Revolution/Metros: One of Those Nights...

[Another post about a night out (albeit this one being written whilst sober and contemplative, and therefore less likely to be inflammatory/interesting).]

Worth mentioning the queue outside Revolution (Revs to the affectionate locals); it can be fairly impressive. You'd think we were a massive congregation eager to gain entry to hallowed grounds, instead of the young and reckless 18-24 demographic that exists purely to drink and pull. That said, Revs is probably the Mecca of Cardiff students on Wednesdays; everyone goes there, and everyone loves it. Apparently.

Thing is, once we got in (including a queue jump that put me roughly 80% closer to the door than if I'd gone to the back of the line like a good boy, it still took the better part of two, cold, sober-as-a-cadaver hours), all that awaited was another torrent of standard club music, a dash of cut-price drinks, and a critical mass of the drunk-n'-loving-it crowd. "What a party," you might say; "what great times you must have had," you might think. Nah. Average as it gets, just busier. Why Revs is so beloved is beyond me, but that's probably because I'm imbalanced, or something. Clearly.

Although seeing some of the old Howell's gang was nice, especially some whom I hadn't seen in a damn long time. Revs isn't great for catching up and chatting, but it'll do, I s'pose.

Mike and I got fed up fast, and ditched the happy-go-lucky revellers in Revs (and Nick, suffering from various ailments, elected to go home, I believe). After a short, impromptu sprint down St. Mary's Street (the rectum of Cardiff), we found ourselves outside Metros, which is very loveit/hateit.

If Revolution is the Cardiff student's Temple of Solomon, Metros is its Golgotha. It's a stinky, stuffy, sweaty, nasty dive of a place, and I wouldn't have it any other way. My kinda joint, where the music's good, the bar staff are plentiful and friendly, and the conversation is worthwhile. Met a host of people, told a host of jokes, and Mikey did his thing with the girls whilst I indulged in some third wheel scoffing over cigarettes. Met Sam Newman again, too, which was nice (she even remembered me, my short-lived band, and our enigmatic/awful first-and-last performance).

Ended up in/near Roath, at the house of a group of charming ladies who befriended Mikey and I; the rest of the night dissolving into funny anecdotes, exchanging of music/TV show/movie preferences, and the ever-present sounds of other housemates having social discourse of an entirely unsavoury manner.

Then Mikey disappeared in the middle of the night, and I scared a returning tenant as she encountered me asleep in her bed. Fun times, lads n' lasses.

Oceana Part I: Blacking Up

[What follows is an account of frankness and sincerity hitherto unseen in most posts of a personal nature by impressionable youths of today. Alcohol plays a part.]

It's weird being a coconut in Cardiff (for those wondering, coconut is a term many Indian and Middle-Eastern Asians that I know use to signify a person who's "brown on the outside, white on the in"; I'm neither Indian nor Middle-Eastern, but black people are actually categorically brown, so there). An acute case of classic jungle fever mixed with a distinct lack of innate dancing skills and effortless charm promised me by the cool black guys on TV, leads to a social black hole that I cannot escape, for it is I. Awkardness, thine name is Nash.

Oceana is the flagship club for all non-aggressive clubbers in Cardiff; it's full of assorted themed dance-rooms (the Disco and "Iceroom/Icehouse (depending on who you ask)" are the main ones, with a weirdly serene tropical themed place downstairs, and the seedy-as-hell Boudoir). They play clubbed-up Top 40 songs and various retro classics from yesteryear. As you can imagine, it's great for white folks.

The only black people I see are the invariably Nigerian (I've asked them all where they're from, always Nigeria) guys in the toilet, and the weird stalkers who follow Danni and Sarah around. Occasionally I see some brothers-from-various-mothers kicking it old-school (or something) in the Iceroom, but this is rare. Regardless, they stick together, like a predatory cloud. I shake hands with them, pretend to be cool, but they soon see me for the phony that I am.

I drunkenly sing along to Britney Spears and Queen, but don't know the words to songs by Jay-Z, Dizzee Rascal or Whale-without-the-"H". Evidently I need to black up a little.

I smile at others; white guys give me a smile back, hug me, shake my hand, dance with me, because being seen with black guys is awesome. Even I think I look cooler around black guys. Then I remember that, considering my condition, I'm always around a black guy. Great. White girls, however, always give me a certain look. It basically says "Oh shit, a black guy!", followed by a quick retreat to familiar territory. Crude of me to say it, but this is a bad situation to be in. "We like our own kind 'round these parts".

Any flak directed at my seemingly-non-PC remarks can be directed towards your nearest gal-pal.

