D.A.N.C.E

The love tryst between the adolescents of the clubbing scene and Electro House appears to have developed into a full fledged romance – complete with coloured sunglasses, plastic coloured earrings, tshirt dresses, skinny jeans, headbands and let us not forget the ever present signature shade of fluorescence. And coming to the party, as always, encouraging the eternal progression to hands, if not at least legs in the air, is Ministry of Sounds: Electro House Sessions, as mixed by Sydney based Tommy Trash and Gold Coaster’s The Stafford Brothers.

The crowd looked like left overs from Parklife – fluro headbands and wittily worded captions on Tshirts galore, galloped throughout the basement. The glorious lighting of Matt Smith illuminated the club into daytime; the lasers radiating their own special fascinating power and transforming the basement into a pleasure ground wonderland. Chris Wilson aided this sense of devilishness, with his own puckish offerings; sprightly bass lines that upheld a thick mixture of rampaging melodies and enveloping harmonic textures over profound meters. He slowly built up his set with the consistency of an ocean wave; gentle laps of rhythms that crawled up your legs and ruptured in the nether regions to discharge a muted heat that shivered across your body. Wearing an afghani Shamag with tshirt and jeans (much like a Dali-inspired cowboy), his features were distorted by the incredible lighting; his eyes focussed on the decks before him as his well developed muscles knotted from the intense movements. His bass lines shattered throughout the Basement as the excellent sound system Family is so famed for, resonated the full force of such potent music. Chris nicely warmed up the room in preparation for The Stafford onslaught we all knew would annihilate our susceptible bodies and souls.

Upstairs in Uncle, Shannon J Marshall had a myriad of accordion textures wound with undulating rhythms to assault the senses from The Pod. The lighting manipulations of Ben Smith cast a wraithlike light onto the dance floor, distorting the room into a shadowy scene of illusory. Phantasmal creatures moved sporadically to his beats, while a round of tequila shots were served up by Aidan from the bar. Bottles of Panna water were promptly handed around to cover the antidotal after taste; while Shannon unleashed a torrent of restoring rhythms. Clusters of melodic chords permeated the upper registers, as a definitive beat left no doubt as to the pace of the evening – deep, torpid and subtly paralyzing. The synthetic textures were fiercely exquisite in the expanse, while Shannon J’s music swayed you into oblivion. His warmup set ripened the soul and prepared the mind for what would undoubtedly prove a long evening of activity and stimulation.

At the Ice Bar, bartender John made up one heck of a mojito, while Peter G aka The Russian on Percussion industriously worked at the skins of his percussion setup. He introduced greater movement towards Richard Parry’s urban mix; the feel good melodies released across an undulating scope of musicality and amplitude. The ambience here was certainly comfortable; the crowd seemingly sophisticated in comparison to the mutant creatures roaming below, as cocktail glasses and tumblers of alcoholic concoctions dangled from hands attached to urbanely garbed bodies. Dancer Israel stylishly dressed in collared shirt with tie, bopped and crunched his way through the music; his body taking excellent advantage of the very small space alloted to him on the perch above the crowd. He read the DJ beautifully, anticipating the soulful melodies rife with guitars and funkified meters with all the attitude of a seasoned performer. Peter G’s percussive offerings no doubt aided this, as the consistent compound rhythms stirred the 4/4 beats and inspired a greater vitality in the mix.

