MAIN » ARTICLESUrban Revelations on a Drunken Night in Spain
Is The Game the new 2Pac?
I look to my right, nothing, just another steet with blurry street lamps and drunks lurching from one side to the other, heading to the next all-night hangout. I turn to the left, still bent over with my upper body almost parallel to the pavement, I see Spencer rolling about on the floor in what I immediately assume to be paraletic fit. "There's god-damn ants everywhere, man!" he cried, noticing I was now paying him attention. No, not a fit, a paraletic would struggle to be so articulate, I could remember that much. "What the hell you talking about?" I replied, spitting the contents of my mouth onto the street and standing up straight again, "I feel much better, y'know, get the hell off the floor and let's go back in?", "back in?", he sounded surprised, "damn right back in, unless you're not finished with those ants, in which case I can probably give you a few more minutes.." He was done. We turned around and crossed the street, the neon signs over the doors shone out the name of the bar. I couldn't read it, but I knew it said Joker's - a respectable hangout that attracts more of the serious clubbing crowd than Sinatra's but nothing like KM. But we weren't here to dance, there were more important issues at hand.
Six hours earlier:
We were leaving the apartments, heading out on another night out, riding the crest of a wave of optimism so much more often found in Anglo-spanish party resorts than back in the dregs of the homeland. Nothing to spoil the friendly atmosphere but the voices in my head nudging gentle reminds of how much pain I caused myself last time I drank. I stop listening, barely comprehendable, absolutely unecessary, I mumble. "What's that?" Spencer said, "Nothing." I replied, that poor bastard would find out soon enough what was in store. I think somehow I knew, we couldn't escape the threat that at least once over that infamous week in the sun we would get caught up in serious debate. The lure of explorative discussion instead of mindless chatter catches up to us all now and again but sometimes you're not ready. Sometimes you need to calendar that date so you can prepare, but preparing the way I knew we would, it was like pissing into the wind after a 14 hour non-stop lorry journey. We never stood a chance.
Six hours later:
"So is The Game the new 2pac?" Spencer asked me once we were once again seated at the bar. I couldn't answer that, who could? Certainly not a middle-class white teenager living in a respectable English suburb. Jesus, that question just demands the closest attention to detail and a complex and subtle knowledge of hip-hop, gangster rap and probably black history. Taking on an assignment like this is comparable only to Napoleon's final battles, we should have known better. The lights were flashing all around us, blurry and racing across the room, climbing onto platforms and swerving around equally indistinguishable bodies. I looked at my companion next to me, he was staring deeply into his glass of rum and coke, looking for answers. I, too, was looking for answers but I knew that wouldn't come on this fateful night. We'd pushed the bar too far, we'd been sitting here for 6 hours now with the exception of our short excusion outside.
A couple of minutes passed with no further conversation, we were tired. The music had returned to the classic mix of old-school dance hits and the latest chart-topping hits of the summer. I didn't recognise any of the songs. Spencer nudge me on the arm and showed me the time, it was earlier than I thought, "Earlier, eh?", "Yep" he replied gravely, "Too early". We both stared into our glasses now, they seemed to be getting empty quicker each time. I looked for a hole in the bottom and nearly spilt some on my leg. The signs weren't promising. The music began to fade out and I felt a kick of apathy as the DJ prepared to spin the next track. Perhaps it was time to leave. Then I heard it, like a shot of adrenaline straight into my soul, 2Pac's best known song and the bridge between fans of hip-hop and those with only a casual commercial interest, California Love. I raised the glass in the air in a toast those no longer with us, savouring the flavour of the alcoholic coke as my mind span in spirals around my body. Finishing the drink I slammed it back down onto the bar and looked over at Spencer. I saw the devil in his eyes and knew what to do. "Two more please", I shouted over the music, "lots of ice!"
Written by Ace.
I look to my right, nothing, just another steet with blurry street lamps and drunks lurching from one side to the other, heading to the next all-night hangout. I turn to the left, still bent over with my upper body almost parallel to the pavement, I see Spencer rolling about on the floor in what I immediately assume to be paraletic fit. "There's god-damn ants everywhere, man!" he cried, noticing I was now paying him attention. No, not a fit, a paraletic would struggle to be so articulate, I could remember that much. "What the hell you talking about?" I replied, spitting the contents of my mouth onto the street and standing up straight again, "I feel much better, y'know, get the hell off the floor and let's go back in?", "back in?", he sounded surprised, "damn right back in, unless you're not finished with those ants, in which case I can probably give you a few more minutes.." He was done. We turned around and crossed the street, the neon signs over the doors shone out the name of the bar. I couldn't read it, but I knew it said Joker's - a respectable hangout that attracts more of the serious clubbing crowd than Sinatra's but nothing like KM. But we weren't here to dance, there were more important issues at hand.
Six hours earlier:
We were leaving the apartments, heading out on another night out, riding the crest of a wave of optimism so much more often found in Anglo-spanish party resorts than back in the dregs of the homeland. Nothing to spoil the friendly atmosphere but the voices in my head nudging gentle reminds of how much pain I caused myself last time I drank. I stop listening, barely comprehendable, absolutely unecessary, I mumble. "What's that?" Spencer said, "Nothing." I replied, that poor bastard would find out soon enough what was in store. I think somehow I knew, we couldn't escape the threat that at least once over that infamous week in the sun we would get caught up in serious debate. The lure of explorative discussion instead of mindless chatter catches up to us all now and again but sometimes you're not ready. Sometimes you need to calendar that date so you can prepare, but preparing the way I knew we would, it was like pissing into the wind after a 14 hour non-stop lorry journey. We never stood a chance.
Six hours later:
"So is The Game the new 2pac?" Spencer asked me once we were once again seated at the bar. I couldn't answer that, who could? Certainly not a middle-class white teenager living in a respectable English suburb. Jesus, that question just demands the closest attention to detail and a complex and subtle knowledge of hip-hop, gangster rap and probably black history. Taking on an assignment like this is comparable only to Napoleon's final battles, we should have known better. The lights were flashing all around us, blurry and racing across the room, climbing onto platforms and swerving around equally indistinguishable bodies. I looked at my companion next to me, he was staring deeply into his glass of rum and coke, looking for answers. I, too, was looking for answers but I knew that wouldn't come on this fateful night. We'd pushed the bar too far, we'd been sitting here for 6 hours now with the exception of our short excusion outside.
A couple of minutes passed with no further conversation, we were tired. The music had returned to the classic mix of old-school dance hits and the latest chart-topping hits of the summer. I didn't recognise any of the songs. Spencer nudge me on the arm and showed me the time, it was earlier than I thought, "Earlier, eh?", "Yep" he replied gravely, "Too early". We both stared into our glasses now, they seemed to be getting empty quicker each time. I looked for a hole in the bottom and nearly spilt some on my leg. The signs weren't promising. The music began to fade out and I felt a kick of apathy as the DJ prepared to spin the next track. Perhaps it was time to leave. Then I heard it, like a shot of adrenaline straight into my soul, 2Pac's best known song and the bridge between fans of hip-hop and those with only a casual commercial interest, California Love. I raised the glass in the air in a toast those no longer with us, savouring the flavour of the alcoholic coke as my mind span in spirals around my body. Finishing the drink I slammed it back down onto the bar and looked over at Spencer. I saw the devil in his eyes and knew what to do. "Two more please", I shouted over the music, "lots of ice!"
Written by Ace.