The concept of celebrating one’s birth originated through the Persian male-dominated cult of Mithras, the God of oaths, agreements and alliances. Taken up by the Romans, the celebration of one’s Birthday promptly spread throughout the Greco-Roman Empire. And it is because of this tradition that Family Nightclub, the boon and shining jewel of Brisbane’s nightlife, erupted into a fiery baptism of fervour. Some conventions expect the Birthday celebrant to treat their guests. And thus following this custom, Family were munificently laying out the piñatas with such headliners as the Japanese techno omnipotent Kazu Kamira and Walhalla deity, DJ Tom, Australia’s own T-Funk aka Mr Timothy featuring pop turned underground songbird Katie Underwood, well supported by local acts Scott Walker, mag00, TyDi, Syke, the irrepressible Gee, JC, Brendan Cleary, gay favourite Harry K, the always popular Stafford Brothers and eternally invincible, Chris Wilson. How could one not be overwhelmed at the generosity of such superb gifts?

Tash kindly encouraged me to walk through the portals of Family, her lovely smile flashing under the special lights that emphasised the Family brand against the stone walls that housed the musical goodness within. Inside lay furnishings that hinted at a time long vanished. Roman-Grecian statues were systematically positioned; camels reclining against palm fronds, baskets strewn across passageways, and other symbols reminiscent of Cleopatra and Mark Antony flanking the walls; fans abandoned by slaves intended for cooling the Pharoah, served to highlight the features of the DJ who perched above them; while Family staff members wore shirts emblazoned with golden pagan Egyptian figures. The excitement of the guests were at fever pitch, as their pleasure swivelled through the depths of Family.

Delving into the inner sanctum of Family, I was immediately caught up in the maelstrom of Scott Walker and mag00. Scott Walker’s music washed over the crowd like the revving of a boat propeller – the sounds grating, the depths vast and the bass boring determinedly into the mind. mag00’s sound was as immaculate as ever; his beats thumping while synthetic patches floated into the inner linings of my ears as repetitive and rampant grooves rolled across the walls. This incredible composition was carefully assisted by the magnificent sound system. The thumping offbeats permeated each corner, the rhythms persuading palpitating heart beats to respond appropriately. Melodies inherent in the higher frequencies of the register were fast and frenetic, exacting climaxes with an equal effect. Attractive punters traversed the course of the Basement; one loner serenely walking along and unexpectedly mid step, performing a rapid techno gig before calmly resuming his amble as though nothing happened. Listening to Scott Walker and mag00, I was thinking that Steve Reich would indeed be proud that his legacy of minimalism remained relevant to today’s youth groups. The cyclic loops of g00 and Scott Walker were highly irresistible, inducing the subconscious to greater heights of achieving nirvana. Their images were cast onto the surrounding walls; the grainy textures enforcing a subversive element to the evening.

Upstairs in the Lounge, the Indian booth offered a tarot reader to predict one’s destiny. Enticing aromas of spices pervaded the air as good looking people chatted and chuckled together. The bar staff bustled about energetically, no doubt inspired by the fabulous music threading through the system. Surrounded by the abandoned intersecting fans of an Egyptian Pharaoah, JC was handing out some quality tunage. His beats were riotous yet soothing; much like a short black that rolled down your throat with colossal hyperactive consequences. The understated clamour of the crowd mingled beautifully with the ambient strains of JC’s sounds. My heart just about rose into my mouth as the sweetly piercing reverberations of the saxophone infused the Lounge; the golden tones introspective and reflecting. The improvising saxophone grooved hard against the caustic rhythms, the tones reedy and wonderfully counter balanced by spurts of suffused background melodies and jolting meters. The mood was comforting and congenial – no doubt enhanced by the wonderfully prepared mojito that was soon flooding my body.

