I knew only very roughly where Jean's home is, and my city map didn't show this part of town, so I had to get directions. It was dark by this point, and I couldn't see any pedestrians, so I began walking in what I thought was the correct direction. Noticing a police car parked on the other side of the street, I jaywalked in a most brazen fashion over to the passenger side and tapped on the window.
The cop was on a call, so he held a finger up for me to wait, and I stood patiently until he rolled the window down for me.
"Excuse me, sir," I said. "I appear to be a bit lost. Could you please direct me to *** Street?"
"Oh," he said. "I don't know where that is. Hang on."
He called it in to the dispatcher, and was given some rough directions.
"Hop in," he said. "It's too cold to walk. I'll take you there."
And so I got a free ride with the cop, which is much more economical than flagging down a cabbie, I must say.
At long last, I found Jean's place, and met up with her, Chris, and Chris's fiancé Mike. Jean was dressed at Erzabet Bathory, Chris as a sexy French maid, and Mike as Teen Wolf. I got changed into my red, black, and gold tribaret costume, and we cabbed it over to the Matadors show at the Kathedral.
The club was full. Very full. The band started shortly after we arrived, and they played a bitchin' set. I've never been to a psychobilly show before, and I would like to go to another. The crowd energy was high, and the stage theatrics were over the top with a giant zombie Jesus barfing bubbles, toilet paper, water, and smoke over the audience. And I just adored the guy playing stand-up bass. He was really rocking out.
When the show ended, I was exhausted. Just utterly shagged out. My Friday night had been rather epic, after all. But the night was still young. It was about midnight, and my hosts had no intention of slowing down. So we ended up in another taxi on our way to yet another party.
The next party was in what looked like a small industrial park, and we walked through several sketchy-looking alleys until I saw the most enormous party I'd ever seen. I think it may have been the biggest party in the province, and everyone in Canada may very well have been there. Although it was cold out, there were so many people standing outside the warehouse that the body heat made the air warm. Still, I was bundled up in my warm sweater, black leather trench coat, and carrying my overstuffed purse and knapsack. I was so tired I could barely walk. The world was a surreal blur, and I was being crowded and jostled by the huge swarm of partiers.
I saw Chris approach someone dressed as Thriller-era Michael Jackson, and the next thing I knew, she was demanding I show him my costume.
"I can't," I whined. "I have all this shit, and it's too crowded for me to put it anywhere."
But my complaints went unheeded, and my purse and knapsack were hauled off by my friends. "Show them!" said Chris.
"Fine," I said, and unbuttoned my coat. My sweater was still tied on. I untied it and opened it.
This next moment amuses me. Where a moment before I'd been caught in a noisy press of souls, I was suddenly surrounded by a buffer of air and silence as everyone saw my costume. I hadn't anticipated such a frigging dramatic response! Michael Jackson said, "You must dance for me!"
"What? When?" I asked.
"My set is up next. Will you dance on stage?"
"Sure," I said.
He turned to Chris. "And you'll dance, too, right?"
She agreed with reluctance, and we followed him inside, where it was even more crowded.
I think there may have been close to a thousand people at the party, all told. It was absolutely overwhelming. I forced my way into the throng, staying close behind Michael Jackson who was carrying my bookbag high above his head.
The inside looked like a gutted warehouse with a second story. The stage was the second story, with the wall knocked out and no railing in place. A narrow, treacherous stairwell (also without a railing) went up to the stage. Chris and I followed him upstairs, and we stashed our stuff in a backstage room. I ditched my coat and sweater, adjusted my costume, and turned to Chris. "What kind of music do they play, anyway?"
"Funk," she said.
Ok. I can do that. I danced to metal the night before. Funk will be a piece of cake in comparison. Michael Jackson (who was actually Russ) came back and asked us to take the front of the stage when they started their first song.
I looked at the stage with trepidation. It was very crowded and very high up. I'd have to be exceptionally careful not to lose my balance. I didn't want to attempt stage diving.
When the band (Mercy Now) took the stage, I saw we'd have even less room to dance than I'd thought. Chris took the spot at the top of the stairwell, and I took centre stage between the vocalist and the bassist. And then it began. My dance space was about half the size of a standard bathtub, and I managed neither to fall nor bash into the musicians. Where I'd just been exanimate, I was now flooded with energy as the crowds cheered and danced and took photos and just had a great time. I realized almost all of them were getting too much of a good upskirt view, but no matter. There was naught that could be done about that, so I just danced my damned ass off. I danced until my once dry hair hung in lanky soaking ropes across my neck, back and face.
I'm not sure how long the set was. Maybe an hour. Photographers kept sneaking up the stairwell to get better shots, mostly of Chris and I, but also the band. I took a couple of breaks during the set and took a few pictures myself, but the set-up wasn't ideal for good band photography.
You can see photos from my night here.
Afterwards, we went back to Chris's and I crashed and slept the hardest, deepest sleep I've had since I had mono all those years back. It was awesome.
And then I came back home.
How was your weekend?