My Friday night out on Australia Day weekend – to review DJ Tittsworth at Roxanne Parlour – was a night of contradictions. Posh bars, dirty alleyways, banging tunes, empty nightclubs and teetotalling DJs. While normally I keep my nights down and dirty this Friday started with some VIP treatment at the uber-posh Silk Road. After being treated far better than my station in life merits, we made our way up to the dirtiest, dingiest alley we could find for a drink at good old St. Jeromes.

After wetting our whistles on St Jeromes finest long necks we traveled to our ultimate alley destination, Roxanne Parlour. The place was, upon arrival, next to empty. Not quite sure what to do with myself (the music was pretty unspectacular to boot) I resolved to seek out Tittsworth for a chat. My search was quickly made redundant as I struck up a conversation in the bathroom with a lovely American, who turned out to be – you guessed it – Tittsworth. A lovely, understated guy, he was happy for a chat and refused all offers for drinks. In fact, the wildest thing about him (DJ skills not included) is his name, which, he proudly proclaimed, showing us his license to remove any doubt, is his honest-to-god surname. As Tittsworth said ‘with a name like mine, who needs a DJ name?’

By the time Tittsworth began his set Roxanne had filled up slightly, although not enough to make a noticeable difference. That said, it was quite refreshing to have so much space on the dancefloor. You can dance with abandon and try on all your funkiest, wildest moves without anyone getting in your way. And luckily for all in attendance, Tittsworth was only too happy to provide a rollicking soundtrack for our efforts. His set was a slamming combination of booty bass, drum & bass, hip hop and Baltimore house. He threw on his remix of AC Slater’s Banger, his own What the Fuck (Nadastrom remix), and a banging remix of MIA’s Paper Planes. Unfortunately, on several occasions, Tittsworth committed what is – to my mind – the ultimate DJ sin; building a track and taking the crowd to the edge of oblivion, only to bring the song to a grinding halt before lazily crossing over to a new track. It’s the ultimate anti-climax, the clubbing equivalent of blue balls, and one punter summed up the sentiment perfectly, shouting in the split second silence between two unmixed tracks, “That’s Bullshit!”

As the night wore on, and Tittsworth wrapped up his set, it was time to move on. And in the ultimate, wonderful contradiction that is my life, I left the city at a reasonable hour in order to make it home for my newborn son’s (g’day Asher!) morning feed.