In Uncle, our host for the evening was Dean, his gorgeously clad body and beautifully dressed blonde hair a major attraction to the predominantly gay crowd. Baskets, amphoras and Greco-roman busts were prudently positioned across the dance floor, encouraging pagan acts of behaviour from the many boys happily dominating the nonchalant atmosphere. Sheets were strewn across the ceiling, enhancing that sense of reclining opulence. Harry K was blasting cheesy tunes into the pentagonal confines of the room, the popular tunes balanced by rollicking house beats and melodies. It was absolutely crowded; the throng rioting uproariously and in very good spirits; buffed bodies and hair coiffed to perfection – though none could compete against the striking attraction of Dean of course. It seemed each space in Family housed a very elite and je ne sais quoi social gathering. Each demographic was superbly catered for. If there was nothing suiting your tastes tonight, you were clearly not out for a good time!

Back down in the Main Room, I was faced by a wall of strapping policemen. Their blue uniforms strained at the sleeves as they formed a united barricade. In my confusion, I was expecting yet another gift from Family; perhaps the whisking off of clothes and the cavorting of brawny men at my beck and call.. but no. They were not strippers for the evening. Their truncheons nestled in their belts confirmed they were indeed authorities of the law. How tough they all were, facing tiny lonesome little me. Their presence was instantly overlooked as the clamour for Kazu promptly commenced. His features glowed fascinatingly in the lighting as he slapped palms and exchanged manly hugs with mag00 and Scott. Within seconds of assuming the decks, a clan of Japanese warriors infiltrated the Basement; their shapes melding into the shadows and blending into the dull thud of invincible bass lines. Kazu masterfully coaxed these deep bass lines and rhythms into submission; a myriad of bass riffs competing with undulating rhythms his music coalescing into a trickling electronic brook. The incessant techno beats enhanced by percussive instruments were absolutely overpowering in that room. The kids meanwhile were literally bouncing off the walls, their enthusiasm palpable and tangible. I unfortunately could not tempt my subconscious into obedience, for within a half hour, the cyclic melodies and beats merged into a cacophony of indistinguishable meanderings. The winding melodies and repetitive beats were certainly well established and beautifully mastered; just simply not to my tastes. For the rest of Kazu’s set, I was flitting in and out every twenty minutes, determined to capture his essence, but vacillating over the discordal nature of his intriguing music.

In the Lounge, Brendan Cleary had taken over the decks. The martini I was sipping accompanied his chilled beats splendidly. Lovely girls in party dresses wandered the room, their chatter fusing with the wonderful rhythms and melodies. It was ambrosia for the ears as the very handsome face of Brendan perched above those intersecting fans. His melodies were nimble and light, the character playful, almost teasing. The beats were pungent; a striking backdrop to the lilting melodies and textures Brendan had wisely chosen. The overall atmosphere was simply wonderful; I felt extremely comfortable and at ease – much of this thanks to the excellent music and an alcohol supported sense of wellbeing. Meanwhile, back in Uncle, the riotous activities from before had noticeably subdued. The crowd was less heaving, but no less enthusiastic. An almost studied concentration had settled amongst the punters, and this was likely due to the superb musicianship of The Stafford Brothers. Their music was vociferous and steady, the melodies blasting throughout the area.

Back downstairs in the Main Room, the crowds had amassed significantly. Which was just as well, for TyDi and Syke had assumed control. The buffed and glowing bod (thanks to a few days on Hotham) of Syke commanded much female attention. He set the decks afire, his tunes blistering the very air. Scorching beats infiltrated the system, the high frequency melodies jarring and demanding. Alternating with Syke, Tydi confidently took over the decks, his musical maturity belying his young and seemingly innocent features. His music was truly devastating, the pulse solid and penetrating – even in the vast spaces of the Basement. The melodies wavered across the spectrum, the colours bright and piercing and absolutely staggering. He was incredibly secure in amassing the energy and then gently though no less subtly releasing the power upon the masses of bodies below. It was equivalent to an imploding bomb blast – starting from the nexus, it spread out, leaving blissful victims in its wake. Heartbeats reacted to the effervescent rhythms accordingly, the counter forces of forceful rhythms and high ranging melodies igniting the dancefloor. Syke balanced these offerings marvellously; enhancing melodies with spatial effect and encouraging the beats to further turbulence and uproar. Their fine bodies strutted in time to the music, their attitudes suggesting they were enjoying themselves immensely.

