High and (intentionally) alone at the club
[August 2022]
Clubbing alone has always been the last frontier of modern day independence. I’ve done plenty of things alone, quite comfortably may I add. It might have taken a little getting used to, to go out to dinner alone, go to a bar alone, to go to a concert alone, go to the movies alone, or to travel alone. But once I got over the fact that I might look a little strange sat over there by myself, and once I realized that, truly, nobody gives a shit what I do, it all became much easier and indeed enjoyable and freeing.
But clubbing? Something about it felt incredibly daunting. What, I’d just stand alone in a corner?? Dance on my own trying to fend off lingering strangers? And for what? I'm not great at making spontaneous friends either. The thought of it seemed mortifying. Clubbing was categorically a group activity, how else would one have fun?
Well, at least that’s what I thought until I discovered that I love raving and dancing to electronic music. And when I “rave”, especially when high, I become an incredibly asocial and silent person.
Going to a techno party with a couple of friends, I felt quite self-conscious for not being much of an active conversation partner to them, instead finding myself completely immersed in a weed-induced trance that made me tirelessly step and sway side-to-side to the relentless beat.
Apparently, this is what made me feel prepared to embark on what would be the adventure of solo-raving.
The serendipitous trigger was a flyer plastered on various walls all over the old town center of Barcelona, announcing the arrival of a DJ duo by the name of Flight Facilities. I did a double take: Hey, I know and like some of their songs.
The date of their performance: today. I hadn’t missed it, how lucky. But who would I find on such short notice to accompany me, who didn’t already have Saturday night plans? Better question yet, who would I want to accompany me, who I’d feel comfortable enough around to just dance side by side with for a good 3 to 4 hours?
The answer to both questions: nobody.
30 minutes of contemplation later, and the ticket is bought. There’s still a dose or two of weed edibles in the fridge. Perfect. That’s all I need.
My excitement only builds throughout the evening, while playing a game of darts with friends, when really all I am craving is to disappear into a crowd of party-goers and enter my music-trance once more. This time uninhibited by the self-consciousness and discomfort I feel at disconnecting from my club-companions, because guess what, there wouldn’t be any.
Well, I arrive, make it in and claim my free consumption included in the night’s ticket. Then I go about positioning myself strategically within the room.
My objective is clear: I did not come to make friends, I literally just want to be left alone and enjoy the music.
So, the middle of the crowd is out of the question. It’s too packed there and full of couples and groups of people. I’ll feel too out of place, my internalized awkwardness sadly not completely expelled. Plus, more people mean more chances that somebody will spot me chilling on my own and see themselves compelled to strike up a conversation. The opposite of what I want to achieve.
However, I do not want to be too far from the thick of the activity either. Dancing on my own in a walk-way or a sparsely populated area seems counter-productive and just not fun.
Conclusion: the perfect place should to be close to the DJ pit. This feels like a spot where it is normalized to just vibe, potentially facing the DJs head-on, therefore not looking out of place with or without company.
Turns out the area directly adjacent to their turntables is still a little too populous for me, as could have been expected. So, I settle in slightly to the side, with a comfortable safety-distance of roughly 20 cm between myself and all surrounding people, allowing me to move freely. From that spot I don’t really move all night. I might ascend the stairs next to the pit when they free up, to get a better view and separate myself from migrating groups of annoying drunk men. Just to be pushed out of my prime real-estate 10 minutes later by dry humping couples that are slobbering at each other’s faces with little regard for anything else. I am annoyed but I guess I don’t blame them. They’ll move on soon enough.
Anyway, with my spot secured and drugs of choice ingested, I get to what I came here for. Letting the high come on gently, and most of all dancing.
What follows is my attempt at shaping the high thoughts that traversed my brain that night into something that is entertaining, yet insightful even when read soberly.
The set starts at 2:30am. I take my position, gin tonic in hand, around 2:37. The club, Razzmatazz, famous for its 5 different rooms that offer a broad selection of music, is filled with what seems to be a great number of guiris (a phenomenal Spanish word for foreign tourists) tonight. This makes sense, it is a Saturday night after all, and people want to party in one of Barcelona’s most popular nightlife destinations.
It’s just that I might have underestimated the obnoxiousness of the crowd, especially not being a drunk member of it.
No matter, the crowd need not be of importance to me, as long as I defend my physical space and they stay out of it and my business. Hah, right.
After some creeping doubts that I might be in the wrong one of the five rooms, because I realize I have no idea what Flight Facilities look like, I desperately try and get on Instagram to search for pictures of their faces and compare. What nobody has told me is that DJ sets are not really the same as gigs. The musicians don’t introduce themselves, let alone play only their own original music. You get a smörgåsbord of songs, indeed hand-picked and arranged by the DJs, but by no means uni-musicianal, even if you’re a big-ish name.
