From Russia with Death

God doesn't exist.
Godfathers do.

If your a Sydney kid no doubt you've done your share of creeping around the cross.
The bright lights and disco jok(e)eys keep attention focused on the task at hand. But underlying the facade of nightlife flows a living river of toxic crime.
Yes, of course i'm serious.

I returned to a club the other Sunday morning to pick up my crate of records that were stashed in the office. As I walked down into the dark hazy room and across the sticky tiled floor, I could have sworn Juanita Neilsen's soul was stretched out under my feet - silently screaming from beneath the polished vinyl like a tortured T-1000. A broken strobe lay on the ground in the corner flickering randomly like a silent visual metaphor of the night prior. As I leant down to grab my shit, the dead scary silence of the place was interrupted sharply by loud voices and weighted footsteps coming down behind me. The dude in the office sternly looked up and signaled to me to go out the back door. I turned around to walk out and saw a group of four of the dodgiest guys walk in. No joke, all tall, with black trenchcoats, Romper Stomper haircuts and small mirrored sunnies talking in some gnarly Eastern european dialect. No need to say, i got the fuck out of there as soon as they looked at me. Opening the backdoors, the sunlight cut into my face and i walked out into 'reality'.


Logging numerous hours on grimey dancefloors, feeling at home wrapped in a marlboro-scented velvet curtain, watching Mad Max from dank faux fur couches and consequently knowing varied nightpatrons is about as far as most groveling scenesters get. But if you care to flake off the veneer you may find there are more ubliets than you'd care to stumble across in this concrete labyrinth.



New Order - Kiss of Death (Z)