As I headed back to Uncle, I found my eyes consumed by a shapely female behind clad in a pair of walking hot pants. The red writing commanded me to stare fascinated, though I never did make out what the red writing said. Beguiled, I obediently followed those hot pants to Uncle, where I was finally forced to remember my social etiquette and stop staring so brazenly. My eyes alighted on the richness of red hair and I realised I had been amassing a load of fantasies to the behind of songbird Katie Underwood. I chose to hang about a bit longer (if not at the least to catch more tantalising glimpses of hot pants, but alas, no more good fortune) and thus witness the supreme musical talents of T-Funk, formerly the Mr Timothy. His self-assurance behind the decks was complete and total; each movement a testament to his phenomenal skills and experience. He combined differing subdivided rhythms marvellously, the accent placements culminating on strong yet varying beats. His mixing was flawless; melodies amalgamating brilliantly with magnificent colours of background harmonies and upheld by resolute and burly bass lines. Each sound and texture in Uncle was well defined and lasting. He seemed a maestro propelled by the mercy of his electronic orchestra, his sounds durable and fixated. T-Funk was joined by the lovely Katie Underwood in the Uncle Booth (alas – no hot pants in sight!), where her vocals came in quite cleanly between his electronically crafted tapestry and rhythms. Her vocals added a sweet pitch to the textures, floating and buoyant amongst the density of the bass lines and complex consistencies. The kids were madly responding to the music – and understandably so. The beats were infectious, the tunes irresistible.

In the Lounge, Chris Wilson was gently soothing the remaining punters with his refreshing melodies and rhythms. He introduced plenty of instrumental textures with plenty of latin spices to flavour his primordial brew. Modal idioms of saxophone grooved over incessant beats permeated by stabs of percussion. There was a definite sense of phrasing to his music – shapes and contour preceding the mellow harmonic colours. The ambience in the lounge was extremely soothing. People languished on couches, their smiles reflecting the comfort in which Chris had chosen to engulf them. It was music intended to seduce and lure. His approach was firm and resolute, providing a masterful foundation for his melodies to run the gamut and wildly flee toward the inner recesses of the Lounge.

Back in the Basement, a gorgeous DJ Tom had taken up the decks, accompanied by a striking busty blonde fraulein who no doubt served as a delightful muse. Tom’s tone was decidedly masculine and forthright; his beats searing and direct; the rhythms continuously mutating and never stagnant. There were never really established melodies – more so melodic textures rather than a definite mantra. It was apparent to all that Tom was enjoying his time behind the decks as he whooped, gestured and stabbed the air with his fists in time to the music. The response was awesome, as people were dancing wall to wall; their feet moving in time to the noxious beats coming through to the superb system. When Baby Gee joined him in preparation for his own set, the atmosphere became distinctly quaint. His pink shirt reflecting the lighting show, Gee seemed the perfect class clown. When he seized the decks from a still keen Tom, the music became harsher and edgier. His beats were revolving within a progressive storm. It was quite fitting for the end of a long night, as kids continued to stomp and bop. His melodies roamed the continuum, frequently pitching in the very high and extreme ranges. The colours saturated the back of your eyes, shattering any brain cells and grating on the ear drums. It was akin to being in the eye of a storm – around you, devastation ruled, but the comforting influence of a strong and steady beat pervaded. It was definitive and absolute. You were ensnared, annexed and laid bare, left wanting and disturbed. Such is the power of Gee.

My mind was brimming with tales as I stumbled out of the club with the lights still shining onto the undressed wall. The night was now holding that sense of daybreak – the hush before the morn. And my experience from the last few hours made me realise how very fortunate Brisbane is that Family chose to make our tiny lil burb its home. Congratulations Family – and many happy returns on a momentous occasion. May your brand and your club and your music live forever.

Love and Kisses, Lady Lex.