Embassy In My Head

The  itch to go clubbing  begins with a recollection of  scenes from the past week:  the nicotine smoke swirling in mid-air, the half-empty bottles of San Mig Light and Tanduay Ice on the bar table,  the dance anthem played when the set starts to pick up, the after-party rumination inside the cab on my way home.  Most of the time, I  begged off from ever returning. But when the repetitive drums and hypnotic beats commence assaulting my head,  I  long to return to the club with much zest to dance the weekend blues away.

What  others didn't know is that this clubber has already been  fired up before he hits the dance floor. The laser lights were addicting, and so was the heavy and constant pounding from overhead speakers. But before this could ever happen, the stubborn mind has already set its goal in sight.

"Manong Malate po tayo." That would be my queue to the cab driver.

The addiction was so intense,  I could plot my course anywhere in the city and still reach my destination in less than 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, the driver usually listens to slow rock or anything that calms the senses. Never has he expected that a passenger like me  would disturb his peace and impose his own brand of euphoria.

"Lipat natin sa 107.9. Pampagising lang."   I was referring to U-Radio. The station that plays non-stop club music 24/7.

Small  talks emerge from such distortion.   The cab driver comments that he tunes in to that station  to fend off drowsiness. Others would reveal the discovery from passengers off to their parties. Attracted to the uplifting sounds, these cab drivers would claim the station as their own.

sampu na lang diretso na po tayo sa encore.

I  have always thought of  Trance, House and its minor derivatives as music for the elite. The masses have their Hip-Hop, Rap and those run-of-the-mill Techno that were first played in clubs over five years ago. Trance is so unique that it has a small niche in the country. It's no wonder that whenever a global DJ spins in Manila, the ticket price shoots to a thousand bucks.

Much as I would love to rub elbows with the rich and glamorous,  my parsimonious upbringing would  never allow me to cross over to their world. Beyond the stereotype of coke-snorting, partee-swallowing sub-culture.  I embarked on my weekly night-outs under a very strict budget.  Catching up with my socialite brethren is beyond my taking.

For this reason,  I  learned to appreciate their music from a distance. Gone are the days when I would  boldly embark on a bar tour, which would still probably end up in O-Bar. This time, there is no wish for a repeat performance. The eclectic mix of club sounds I get - with heavy doses - from U-Radio is enough to satiate the inner clubber in me. 

And at times when I  bump into kindred souls who know something about  Dash Berlin, Paul Van Dyk, Alex M.O.R.P.H and a couple of other DJs aside from David Guetta,  I try my best to connect.  For seldom do we proclaim our love for fast music, dizzying lights, dazed crowd and wanton feeling that comes with the experience.

I was on my way home at past midnight when I  rode a jeep that was strangely different. Normally, drivers are tuned in to Love Radio's sleazy "Wild Confessions."  Passengers snicker as Papa Jack asks the caller titillating questions about his or her sex life.

But last night.

Between the occasional glitches brought by a low power radio frequency, the stereo blares the same music that hasn't left my headphones after the exodus from the dance floors. Characterized by quick successive drums and looping synthesizer subdued by ethereal voices, another kindred spirit was discovered.

U-Radio's sound bounced inside the speeding vehicle, and the driver was our party boy.