The rain falls. On the train, on the city, on Euston, on Runcorn, on Liverpool. I’m up on Coach A (Quiet) to play at Mama Said, the new night at the Magnet, that proper underground dirty little club down Hardman Street.
The rain falls. On the Novotel, on the street signs, on the boozers and bars of Wood Street, on the boys’ trainers and the girls’ heels, on the bare legs and shoulders, the micro skirts and polo shirts. It’s a bubbly cauldron of alcoholic punch, a whirlwind of dogs chasing tails.
Soon I am safe in the pulpit, in the corner, a tiny crawl-in DJ booth, in the back of the bar at the Magnet, doing the thing, lost in time, lost in music for the slaves to the rhythm.
There’s the big girl in DMs with pink hair who can’t stop asking for You’ve Got The Love (after I play it I discover her mother died last week and that was her funeral song). There’s the lady of a certain age who looks the worse for wear, even in the dim light, dancing with every young man who will have her, holding tight but never kissing. There are the usual late night cross-eyed pointers, pupils deep jet black, dripping palms help up for a soggy high five. The earnestly snogging student couple, the girl’s copy of selected English poetry slipping out of her bag as his hand slides down her back. It ends up on the floor, sticky with night club glue.
I’m flipping through the CDs, alternately sipping on beer and water, trying to take it somewhere special. And tonight it’s house and disco and a little reggae. Nicolas Jaar, Sister Nancy, Kaspar Bjorke, Sydney Youngblood, Falty DL, Mark E, Roxy Music. Like I think it should be. Like it feels like.
Outside, the rain falls. And inside I’m storm-eye happy, blur wind delirious, lost in music.