‘Play us a tune’ #2
September 6th, 2002 by freddie96
II
Placed in the middle of the city park, the circus tent shimmers in the beam of the full moon. The gold embroidered banners in front of the entrance flap in the wind.
‘Ar ar ar! It’s Arena!!’ The cue of club people bark and then let rip of a chorus of howling. ‘Woooaaowhh…ararar!’
Arena is one of their favourite DJs. She smiles at the by now familiar ritual and hurries past the long row of women, interspersed by the occasional man. Arena checks out people’s dress sense, the sheer show of variety of which never stops to amaze her. Space Girl Lana is there, as always, in silver body paint and rubber bikini: ‘Hi Lana. ‘Y’r all right, ‘rena!’ the charismatic Lana returns Arena’s greeting.
But there are the quieter ones, the tomboys in Oasis type outfits, the lipstick dykes, the indie girls, the funky dreads, the brass monkeys, the pagan godesses, the dance hall queens, the disco divas and a whole heap of less stereotypical female folk and boys. Arena drags her boxes along, pretending they are not heavy. She holds her head high, making her auburn dreads fly in the warm summer midnight breeze, and moves in the direction of the welcoming triangle entrance, which throbs in purple, red, gold and with a booming bass.
Looking into the large canvass clad corridor, a rather obese silhouette approaches Arena. She gets a massive hug and she is relieved of one of her bags. Then her freed hand is grabbed, squeezed and Arena feels herself being pulled into the circus.
In some brighter light, Arena notices that Madame Froo, hostess-with-the mostest, is wearing a buffed up blond wig today, which makes her look like a drag queen on severe hormone treatment.
‘Come on girl,’ the overweight promoter says, ‘we’ve been waiting for you. Xandra is playing the same set all over again; she didn’t bring enough records. Why does she insist on that goddamn oversized handbag for carrying her records? She always runs out of tunes to play; stupid! The sooner she can finish, the better.’
Xandra is indeed in a mild state of panic, combined with a sense of contempt, since some people have started to complain. Shit. I’m fed up working for begging money. I don’t want to take the bus to work ever again. All you can take on the bus without getting mugged is a large shopping bag… It’s a circular argument really, shopping bag means a small set; small set means little respect; little respect means little money; little money means bus and back to the shopping bag. Shit. She returns a two finger greeting to a person near the DJ box. Yes, I know, I’ve played this twice already. Don’t you like it?. Think I’m stupid? It’s a good thing I’m earning a bit extra tonight with finishing the back room at Carl’s party.
Madame Froo grabs her robe with her finger tips and starts in the direction of the DJ box. ‘Oooh, that girl…’ she mumbles with some desperation about Xandra’s seeming lack of professionalism.
Just as Xandra is considering to give in to her tears of frustration, Arena barges into the DJ box, banging her metal rimmed boxes through the tiny door opening. She hoists them onto the high ledge. As she climes into the DJ box, she turns to Xandra and strokes her brown Shirley Temple hairdo, ‘Hey Xandra, never mind, it’s a good record you’re playing.’
Quietly, Xandra starts to gather her records and scattered sleeves. She dries her eyes and sips a beer whilst watching Arena getting ready. Arena overlooks the disjointed crowd for a moment, then her attention turns to the set. She dives into the record box. Quick quick quick, where was that belter of a tune? Yeah, got it. She bungs it on the deck and synchronises the speed. She then cues the record and waits for the right moment to release it. Zigue zigue, goes the bass drum in her headphone. Yup, here we go. She swings along, her head bouncing as the two rhythms hug and enhance each other. Another one in the mix. Let it roll, let it roll. The crowd roars, barks and howls.
Madame Froo comes up to the DJ box with a couple of beers, hugs Xandra into her massive bosom and gives Arena a kiss on the cheek. ‘Top tune!’ she yells. ‘Xandra, get that one, will you? You could play it three times and it ‘d be fresh!’
Xandra shrugs weakly, as she recovers from her ego-crisis and regains her critical faculties. Nah, she thinks to herself, she doesn’t want to sound like some other DJ; Xandra is Xandra, end of story. She is the specialist in sexy syncopated stuff without banging suburban superclub pretences. Xandra is proud of her special niche. It’s feminine, female to the bone, and black… or black, or simply not of the Mixmag variety. Well, whatever, at least her music is groovy and open to new directions, breaking up that banging phallocentric four-to-the-floor beat. In this mood of rejuvenated determination, Xandra exits the DJ box.
Arena pumps it up and feels total 3D, at the centre of her sounds. The records she wants to play seem to stick from her box to her hands like magic; no need to search and look. Above the dancing crowd, three rope artists defy gravity. Arena is mixing a thumping epic trance beat with a gospel inspired acappella from the AIDS-panic period. Next, in Xandra-inspired experimental mood, she blends in a samba rhythm track on the third deck… it works! At breakneck speed no less. Banging banging! The rope artists twirl and twist and scatter femidoms over the heads of dancers. As the rhythms thunder and syncopate another three aerialists slitter down the ropes out of nowhere and sprinkle condoms like confetti.
From the darker side of the huge circular dance floor, a hospital bed is wheeled onto a small stage by a woman with a wonderbra supported nurse’s outfit, showing Barbie cleavage galore. Matey wolf whistles from the audience for that. On the bed are two half-naked women, doing a kind of mud-wrestling in day-glo paint. They’re in stitches with laughing. The scene is broken up by a ballet dancer who pirouettes towards the bed whilst cradling a chain-saw. As she attacks the bed with it, a fountain of sparks fly around. The other performers run in all directions as the tutu wrapped girl turns the device to her stomach. Fountain after fountain of fire fly from her belly, until she collapses with exhaustion and is carried off by the nurse.
Now the crowd is beyond itself and the night is a whirl of beats and swirling bodies.
Hillegonda Rietveld, July 2002
Photo: Lisa Croasdale
