Brisbane is gradually increasing in its cosmopolitan efforts to expand as a city of style and panache. And certainly, the boutique clubs nestled in Fortitude Valley are adding to these efforts, highlighting that the smaller, intimate venues have just as much to offer as the grander scale superclubs. I wandered into Planet Nightclub, well excited just by walking through the entrance. Previous visits to Planet have established this boutique club as an urbane venue with a touch of edginess; a feeling impounded by the consistently roving laser lights penetrating the interior with its ultramodern décor and lasseiz-faire ambience. I wandered into the welcoming courtyard as sodden beats crept up my legs, thanks to the verandah-inspired exterior where a duo of DJs had infected the outside with warm rhythms and rolling bass lines. It was undoubtedly an Australian large-scale patio, but pleasantly minus insistent mosquitos, Uncle Arthur pawing at your leg for another steak, and Auntie Martha surreptitiously sipping at the homemade punch. Lovely green plants gave the surroundings a pleasant daytime feel, though the stars twinkling above almost dispelled that sense. Following the pathway, I was led towards stairs, and as I ascended these steps, I felt the world as I knew gently slipping away from me.

I wandered into a cavernous den, confronted immediately by a hectic bar and artificial luminosity. Here, Haley Tierney and Matt Young were industriously working to keep the thirst of their patrons at bay. An incredible lime- and vodka-based ‘Lex Flex’ was concocted especially by Matt; his brilliance with cocktail recipes outdone only by his wonderful service. With drink in hand, I finally turned around to confront the main arena of Planet.

Immediately, a large DJ booth and colossal dance floor crossed my vision. Rampant laser lights circled the entire club, lending the place an edgy yet undeniably classy setting. The lighting was glaring; the illumination perfectly dazzling with intensity. Anything white in the club, including my notebook, French manicure and teeth glowed radiantly in the neon flurorescence. Surrounding the dancefloor in a horseshoe design were two galleries: one with chrome tables and stools, their metallic legs glinting in the laser light; the other lined with booths of chocolate brown lounges with curtains of beads separating the lounge inhabitants from the other club dwellers. In these private booths, TV intimate screens emitted liquid graphic images, the lithe patterns imprinting themselves upon the brain. In fact, the presence of these TV screens induced one’s instincts towards PS2 or XBox. The pyschedelic visuals captivated the senses, while the rhythms of the nearby DJ persistently beat at your forehead.

Within these comfortable cubicles, one felt deliciously disconnected from the other patrons; the location providing an excellent vantage point of the entire club as one reclined and sipped at wondrous cocktails. And from this post, I easily enjoyed the sights and sounds as freestyle dancer Jessica O’Keefe, clad in a futuristic hoody jumpsuit and knee high white boots faced the dancefloor; her body contorting to the thick textural melodies and dense beats. Beneath her movements, a myriad of audience members moved as if inspired. By this stage, quite a throng of people had gathered in the club. They were very upmarket; their modish attitude settled upon twitching shoulders with all the ease of a stylish cloak; their confidence and hip stance mirrored the in-vogue ambience of this edgy club. And beholding all this through a benevolent gaze, the stylish form of DJ R’daza took in all as he stood atop the DJ booth.

R’daza’s skills behind the decks are undoubtedly defined. With fun infused tunes fed over unbridled bass lines and epidemic rhythms, his mix was tight; the lines saturated with substantial harmonic and chordal textures to really fill the room. The familiar tunes thumped through the system, floating towards the roof and lodging amongst the pinnacle struts that hung there. At times, you were almost transported back a decade, as thick synthetic pads and frantic beats slammed painfully at your ribcage. All the subtleties of the tunes were beautifully caught on the wonderful sound system, where massive speakers threatened to blow one’s eardrums away, any time one might venture into the immediate vicinity. With such a system, the sound remained crisp and spotless; all nuances visible and prevalent. Making the most of the system’s strength, R’daza skilfully played with the crowd, more in the mood to seduce the crowd than to propel them into a flurry of over excitement. His consideration as the opening DJ impressed me greatly; as he cleverly pushed at his audience’s heartbeats while selflessly holding back to allow for ensuing devastation to follow as the subsequent sets.

And thus with a modest, understated entrance, Devastatin Dave took over the decks. Immediately, he launched into his set. He warped the beats; distorting the meters and pace, allowing them to be embraced by an outbreak of flowing melodies and harmony. There was a firmness to Dave’s performance; an assurance as he unleashed a torrent of musicality and dance upon the floor. Overwhelming textures ran riot across the system, the tight mix seamlessly flowing throughout the room. The rhythms carried into the crowd, sinuously wrapping around heartstrings and severely squeezing. Eventually, an eruption of cheer let loose when the sinewy figure of Miles Dyson crept towards the booth.

Clad simply in a singlet that displayed a lean frame with leather bands encompassing his wrists, Miles Dyson released a pristine blend of basslines that rocked against harsh BPMs. His rampant beats hammered against you, leaving little room for respite. Tight beats were enclosed in synthetic chord patches, their gauge beautifully balanced by industrial inspired grooves. As his veins stood out on his forearms, blasts of golden saxophone grooves and electronically treated trumpet lines bombarded the senses. He was a fan of the cascading basslines, the tonal steps creating intense movements amongst the house matrix. I also found he liked to tease; using rapid instrumental licks or fluttering melodic stabs leading into a blast of overwhelming goodness. He pulled the beats every which way, the crisp sound clearing carrying the resonant sounds to the back of the room. Indeed, Miles Dyson was unrelenting and merciless, his intent energy transmitted to the crowd as his sinuous arms pumped at the air. Beneath him, the dancefloor writhed to his insistent beats.

Miles Dyson eventually gracefully bowed out to DJ Wahoo, permitting a very hot piece of vinyl to bombard the system. His poise was secure as the turntables thrashed out untamed rhythms that held a sense of barely checked restraint. His throbbing meters held you enthralled, while concentrated lyrical grooves roamed the length and breadth of the melodic range. While the crowd had thinned somewhat, the remaining punters were well influenced by the uncontrolled beats that continued to hold us all enthralled.

I wandered from the club in a daze, the lasers leaving a residual glow on my retinas. As I wandered up Warner Street, a daze had settled over me, leaving me feeling somewhat bewitched and fascinated by the new world Planet Nightclub had imparted upon me. It was certainly an experience – one that would prove difficult to best.