunk around the empty dancefloor – twisting and jerking his body without a care in the world. I was slightly less adventurous and cracked a tin at the bar for starters. Before long I ran into a slightly tipsy friend whose voice might occasionally serenade you from your radio on Thursdays. After losing a couple of hours and my friend, things started to get sweaty in the main room.

XXXY made people shamelessly bring back the knee slap as a serious dance move. I even happened upon a friendly chap who had made the unorthodox yet nevertheless wise decision to bring a Japanese folding fan for cooling purposes. I am forever in his debt.

Soon Pariah jumped on the decks and played a set that included this stomper which sent me on a completely reckless dancing rampage. Lives were lost. However nothing could compare to the rager that the following human was having.

I’m ninety per cent sure that there were more foreign substances in his body than blood, and he was having a damn swell time just avoiding swallowing his own tongue. Fortunately, those who weren’t quite on his level gave him a wide berth, and he had his very own dancing bubble in which he could go absolutely bananas.

Somehow our photographer, Jackson Cox, found himself chatting outside with a rambling tripper. Don’t take cigarettes from strangers, kids. Soon enough though, the most inspiring person of the night found her way into my section of the dancefloor during Pearson Sound’s pulsating set.

Looking at her from top to bottom told an interesting story. Typical summer club clothes, colourful purse. Then, unexpectedly…
Joggers.

THAT is a girl who’s prepared to dance all night. Whoever you are, I dedicate the night to you.

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