Mr Roller

It’s 2006, and Clint knocks off work at 3:30 and heads straight to his local bottlo. A six pack of Carlton Draught and a pack of Benson & Hedges smooth. He jumps in his Ute and heads straight to his mate’s place in North Perth.

They use their lighters to pop their beer and then flick the caps at each other while talking about the stomp they plan to have at Roller that evening. Clint’s mate Randy pulls out a couple of d-bangers he got from his little brother. The night just got better.

They check copies of X-Press and Drum Media for a reminder of the lineup and starting time. 8pm and they won’t be a minute late. Roller is like an African watering hole where all the beasts actually like each other.

An exotic mix of Inhibit shirt wearing lads, fluoro furry-boot wearing trippers, beautiful woman in Air Max and of course the madkents having mid-week pingers and giving their mouth lining a fair chew.

To Clint, it didn’t matter who you were, as long as you were at Roller to dance to Drum n Bass and have a yarn over a dart in the beer garden.

The night starts strong with resident DJs and pioneers of the scene, Dart and Devo working the crowd up with a mix of liquid and jump up drum and bass that caused the room to vibrate with an electricity that could only be generated by the current of good vibes flowing and not meeting any unpleasant resistance.

MC Assassin jumps on stage and spits with the sort of smoothness you associate with cream that melts. Clint was front and centre, rotating his arms in a gorilla-esque way while nodding his head and completely feeling the music. Shockone could be seen in the corner having a chat with Greg Packer, united by their skills and love of wearing hats inside.

Splashes of Clint’s pint land on a girl dancing next to him. She just flicks him a smile and continues dancing in her personal space. Clint thinks to himself, “If I’d done that at Harbourside I’d be locked in mortal kombat with some meatheaded boyfriend by now”.

The Roller dance floor perfectly meshed the concepts of “personal space” and “packed to the brim with epileptic dancing monkeys”. For whatever reason, you could stomp on that floor all night and dance away the anxieties and stresses of your week. It was like Greg Packer was your therapist, and the mean drops of Aphrodite hits were your electro-therapy.

Clint needs some air, he is sweating profusely, and his ears are desperately trying to acclimatise to the relative peace of the beer garden. He starts speaking with some lads he met at Breakfest and Andy C that year.

They suck down some darts while making promises to catch up. Promises that were destined to be unfulfilled, but it felt nice anyway. A bloke in a Carhart jacket lights up a spliff and happily includes randoms in the puff-puff-pass stratosphere. It’s midnight, and Clint calls his night over. They head back to the North Perth to smoke more weed and debrief.

In the days following Roller, Clint checks Tecknoscape every day to see if they’ve put the photos from the night up. Like clockwork, the photos are up, and they are magnificent… kinda. Most of the time, they ain’t going to be profile photos, but hell, they make you happy to look at.

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