Rookie mistake from my side, I suppose.
4G coverage is pretty patchy in the club, but I manage to pull up some images that pacify my worries. I am in the right room, after all. Crisis averted.
It doesn’t take long, however, before the first dude tries to get my attention.
I obviously dressed up for the occasion, trying my best to go for a queer raver-girl aesthetic - with which, in all honesty, I feel overdressed compared to the all the heterobasics I observe around me, which includes the countless men in the most boring t-shirt/shorts combos they could have possibly dug out of their closets. Despite my long-held antipathy toward people that wear sunglasses in the club, I felt compelled to bring my pair of trendy Bershka shades, even if it would only be to embellish the top of my head.
First notable high thought of the night:
I finally understand why people wear shades in the club.
It’s so your enemies cannot anticipate your next move.
Sure, sunglasses help dim the constant flashing lights to more bearable levels, especially when you are photo-sensitive (I don’t know whether there are leisure drugs out there that have this effect, but I imagine there are). But no, really, sunglasses are an incredible added layer of protection. A shield. Nobody knows where I am looking. Nobody knows if I am closing my eyes as I dissolve into the music. Nobody knows if I am acknowledging them or ignoring them. It’s fucking brilliant. What a revelation.
So, when that first guy tries his little spiel, creeping up by my side, waving awkwardly in my direction, I simply lower my shades and pretend like I don’t notice him. I have him safely in my sights, watching out for any unexpected moves, but I do not grant him the importance of interrupting my vibe.
Around an hour in to the set, I am good and high and genuinely entertained at the bizarre connections my brain is making. So, I do the only reasonable thing a person that is high and alone at the club could do, and thinking myself incredibly funny and cunning, I start noting down my high thoughts in a WhatsApp chat I have with myself.
I am stuck on a contemplation about the strangeness of the concept of the VIP section behind the DJ booth for a good 30 minutes. On one hand, the concept massively puts me off. A section filled with pretty, young women, placed there to make the DJs look better and provide entertainment during their smoke-breaks. And after their set. Perhaps I am judging them too hard, and these are all friends of theirs, hence granted with the privilege of hopping up on the fenced-off stage. But to me, it all reeks of entitlement, exclusivity, and posing.
On the other hand, however, there’s this quiet, yet incessant part of me that does want to be granted access to the podium, with all the alcohol and social currency that would come with it. What a story it would make: “I went clubbing alone for the first time and got invited to the DJs’ VIP.” I mull over this internalized moral contradiction for a while, fully aware that humans commit hypocrisy every day of their lives, and ultimately conclude that it's just something that needs to be accepted.
Though two other girls who were dancing to my left got handed wristbands by DJ number 2, alas for me, it was not meant to be. I console myself with the fact that none of the women up there are dancing very much, literally the only thing I wanted to do today, and that their attempts of animating the crowd, while effective, feel a little sad and out of place. I wouldn’t enjoy it up there anyway.
I am promptly ripped out my ruminations by the most horrible sound. Let my texts to myself provide a snapshot of my emotions:
[3:29 am]
People. Whistling
No.
[3:30 am]
Stop that
The djs look kinda confused
And put off
Is this. Krm
Normal
That people fucking
WHISTLE
[3:31 am]
FUCK
Tonight I discover a deep-seated hatred I harbor for people who whistle loudly at the club. I don’t know whether I have just never been in crowds that whistle throughout the whole damned build-up to the next drop, or whether I’ve always been oblivious to it, but I swear to god and all that is holy, this feels like the harshest insult you could possibly commit toward the DJs and all your fellow club-goers.
You’re ruining it for all of us. Please just stop.
I’ve always considered myself a pacifist. But tonight has called all of that into question.
A wild whistler and his orangutan friends appear on my left, the sounds he produces ripping at my ear-drums. And I ponder how quickly my fist, outfitted with 3 of my signature rings of differing thicknesses and weights, could shut him up if I’d land a well-placed punch right on his nose.
Surrendering to the reality that there is nothing to be done about the whistlers that insist on ruining all the drops for a good 45 minutes, somebody else has taken it upon themselves to distract me from my misery.
As I mind my beeswax, trying for some deep belly breaths to calm my boiling temper, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Hey, can I try your glasses?”, says a generic looking white dude with curly hair.
Sure, if you give them back.
30 seconds of UV-protected shimmying later, he returns my glasses and a compliment and promptly leaves. Thanks mate.
Blue-eyed as I sometimes am, I don’t think much more of it. Just figure he’s drunk and jolly.
