Like a call to prayer I hear the dark dubstep beats. Knees bending I begin to bounce bounce bounce. Not many people here so early. Dancefloor’s empty. Good. More and more and more room to dance dance dance. Arms and legs and hands, each pop of each part of my body is to a beat.
I’m sweating. I’m thrashing it around the dancefloor. Hmm. Need brief respite. I’m leaving the dancefloor. Oh no. Catastrophe. I’m seeing them now. All of them. I hate them all. You’re posh. You’re posh. You’re a twat. You’re a nob. You’re posher. You’re caked in make up and smell of vanilla perfume. What are you doing here? You’re checking to see who’s looking at you. Why are you here? Get out. So this is it. The end. I’m here in dubstep and it’s being ruined. I’m probably doing some damage myself. I’m too middle class to like this. I’m devastated, this fucking incredible moment in music was all to fleeting. I’m watching the twats as they wrest it away in their dickish look-at-me clothes with their juvenile self-obsession.
I’m back on the dancefloor. Appleblim is playing an impressive support set, albeit with maybe one two many bassy wobblers.
Time for the main act. I’m still dancing, I’m trying to ignore the posh fucks. Skream, Benga and Artwork are taking to the stage, each hiding behing an Apple. I’m being amazed. I’m momentarily distracted by four horrendously confused girls with neon shades and flashing necklaces as they constantly take pictures of themselves. I’m resisting the temptation to throttle them. I’m turning around, sinking into the music. The future sound of the underground is being mixed live before my eyes. Each producer is providing samples and beats and mixing it all together. I cannot resist. I’m moving harder and faster. I’m becoming more volatile. I’m losing myself in dubstep. I’m wanting bass. More bass. I move to the the speaker. More bass. I’m humping the speaker. I’m literally humping the speaker. Uh oh. There’s other people here. I’m embarrassed. I’m leaving. I’m happy.
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