Meanwhile, back in The Members Lounge, shots of Jaegar awaited on the bar in preparation for The Stafford Brother’s set. Bartender Becky flit back and forth attending to the many alcoholic requirements. The dancefloor meanwhile, had become a haze of dazzling colour, as fluro abounded and flamed resplendent thanks to the splendid lighting efforts. Amidst a harmonic wall of texture coming from Chris Wilson, The Stafford Brothers stepped into the booth and wrest control, firmly unleashing a shatter of meters upon a willing crowd. Dancers dressed in coloured shorts and tshirts stepped atop podiums on the basement floor, their rhythmic movements inspiring the audience into abandonment. The beat thumped gloriously throughout the room; the rhythms vivid in their radiance. The bass undulated gently to reach my knees, the powerful onrush of meters overwhelming and impacting. The words “No matter what they say or do” rang out powerfully across the crowd, as the chant of melodies rose above the meters. The Stafford Brothers proceeded to belt the beats into us, the bass lines thumping steadily into our subconsciousness. Chris Stafford seemed to take a tribal stance; effecting totemic meters amidst a blitz of invasive harmonic weaves that called to suppressed primeval compulsions. The surrounding prominent melodies burst forth with great intensity; the dominating grooves searing the brain and impressing the rhythms onto the subliminal essence of each person in the room. Matt Stafford alternated with Chris, the bass lines deeply resonant as his pelvis rocked back and forth in time to the beats. Corded sinew and tendons from his muscled arms stood out like ropes, as he twirled and twisted knobs every which way. Conflicting melodic textures hammered between the heart and the mind, their thick consistencies casting bolts of viscosity into the air to be caught and gratefully endorsed by the heaving crowd below. Matt captured the melodies and haphazardly released them buried beneath burly textures of harmony and colour. Truly, never had I seen such frantic states of surrender at Family as wave upon wave of bodies and faces fixated upon the cause of such profligacy. The Stafford Brothers took the 80s matrix and synthesised it with a contemporary fervid edge to push the braincells to the very edge of a psychosis state. Meanwhile, beautiful girls in tshirt dresses and assymetrical shifts were everywhere, their lithe bodies compelling to the many guys in attendance. Baby Gee, Keiron Comerford, Adrian Mezzina, Cool Hand Luke, Platinum’s Joey Lamattina and Chris Wilson oversaw the antics with benevolent eyes and amused expressions.

Back in the Ice Bar, Le Chic’s Good Times blasted freely from the system with Nic Zanyat at the helm. The subdued laid-back atmosphere here differed hugely from the pounding craziness of below. It was quite difficult to believe I was still in the same building. From atop the DJ perch, Nic’s clean basslines and consolidated meters merged wonderfully with the well known melodies, inducing the bodies beneath to sway and waver. Meanwhile, in Uncle, Justin Martin was taking it deep. His fathomless mix swept the crowd up in an acute embrace, prominent grooves subtly absorbed and concentrated into the beautiful mix. Flagrant percussive textures were wound up within a suggestive structure of rhythm; the beats hypnotic and penetrating. The rhythms were profound; the ethereal harmonies somnolent amongst the surrounding soporific fabric. The rippling melodies were viscous in nature; the notes tumbling with precision amongst the immaculate mixing of this beautiful DJ. His music was quite incredible, the lighting enhancing the profundity of the mix as exquisite melodies and beats surged throughout the room to suggestively penetrate the body. A spiritual blanket seemed to settle upon the crowd as Justin took us on a diaphanous jaunt; the gossamery harmonic anatomy a powerful tonic upon the displaced nerves and an entranced beckoning towards an alternate astral plane.

This state of repose stayed with me as far as The Basement, where The Stafford Brothers were good-naturedly jostling with the less brawny frame of Tommy Trash in the DJ booth. With all arms up in the air to acknowledge an adoring and lovesome crowd, this trio soaked up the aftermath of affection. With smiles creasing their faces and moisture beading their foreheads, The Stafford Brothers exited the booth to leave Tommy Trash at the decks. Ringlets of blonde curls drooped onto the knobs and levers, while his red tshirt glinted in the bright illumination. Then with all the finesse of a virtuoso, Tommy Trash demobilised the entire building. Rarely have I encountered such musical perfection as the offerings from Tommy Trash on this night. Buoyed by the crowd’s intensity, Tommy unbound a barrage of sagacious bass lines; the abstruse textures winding up towards the ceiling and then crashing down upon those exposed to him below. Wave upon wave of pure energy tore at us as incredible structures of musical might intruded upon the soul; the incredible sound system catching every sound with a crystal clear clutch. The bass lines punctured the pristine mix, palatial spaces between frequencies further highlighting the deep opulence between the bass heavy lines and the wavering melodies of the upper registers. Phasers ran rampant across these melodies, as he gathered up an assail of thick harmonic textures for an electronic symphonic implosion. The buildups were eternally constant, the momentum growing in power and dominion, until the amassed energy exploded with all the constraint and vigor of an unnatural force. From his vantage at the decks, Tommy Trash played at the knobs and levers like they were a Triton pitch wheel. Each buildup in anticipation escalated into a mass of fury, until Tommy finally climaxed into a devastating cannonade of musical bliss.

Electro House appears to have eaten the dance world if the reactions of the crowd at Family on this night is anything to go by. With a crude, raw edge to the synthetic pop matrix and the house elements a steadfast base, the fun and carefree attitudes inspired by this genre is here to stay. If Electro can so successfully rouse the heartbeats and embolden the customarily insipid, all one can do is heed the message of the music: D. A. N. C. E. – as though your very life depends upon it. D. A. N. C. E – like its the last night of the world.

Love and Kisses, Lady Lex