Beneath the Blue: A Night in the Techno Sea - Club Diaries #1

Despite the concerns of my loved ones, I often go out alone. On a humid Thursday, I bought a ticket to an unfamiliar nightclub hosting a rave. The party began at 11, and I arrived sometime after midnight. The walls were black, I think, but the atmosphere was blue. As the night went on, it appeared I was sinking deeper into the techno sea, bathed in heavenly spotlights cutting through the water as moonbeams of cyan clarity. 

The guiding hallways of white brick were sketched and spray-painted upon, marking the territory of past guests’ dancing ghosts, leaving a visual signet where their souls can rest. Catacombs connected two rooms: one full and breathing synchronically, the other entirely empty but not without music. Poor guy. 

In the vacant room, I danced, soon approached by another Apprentice of the Beat. I wondered if we might get drinks. We might. I ordered my classic vodka cran, was suddenly snaked in front of, and my drink was paid for by the lonesome man. Appreciative, but not of the resulting expectations. (Just know he continued to appear hauntingly over my shoulder, somehow lurking just in my line of vision.)

As I do, I swayed to the barricade, mesmerized by the methodical digital angels living within the DJ’s mixer (shoutout Lain). I bumped shoulders with a white button-up, I bumped shoulders with a white button-up, I bumped shoulders with a white button-up. He motioned, implying a smoke, wondering if we might go out. We might. 

To the outdoor smoking area we walked, and I was introduced to Paris, Dublin, and Paris. The section was thriving and social, removed from the rest of society via dark tarps. We spoke about what brought us to London, whether we had been to this club before, future musical endeavors, the drugs we’ve done and would do, what we listen to, what media we consume. After hand-rolled cigarettes, I followed the light of the tunnels and the pulsing vibrations of the sound, feeling quite like the prey of the angler fish, hypnotically swimming into his jaws. 

Before I got there, my trance was interrupted by an unoriginal man. I turned back around and we went right back outside, as he proceeded to mansplain Strawberry Switchblade even after seeing they were already saved in my phone.

I made it back inside, convulsing and pulsating to hit each beat, moving through the lush armour of those mirroring my movements. This cycle (of movement and smokes) is repeated in a structure similar to that of the soundtrack, interrupted at a point by another drink.

The crowd thickened, along with the haze. The room had a classic London fog, and beams of light were tangibly shining through it. Time marched on, and no one ever stopped dancing. I’m not sure yet if it was the crowd, the venue, or the city (and don’t fret, for I will find out), but no one ever stopped dancing. Whenever I turned, people were thrashing and grinding. 

Deep into the night, I was regarded by suited men, likely coming directly from work (priorities) clad in navy slacks and cream button-ups, one with a backpack strapped on. “I love the way you dance. Do you want a bump?” He generously offered me a key that was preloaded, which I politely declined.

Beside me, a woman fluttered an oversized, black, glittering fan in relieving waves of charity to those in need and in her wake, handing it off behind the booth. Together we danced, and she took out a tube of lip gloss, waving the wand across my lips and then her own. It was sticky and sweet.

The smoking area closed, and the energy of some began to wane, not unlike the moon, reflecting the approach of the night’s end. My newfound friends and I took to the platform, reigning over the dancers below. The crowd slowly began to thin, the music had a final drop, and erupting hollers of satisfaction turned into despair as the overhead lights blinded those left. 

We thanked the DJs and were promptly rushed out. The sky was even and the color of the spotlights- the sun had already begun to rise. We began our separate journeys, walking until our paths untangled, discussing the raves of tomorrow. I traveled home, reheated my fish and chips, and set my alarm for two hours from then, ready for class in the morning.

Corsica Studios (5 Farrell Court, Elephant & Castle, SE17 1LB)