When it happens again 20 minutes later, where yet another generic, curly-haired white dude - for all I know it could have been the same guy again, I couldn’t tell you the difference - approaches me to borrow my glasses, it finally clicks. Ah. That’s a come on, I see now.
“Only if you give them back.”
But this time, he gets a little over-excited and 30 seconds later still doesn’t seem inclined to return the shades to their rightful owner. So, I extend my hand in front of his face, making a “give”-gesture, which he cannot perceivably refuse, and the “ha-ha-cutesy-I-am-trying-but-failing-to-flirt-with-you” sunglasses theft is staved off.
I am annoyed now, realizing the cheap mating-ploy I have been made part of against my will, and reinstate the glasses to my face, purposefully averting my gaze to signal that this conversation is definitively over.
Never underestimate a straight man’s inability to read the room, because a mere moment later, his hand it back at tapping me on the shoulder. I guess he thought it would be pretty hilarious to pose the exact same question he already did a minute ago.
“CaN I BoRrOW yOuR gLaSsEs?”
I don’t know what could possibly have led him to believe this was a solid plan of action, but I suspect my disdainful look and biting tone when I utter the word “No.” was not what he was expecting. He seems to finally get the messages and slithers away.
Cool. After this unscheduled interruption we are back to dancing.
The next half hour I spend vibing, using the bathroom, pitying the person who is tasked with unclogging the toilets after all the useless and sloppy clubbers have flooded them with inconceivable amounts of paper mulling over how unjust it is that these literal shit-jobs are the ones that this society pays worst and how that should really be changed and then I recover my spot by the DJ booth.
It’s dark and I’m high, so I think I see two of the girls make out in the VIP part of the stage. Of course they aren’t, but this leads me down another string of pretty entertaining high thoughts, which I promptly note down.
What men are lacking in tact and perception, they definitely make up in the audacity. Of which I am reminded the moment I see a stray hand creep up toward my phone screen, wiggling its silly fingers into my field of vision.
I look up, positively irritated, to see some guy with a grin on his face sputtering something about “we don’t do that here, ha ha." I suppose he is referring to texting in the club.
And who the fuck came and made you mayor of other people’s business?
I turn my back, not in the mood for even dignifying whatever the hell that was with a verbal response, only to see his hand continuing to reach for my phone.
I cannot believe he thinks this is some type of flirtatious banter that we’ve got going on right now, so I angrily swat the hand away.
I will repeat: never underestimate a straight man’s inability to read the room.
The next thing I feel are those stupid fingers wriggling into my literal sides, forcing their way between my elbows and waist.
Graciously, I try to avoid embarrassing him too gravely, and give him if not one, even two more chances to wise the fuck up and leave me alone, as I move away from his grubby hands, thinking that by now it should have become glaringly obvious that I am not into it.
But no, he follows me, those fingers follow me, so I am left with no other choice but to turn around brusquely and snarl “ME DEJAS EN PAZ, POR FAVOR,” more or less meaning “Will you leave me the fuck alone?” Now reflecting back, the “please” might have been too civil still, but the venom in my voice certainly made its point.
Men really do have the discretion and sensibility of a 10 ton boulder rolling down a hill, so much so that you figuratively have to slap them in the face with a dictionary to try and make yourself understood.
Here another excerpt of my text messages that capture the exact moment the above events occurred, going from whatever high fixation I was entertaining, to shock and horror, and instantly returning to those contemplations.
[4:05 am]
Defeating the purpose of the hetero archetypal
[4:06 am]
Idea of the VIP is
GOD WTF MEN
stop tell them to stop
[4:07 am]
Anyway
I was saying
Just sabotaging the VIP lol
The rest of the night goes by relatively uneventfully. I dance. I wonder how many steps I have taken that night, doubting that my phone’s pedometer accurately measured them. I dance. In a stroke of genius I come up with a calculation that should give me a pretty good estimation of my step count. Pick a couple of the songs that play that night, check their BPMs and take the mean of these figures. Knowing that I pretty much took one step on each beat, or at the very least moved my weight from one foot to the other (we’ll just go ahead and call this a step), I now know how many steps I took per minute. Multiply that by the total time I was in the club, 3 and a half hours, et voilà, I’ve got myself a step estimation.
Let’s pause here and do the math:
One of my favorite tracks they played, Rabbit Hole by CamelPhat, comes in at 124 BPM. 124 BPM = 124 steps per minute. 3.5 hours = 210 minutes. 124 x 210 = 26,040 steps.
There ya go. 26k steps on a Saturday night. Not bad I say.
