Gecko Bloggle

So… Wednesday.

Wednesday is sorta interesting at work. Click here for the latest scuttlebutt. Saw some people go at my location go who were a bit of a surprise, and a few that certainly weren’t. Bittersweet, in some ways. It’s a transition year (the XBox360’s early release and the flexible release date of the Playstation3 lead the general public into a “wait and see” mode, which hurts publishers like EA), so it’s understandable. We saw graphs that show what happened when the XBox and PS2 came out, so it’s not like we should be completely shocked. Anyhoo, enough about that.

Thursday. Afrika Bambaataa at Atlantis

Googled a little to make sure about the “early show” factor, just to make sure I wasn’t booked for a short show somewhere. Double-checked my online-purchased ticket confirmation thingie, and noticed that all it said was that I had a ticket for Afrika Bambaataa (not WHEN or WHERE), so I Googled a little more, and found out that Bam was playing at Atlantis (used to Club Saturna, then Jupiter, then Marrs, then Wett Bar), not (as I thought) Richards. Good thing I checked. Also saw that doors were at 10pm, so I figured I’d go a little later. Good thing. Got in fairly early (10:40) after a rigorous pat-down, which involved a little game of “What’s this?” with the ruthlessly efficient and thorough doorlady.

Try this next time you leave the house. Hold your arms out like you’re a plane getting ready for takeoff, and then have someone ask you (while staring you in the eye) “What’s in this pocket?” and see if you know without grabbing it… I had the following on me (but had to physically check every other item before I could tell the nice lady what it was):

• My cel phone (in my pocket, instead of my belt-clip, like it usually is.
• My keys (with one of those big-ol’ RSA Keyfob things on it).
• Pack of smokes (sigh… still want to smoke if I’m going to clubs).
• Wallet (overstuffed, for that “leather couch crammed into your back pocket” look).
• No Blackberry (not going to drop it again).

Got in, and some DJ guy was doing his thing, playing samba stuff with some occasional mis-fires on the crossfade, which was always met with some “Wha happa?” looks from the crowd, and DJ Warmupdude pointing at the turntable on the right and shrugging. Funny – that seemed to happen when he started mis-mixing and making the “sneakers in the clothes dryer” noise, too.

Bought myself a beer (in a green bottle, I think it was a Hienneken, just to remember the good ol’ days at Luv-A-Fair, where I once tipped the bartender so well he started putting the bottles into the ice as soon as he saw I was there) and sat down on the stage, next to where the DJ was. Watched young folks dancing around, and was pleasantly surprised that there seemed to be a very happy-go-dancing feeling in the place. Was nice to see that not all clubs are about the pose-off.

Speaking of posing: a quick note to the two young ladies in the lineup behind me. When you’re waiting outside a club that’s been around for 15+ years, to see a DJ who’s been spinning since before Michael Jackson did the moonwalk, in an area of town that (at least at one time) was crammed with clubs, don’t stand there talking about how weird it is that there “a club in the middle of nowhere” and “what a weird place for a club this is.” Not all clubs are (or used to be) on Granville. Get used to it. If you’re going to have alarmingly pink “look at me, I’m an individual!” hair, at least pretend you’ve been to a club that isn’t directly across the street from a major food chain outlet.

Okay, so back to the scene inside. I’m sitting on the stage, looking around. I’m probably the only guy in the whole place who’s got grey in his beard (especially if you’ve got mostly grey in your beard), and this is thoroughly confirmed by the photographer who comes up to me to ask if I’m the manager of the bar…

What do you even say to that? “Yes.” came to mind, of course, just to see what would happen, but I’m not the sort of person who lies that easily about something like that. It’s the Canadian in me, I’m sure. Especially when the photographer is a 6’4″ black man with shades (in a dark club) and what was, I can only guess, a portable battery pack and harddrive pack attached to his hip. Is that a reverse racism thing? I can’t lie to African American folks? Weird.

So finally, there’s an entourage of people who show up, and start climbing up onto the stage, talking to the DJ, and sizing up the place. Very cool, very relaxed, and yet slightly nerdy lookin’, in a good way. Real-seeming people, y’know? Gigantic leather jackets that should really be called parkas with huge circular backpatches for the Zulu Nation. Now it’s getting serious. DJ Warmup is getting visibly nervous, and flubs a couple more crossfades here and there before just giving up and putting on something long and loud.

I look around a little more, and think “jeez, that guy’s kinda big to be climbing up onto the-” before I realize Afrikaa Bambaataa’s walking towards me. I could reach out and trip him, or poke in the arm, or said some sort of “you’re the most bestest original deejay person guy” or ask him to sign my copy of Renegades of Funk if I hadn’t left it safe and sound under my bed, amongst the ultra-rare Prince vinyl I have.

As my karate sensei would have said, I was in his circle.

He pulls out his laptop (an Apple), and boots up Final Scratch. This explains why he didn’t have anyone carrying big crates of records.

He’s a very large man, and hardly moves as he does his thing. He does it though. Hooboy did people dance. Myself included. I got down on the floor in front of speakers and shook my 35-year-old thang while staying just outside of the area where the b-boys and b-girls threw down. There was some truly awesome breakdancing both old school popping and locking, and some of the newer “you’re gonna kill yourself doing that” style (including a heart-warming and crowd-unifying round of “laugh at the baseball-cap-wearing-drunkards-from-Surrey,” complete with two women immitating the “hold your beer in the air” dance and somehow making it hip when they were doing it).

Lots of call and response from the MC of the show (who’s name I missed, but he was fun, and didn’t try to do the “Vancouvaaaaaaaaah” thing at all, which was fun).

Oh, and the music. It was like a retrospective of hip hop, minus the gansta stuff. It was for DANCING, dammit.

Oh, and I’m pretty sure I saw what could only be Shakira’s neice out there on the floor, right next to the cat-eye glasses wearing, multi-coloured-dreadded-belly-dancer (who was rockin’ out to hiphop all night in this weird “I’m a goth, if Robert Smith were James Brown’s baby” kinda way). Very entertaining to watch.

There was a lot more stuff I wanted to say, but can’t remember any of what it was now…

I felt old there, but it was okay.

No wait, I felt old school, and that’s okay by me.