I write this with ringing ears, smoky hair and residual feelings of shame. Yip, all indicators that last night’s party rocked. The shindig in question was Labyrinth at Trinity. Never mind the hangover, the thing that’s stuck with me most after last night is the uneasy notion that the trance scene, in club-land anyway, is but a series of revolving nights. Is there no place for the misfits to call their own?
I found this handy definition of a misfit in a dictionary: ‘One who is unable to adjust to one’s environment or circumstances, or is considered to be disturbingly different from others.’ Preach! I, as my nom de plume would imply, have always been a bit of a misfit. I was the girl with blue hair reading Anne Rice perched on the branch of a tree (no really). While my peers wore platform shoes and had belly rings, I wore tutus and used a Turkish puppet as a belt (yes really).
One fateful night, desperately under age I was asked for my ID at the door to the Boiler Room. Maybe it was my baby face, or perhaps the bouncer astutely sniffed out that I wasn’t one of their kind. Left to Cape Town’s dark streets, I needed to find somewhere to party until dawn—after all I had to wait for a bus home. I had a friend in tow, whose name and face are now a blur, but what I do remember is finding Getafix; a trance club in the loft of a creaking wooden house on Shortmarket Street. Who are these people? I thought. These smiley happy folk, who had even odder fashion sense than mine. And with that a Friday night habit was born; I had found the other misfits, and finally felt as if I had come home.
But it wasn’t just this club that had me enthralled, not too far down the road was another hippy haunt called The Afrogalactic Cafe. Spoilt I tell you. There was a real sense of community, being different was suddenly something to be celebrated. When the mundane passing of regular life became too soul-crushing, there were smoky rooms with ambient lamps and psychedelic beats to disappear into.
Back in present day, things aren’t quite as atmospheric. Sure there are some epic events, like last night’s Labyrinth or say the regular whomping Psynopticz Thursdays. But in-between these naughty nights, it seems we’re cut adrift in a sea of non-genre specific clubs, where electro trash is juxtaposed with hipster rock, and the décor is limited to sticky floors and foosball tables. And Capetonians aren’t even the worst off; jet-setting Joburgers have become the norm, flying to our city to get their fix. But let’s cut the nostalgia for a moment. Trance is a cash cow. Promoters are well aware of how starved people are for psy, and a solid party can rake in the moolah. So why not open a club? Let’s look at the mechanics; a solid sound system (why is this so hard to achieve?), some groovy décor, a cosy dance floor, nag champa, and a liquor license. Ah…is it simply not viable to open any sort of club in Cape Town anymore? Our fine city’s new liquor laws mean that the drinking hours are cut short—and man (or dude) cannot party on nag champa alone.
The odds are against us misfits (funny that), while trance music is here to stay, the venues where we can enjoy it at are dictated. Clubs that usually play house music occasionally get dressed up in lumo and let us freaks come out and play. The décor is soon torn down and normal business resumes. Sitting here, with my head spinning, I reflect on how nice it would be to go somewhere and hang out with the other misfits. As fun as last night was, I don’t always want to crawl home at 5am; a quick smoke, a chill-out session, a drink with friends… But instead, we’ll just have to wait ‘till someone throws another party with a psy-studded line-up, and melt our brains all over again.
Written By : The Little Misfit
Photography By : www.jadedmedia.co.za
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