The crowd was a seething mass of salivating anticipation. The grimy streets that bordered the decrepit walls of the old theatre were flowing with a mad crush of humanity, achingly desperate to squeeze inside the doors to quench their thirst. Swollen pupils suffered in the glare of the house lights and dry mouths stood in dusty silence. Pnau had drawn the masses to Enmore Road, and it was only their achingly sublime beats that would satisfy these hungry and depraved fans.
It’s uncertain who, among the lucky few that made it inside, had basked in the rays of Pnau’s early gem, Sambanova. It’s hauntingly beautiful array of synthesised rhythms caught the attention of a discerning minority. I can remember floating on the waves of Need Your Lovin’ Baby and Direct Drive, as they graced the cities more intimate venues, as they shared their magic and honed their art. Their follow-up, Again, took a new direction and despite a lack of critical acclaim the soaring emotion and driving basslines of this disparate collection drew more fans to the cause of Pnau.
But then, there was darkness. For what seemed like an age devoted fans were left cold and lonely. A whole summer went by with Pnau failing to grace a single festival stage. Some predicted an early death, others turned to madness, but a majority held-on with faith in their hearts. This faithful few knew that there was a crack-den somewhere, where a pair of skinny white DJs were twitching and tripping, in a subconscious journey to mould a masterpiece. This summer’s Big Day Out was testament to the fruits of Pnau’s hedonistic hiatus and in sweaty approval a legion of new devotees were spawned. They spread the word near and far, shouting loud and clear the gospel of Pnau.
So it was that the depraved hordes descended on the Enmore to get their fix. The doors were well guarded and tickets in painfully short supply, but this aging beat connoisseur was not going to let anything get between him and the onslaught. The beauty of chaos could best be viewed from the balcony. From this vantage spot I could take in the gentle arc of the theatre that had been invaded by a hazy mass of gyrating bodies. A long haired and malnourished sycophant was feeding the beats. Hunched over a laptop in the middle of an otherwise lifeless stage, Breakbot pulsed the speakers as a soundtrack to our aching anticipation.
Then it happened; we had been absorbed by a silence that stretched into infinity before madness took hold. The beat was disturbingly crisp, a twanging guitar loop pulsed through the air and a cheer cascaded upward as Wild Strawberries was dropped to devastating effect. It’s violent reverberations let loose unbridled animalistic fervour and there was no hope of slowing the madness. There was a glazed glare of submission in the eyes of everyone. We were intoxicated by the sounds, the colours and the shared feeling of divine satisfaction. It was a drug let loose on the air waves and we were all putting our hands up for another dose.
The hallucinations were sublime; a giant seagull swooped down from above and began to feast on a 6 foot strawberry, a lightning bolt was dancing with a walking pineapple and a piece of cheese chased a bloody and pulsating heart. In respect to the elderly present, the buttery stylings of Samabanova and Journey Agent was next. No two feet were left still on the sticky maroon carpet as beat after scintillating beat was unleashed. As the hectic synth and bass of We Have Tomorrow relentlessly pounded, I found myself down on ground level in a sweaty and heaving mass of intense concentration. Bulging eyes were fixed forwards as hands pounded the heavy air in unison with the robotic vocals.
In a sublime stupor I floated over the crowd looking down on their shining eyes, their smiles were so pure and their dancing so free that I felt at once a part of everyone. That is until I could go no further; I was suddenly confronted by a wrought iron fence that divided the dance floor in half, stopping me in my divine quest to get closer to the sound. It seemed a decision had been made that all were not equal; there were the-haves and the-have-nots. The Enmore became 1970s Berlin, and I was confused.
Embrace is a stirring song of hope and ambition; an anthem to pushing the limits and following your passion. Its soaring vocals were being screamed by all those still conscious, as the pounding bass and glare of the lasers took their toll on the weak. Nick Littlemore was still sauntering and swaying on his catwalk from where he had been delivering his soaring vocals all night. By this stage his white t-shirt had been torn across his chest by the rapturously clawing hands of the front-row desperados. His face was turned upwards in an ecstatic gape that cried the distorted but emphatically trancendual lines of Dancing on the Water.
His commitment to the hungry hordes was tantamount as he staggered on, his pain was obvious at the exertion required to keep so many feet sliding and imaginations soaring. At times he looked close to breakdown, dazed and reeling he moved to the beat like an amalgam of Ian Curtis and Iggy Pop. My eyes were glassy and foggy with sweat, but as the lights flickered to the rousing call of No More Violence I could see giant coloured balls falling from the ceiling like slow motion rain drops. They bounced gracefully off maniacal hands that reached upwards in a depraved hope of touching that which is just out reach.
In an ironic twist, their album’s opening track came last. With You Forever’s gentle ode to the warmth of love was designed to sooth the aching minds of a thousand degenerate addicts close to a painful comedown. Sensing a slowdown tempers flared, bodies fell from the balcony above as the poor souls clutched at the air in an effort to be closer to the sound. All went dark and a combined sigh exhaled the heavy air. The thought that the beat was gone forever spun through the many scattered and lustful minds of me and my new-found brethren. But the thought was instantly dismissed; the theatre would be razed if we weren’t treated to just one more shot into the main line. The nervous mix of dread and anxiety turned into a clapping and screaming symphony of desperation.
They appeared like an oasis in the desert. The drum beat rolled and a familiar tune caught our thirsty ears. It took a moment, but then it was clear, Baby on keys with acoustic drums. It was a naked and dirty rendition. Nick was left shirtless and needed assistance to keep his jeans on. He swayed in a combination of happiness and delirious confusion. The masses had been subjugated, their psyches had been twisted into submission and none of us would ever be quite the same again.
The streets of Newtown were dealt the foul blow of receiving the new-born masses. Their jubilation was unbridled and into the night air we wandered in heavy-headed bliss. What a show…
Virgin girl says...
Virgin girl says...
whoa. what a story. your portrayal of the night is incredible. it took me right back amongst it. I haven't commented on inthemix before today, but you inspired me to make a new account so I could tell you: If you're a pilot, i want to be your Virgin girl.
Donjuanliam says...
wOOt! Pro review Pilot, think i just joined the Mile High Club with myself. 2 thumbs up b(*_*)d
Groovy_s says...
Sweet review, I had some good visuals listening to White Strips while reading this... : ) keep writing mate, see you soon, G