Going Out, Staying In

Been a bit active on the nightlife scene these days, for a change (I say "a bit" because, frankly, two nights doesn't exactly make for saga-of-a-lifetime material). Met some funky people (a lie, actually, haven't really met anyone new that I remember the next day) and danced to some funky tunes (another lie, since the music in TigerTiger is a flat average - four-to-the-floor for about five hours straight). And got properly drunk again, which is great, and an experience that everyone needs in their system of a fairly regular basis.

Clubbing is a weird experience; we all go into this cavernous room adorned with large speakers and a vast bar, get ourselves intoxicated, poisoned and otherwise unstable, physically and emotionally, then crowd onto a small space in the middle of the room to fling ourselves around to the monotonous thump-thump of the beat, hoping to snag a willing partner of the opposite sex into your drunken grasp in the process (or, if you're already spoken for, making a total dick of yourself with your steadily expanding entourage of fast friends). All this for a good number of hard-earned (or loaned, to be fair) pounds. Magic, huh?

What's New

Ash (the very wonderful girlfriend) came down this weekend, which was very lovely; met my eccentric but lovable family, travelled to the beach, visited the local teahouse, and just had some good times. 'Twas nice, especially considering the strains that being consistently hundreds of miles away from each other for most of our relationship has placed on our togetherness. It does make us appreciate each other's company even more, though, which can only be a good thing. She is quite special.

Other than that, not much else is going on; Alice and I are planning a little project, but between extended spans of laziness on my part, it hasn't really taken off. We did go and see a gig at the Welsh club, which was pretty hard on the ears and liver, but a good night nonetheless (I'm guessing her blog will have more on that). Kiff's exam woes mean that he's not as free for endless Resistance 2 marathons as he used to be; things'll be righted once they're over and done with though, in about 15 hours or so. Slick.

Written some new tunes, which will make their way through the song factory and end up on the right hand side there ==>. Takes time, but it's worth it, especially now that my sound kit is back with me. Which means my UK Songwriting Contest entries aren't going to go to waste. Score!

Damn The Music Business...

As are basically half of the entire student population, I'm an aspiring artist trying to break my way into the real world of actual audiences and recognition. Making some money along the way would be nice, but I'm keeping my hopes to reasonable levels for the moment. Unfortunately, my bassist has defected to Sweden, so I have no band whatsoever, and my solo stuff isn't exactly blistering, heart-stopping rock.

London is where I should be, of course, but Cardiff will have to do. It's a bit of a huge village, everyone seems to stick out for each other here, which is nice, but at the same time you can't beat an international melting pot like London town. There's an ad on Gumtree that I've spotted for acts wanted in Cardiff. Think I'll sign myself up, can't hurt and it might actually go somewhere. Here's hoping they don't mind me using a variety of backing tracks and improvised ghetto-equipment.

Eurovision

OK, no-one's a fan of Eurovision, at least not in this country. And I'm talking about real fans; average British Joe might enjoy watching the spectacle of watching the crazy Europeans and their weird songs (which are 50% techno, 30% power ballads, and 20% actually weird, but strangely awesome). Most everyone quietly revels in the constant stream of disappointing votes tallied up by smiling, ecstatic people speaking flawed English in various accents. There's a community about it, watching the British effort go sinking into the mire of political voting, and Wogan's calm contempt tickling our ears. At least that's how it should be, in any case.

Now however, we've got this mysterious jury subtly tweaking the results behind the scenes, and all of a sudden the UK finds itself on the left hand side of the panel. Furthermore, we're in the top-5. That's pretty badass (if Eurovision can ever be called badass, that is). However, it also robbed me of my annual dose of malaise. It became an actual competition for the Brits again, but also made us hope again. Balls that it wasn't political this time round; of course it was. And the UK will never win, unless we really rock the boat, and we all know that's never gonna happen. We'll field some safe bets from now on, I think. No more Scooch for us, for better or worse. (Personally, I thought Scooch actually brought us closer to our mad songwriting brethren on the continent, rather than further apart. Also, remember that Andy Abraham came second in a certain UK talent show, but Europe decided it only deserved 14 points last year.) Didn't care for Jade all that much, some dodgy lyrics, but a solid song. We can do better. Ronan Keating being Danish all along was a shock, too.

Norway's entry was the usual Euro fare: catchy chorus, an off-centre instrument choice (this time the violin, and prominently), dancers, all that jazz. Some kid singing an English song he wrote about long lost love, whilst whipping out his violin for some mad licks now and then. An overwhelming win for Norway, even beating Lordi to the topspot in the Eurovision record books. Not bad. A certain Norwegian is getting laid tonight, I'll tell you that.

Also, Graham Norton wasn't half bad, thankfully. Taking more from Wogan's past efforts than from his sickly talk show, he got a thumbs-up from me.
A surprising Eurovision.

Nash's favourite ever Eurovision song: Bosnia & Herzegovina - Laka - Pokušaj