Besides that, I dance. I observe the security guards trying to get people to stop smoking on the dancefloor, attempting to get their attention by waving flashlights in their eyes, but ultimately loosing against his shade-wearing and oblivious opponent. It’s like watching live slapstick comedy.
I dance. I try to spy on the woman in front of me, who has been sending walls of texts back and forth with one of her contacts. I desperately want to know the tea, but sadly my sunnies aren’t prescription, so I can’t discern the tiny letters. I dance. Then I get distracted by what looks like a merry group of queers, outshining the rest of the crowd in their fabulous outfits, and one of them vogues with me a little and we dance.
Flight Facilities announces they are going to play an hour longer than planned, and though I am questioning whether I’ll make it all the way till closing time, also considering I have brunch plans at in less than 6 hours from now, I decide fuck it.
I relish every song. Some of Flight Facilities’ originals, Fred Again..’s Marea, Drake’s Massive, Lola’s Theme. Plenty of club bangers. I do mutter to myself “Un poco de seriedad, señoría, por favor,” (A little more seriousness, Ladies and Gents, please) half-joking, half-serious, every time the back part of the crowd takes it upon themselves to yell “HEYYY-HOOOO! HEYYYY-HOOOOOH!” at the top of their lungs at random, arbitrary, and entirely inappropriate moments throughout the night. I guess that’s what I get for choosing one of the biggest and most popular clubs on a Saturday night in August, where people’s (and tourists') priorities lie more with getting smashed and having fun with their friends (and possibly pulling), instead of with the music in and of itself. Then again, I’ve come to realize I am also just a grumpy tight-ass when it comes to compromising my live music experience.
But that’s part of the reason I even went alone in the first place. No concessions, no concerns about staying too short or too long for anybody’s preference, no need to worry about anybody’s levels of intoxication or way home, besides my own. I think this is especially why I have fun doing things on my own, even clubbing turns out. As a person who is often compelled to prioritize the wishes and needs of other people, sometimes to the detriment of her own, only being responsible for myself and my own enjoyment for a couple of hours on a Saturday night is truly liberating.
All in all, I have a great time, all by myself. The music envelopes me, the ceaseless bass consumes me, and each synth lifts me up into a, dare I say, spiritual plane of existence.
If I had to put a poignant title to the whole night, I’d say it was both an empowering yet deeply humbling experience.
Empowering because, hell, what percentage of the general population can say they enjoy clubbing on their own. Like truly enjoy, truly on their own. Not to attempt and exchange bodily fluids with whomever happens to cross your path that night, or to try to pick up your next one-night-stand. But to overcome the social discomfort that comes with being alone in a setting intended and designed for social interaction, to then go on and make your own fun, detached from anybody else.
Yes, I’ll admit it, I feel like an independent bad bitch. Bold and brave in a very strange, 21st-century type of way. I might even feel a little superior to everybody else, but let’s forget I said that. Obviously, the measure of one’s character is not whether or not they are able to have fun at a club on their own…
So, when I say humbling, I clearly don’t so much mean that I and my ego were humbled. Humbling more like, I am reminded of my vulnerability and mortality as a woman in this patriarchal world.
Jeez, Soph. Lighten up.
No, but for real. I am approached various times that night, and although I don’t feel unsafe at any point, taking comfort in my knowledge of martial arts and the assertiveness I have learned to display when needed, I am constantly aware of how things could go south very easily. Any moment I fiercely reject any of these men’s advances I am cognizant of how this may evoke violent retaliation if their egos would be bruised just a little too much.
I may be over-exaggerating the real risk I am running, but all it takes is one angry man and a little bit of bad luck to end my life.
As women we make ourselves small not only because that is what we are told to do by all of history and society, we equally do it for our own safety.
Toward the end of the night, a man comes up to me and asks whether I am here alone or with friends. I instinctively say “nah, my friends are around” and he moves on without another word. I can’t help but feel a little thrown off balance by that encounter, however short. What would have happened if I had admitted I was alone? Would he have made some type of advance? Would I have outed myself as an easy target? Would this have put me in danger, or am I just over-thinking things? I guess I’ll never know.
This realization didn’t ruin my night, and luckily it didn’t trigger some type of anxious state heightened by my activated endocannabinoid system. And neither does it lead me to continue living my life in constant fear. But it does inherently reframe my world view.
This was my first solo-rave and certainly won’t be my last, a world of possibilities has been opened to me. But I am going to continue to approach my path, especially when I choose to walk it alone at distinct moments in my life, with a conscientious understanding that, while it is #notallmen, a little extra caution never hurt. At least until we may one day be so fortunate to wake up in a world where women (and femmes, and enbies, and queer folk) everywhere can go out to clubs, alone and high, without a moment’s hesitation.
