The Post-Club Conundrum – Part Deux

Brimming with glee... or grinning and bearing it?

Continued from Part Une:

After what seemed an eternity, the four of us arrived back at my flat, paid the flap of cardboard masquerading as a cab driver, and watched him drive his rusted ensemble of misery into the distance. Now it was time to get this party back on track. I had already assembled a shortlist of potential songs from which I would choose the all-important introduction to our night part two. It consisted of a choice between The Who’s rousing ‘Baba O’Reilly’, the Fred Falke remix of the Whitest Boy Alive’s ‘Golden Cage’ [Ed - kudos], Underworld’s epic ‘Cowgirl’, Lee Scratch Perry‘s ‘Jungle Lion’, or, for perhaps a more subtle approach allowing my guests to settle in, ‘Haiti’ by the Arcade Fire.

What a great tune to take your shoes off and get comfortable to. I was weighing all this up as I lead my friends up the stairs and along the corridor into my room. “Make yourself at home,” I triumphed with a broad face, as if I hardly knew them. Then, satisfied at seeing them take in all my cool stuff, I skipped along to the kitchen to fetch the beers and make that crucial decision. More songs came to me in waves of inspiration as I gazed into the fridge; ‘The Killing Moon’, ‘One Pure Thought’, ‘F.E.A.R’, ‘Last Post on the Bugle’, ‘Voodoo Ray’, ‘Float On’… oh the options! I was brought swiftly back from the realm of godly DJs by murmering from my room, and grabbing the six pack, I approached the arena proudly. … Continue Reading

The Post-Club Conundrum

Our carriage awaits...

A queue of Mercs and Hummer H3s rev into the o2 car park as four bleary eyed clubbers stagger out of the club, ears ringing. Hmmm, a nice warm cab with a friendly driver and a good sound system before home, thought they. But there, on the horizon, emerged the stuff of nightmare. A Toyota Corolla comes into view, with massage beads on the passenger seat and a navel-length beard behind the wheel. We each count the groups of people ahead of us and the number of cabs in front of the Corolla. Panic sets in. A group of girls step into a brand new Land Rover ahead of us. If we get this rusty pile of broken spanners we will be laughing stocks. “Please, no!” we screamed in our minds. We wanted the Hummer so bad. So bad! But fate had other, more sinister ideas.

“Clapham South mate?”

Nostrils flaring, we ascended the Corolla.

“What tunes you got in here then mate?” I said, staring blankly at the built-in radio. Our heavy-lidded driver simply pointed in the general direction of the dashboard. He may have spent the last decade carving a niche into that sweaty little seat of his, but I sensed my virgin foray into exploring the car’s audio system preceded his. We would’ve settled for anything. Long wave. Power ballads. Talk radio. Traffic updates. The Counting Crows. In the end, silence was deemed preferable to white noise.

“Do you like football?” I ventured. He shrugged. Silence.

“What reg is this car mate?” A pal contributed from the back.

After a long pause he replied with what might have been “why?” or “Y”. My brow furrowed and I turned to the window for inspiration. Dusty high-risers flew by, punctuated by neon chicken signs from every state in America. I was supposed to be a host. Now ZZ Top and his poxy Corolla had ruined everything. I could hear the enthusiasm dripping out of my comrades and onto the sick-stained floor. My first song back at the flat would have to be strong. It needed to rally the troops. It had to show them there was life in this night still. What could I play? What tune on earth could bear aloft this desperate burden?