Mr Andy C

Drum & Bass music flows through the undercurrent of Perth and pulsates a 180bpm rhythm through the human-vascular system that spawns from Ambar to Metros City. True fans have Andy C’s gig highlighted on their calendar and would rather concede a Christmas Day than give up a chance to see the living God of DnB mix his 3 decks with the sort of smoothness you associate with cream that melts.

Matt heads over to his mates house at 8pm for the befores. His female friends are fluffing about and applying makeup that is destined to resemble Michael Jackson’s thriller by the end of the night. A couple of Matt’s mates are bombing pingers and racking D5s. Everyone is filled with the pre-gig glow that can only be fostered by ample cold booze and an abundance of drugs that fill your throat and nasal cavity with endless possibilities and the promise of chemically enhanced freedom.

Matt slips into a pair of Kenji Urban cargo shorts, a white Enjoi t-shirt, anklet socks and a pair of Reebok Classics. He stashes a couple of pingers in his fob pocket and waks on a Carhart cap. A mate hollers at Matt from the bathroom, a juicy line of whip is waiting for him, beautiful, golden-brown and sticky. Yum. Matt snorts up the line of fuck-yeah and strikes a Benson & Hedges Smooth: awwwww yeh.

Matt and the crew jump into a mates car and head to Metros City. Any other night of the week, Metros City stands as a stronghold of ethnic party-going and dubious Jonny Kizon looking sleaze-bags patrolling the underbelly. However, on Andy C night the vibe is different: a pulsing sea of Carhart and Inhibit shirts, gurny faces and an unfortunate pocket of meth bogans that have sadly come to the gig to solely take drugs and make a sleazy nuisance of themselves.

Matt bops to the music while smashing down a couple of overpriced Bacardi & Cokes. Andy C comes on in 30 minutes, so Matt lobs his 3rd pinger and starts rolling shoulders like a funky gorilla. His 3rd pinger hits hard just as Andy C walks out onto the stage. The crowd goes ballistic, and the executioner doesn’t waste any time. Everyone flails around like epileptic monkeys practising kung-fu while Andy mixes track after track in perfect harmony. Strobe light reveals the face of DnB angels that are flapping their wings on the sticky-floored dance arena that serves as our temporary home.

Matt has stomped harder than American History X and needs some air. He heads out to the upstairs smoking area to suck down a few more darts and talk turkey with anyone in his immediate earshot. Amazingly, Matt runs into that bloke that he sees at all the DnB gigs, they may not know each other’s name, but they have an MDMA fueled chat about just how beautiful life is at this current point in time.

Matt heads back onto the dance floor to dance away every trial and tribulation that held his soul to ransom over the last couple of weeks. The executioner knows how to slice the negative-wheat from the positive chaff and leave a soldier feeling elevated.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?