An absolutely massive bouncer towers above me, staring down at my friend Thamana and I with a furrowed brow and stony eyes. He has the Mr. T stance of folded arms, bulging with muscles and big, trunk-like legs.
“Excuse me, sir. Are there any tickets left for Noah and the Whale?”
“Well…you’re a little late fer tha’, darlin’...they’ve only got ‘bout 15 minutes left 'fore they’re over. So how’s bout this: you two fancy jes’ gettin’ in fer free? Yer not gonna see much o’ anything, really.”
In my heightened state of elation, I practically hug Mr. T as he stamps my hand, then we run in urgency into the main room of Koko’s and lo! Noah and the Whale are right in front of us! The place is teeming with people, and we weave through the crowd to a place where we can see over the hundreds of heads of people who seem to be infinitely taller than us. Mr. T couldn’t have been more wrong in his estimate of how long they’d be playing; we ended up catching a good 45 minutes of encore after encore. If I could make a comparison, they sound like Band of Horses meets Modest Mouse, but with a violinist. And stylistically, they give off a roughened vibe of an early London punk band, but with the charm of being young, bearded and English, clad in cardigans and oxford-cloth shirts. Summation: Totally Rad.
Koko’s reminds me a lot of the Orpheum in Boston, but prettier. It’s built like and old-fashioned opera house with levels and levels of ornately decorated balconies stretching up into the vaulted ceiling. All the walls are red and gold and fashioned with meticulous detail that gives the whole place a romanticized, dreamed-up feel. Then behind all this grandeur, as part of the main floor, is a tucked-away but very large, modernly designed bar with all the bells and whistles: chic leather couches and seating, steel flooring, a gigantic glass wall back-lit in deep red lighting, and drinks a-plenty.
The space between Noah and the Whale finishing and a DJ playing some super awesome and not-so-super awesome indie/electro remixes involved landing a prime spot at above mentioned bar to get a pint of cider. It wasn’t prime that I paid an equivalent of $7 for the bloody thing, HOWEVER! Bacchus must have been shining the light of his holy Grecian disco ball upon me, because hark! What did I find on the counter in front of me? An untouched rum and coke! (Side note: I am in no way endorsing drinking anonymous drinks at bars, but I saw this one get made. And by the time I got served, no one was coming back to claim that bad boy, so it was finders-keepers as far as I’m concerned.)
Drinks in hand, much dancing ensues. A few stand-out moments: disco-fied versions of songs by Prince, The Strokes, White Stripes and Postal Service, narrowly dodging a few dodgy fellows, and dancing like it was 2099: meaning, I did the robot. For about an entire song. I even got a little applause from our fellow boogyin’ friends. I realized also the wonderful thing about crowded clubs is when you want to disappear into the crowd to shimmy and squeeze your way away from unwanted male attention, it’s very easy to do so and just keep on your merry way of dancing till the end of time.
After Le Discotheque section of the night finishes, Band of Skulls takes the stage and plays some hyper-cool rock music, but this bit is a bit of a blur, so I unfortunately am unable elaborate any details about what they sounded like. Also unfortunate is that Tham and I get separated somehow in the middle of their set, so I ditch my dancing to try and re-locate her. After wandering around for an indiscernible amount of time, I realize I’d missed the last tube and am faced with the looming prospect of taking the Night Bus back home. In a flash of responsibility, I think, I decide to put a cap on my fun-having and get on with getting back to Ermine Rd. I’d been having a wonderful time, and part of me wishes I hadn’t left at such an early hour of 1:30. I finally find Tham, who had found her cousin, so knowing she was not alone I head on my way.
I initially feared the unknown of the Night Bus, having never taken it before, imagining being stranded in Camden for the night. Armed with my A-Z map of the city, I was fully prepared to walk home if necessary, or do anything other than pay for a cab fare. The Night Bus, however, ended up being a breeze. And no creepy people tried to converse with me, either. I sat alone on the upper deck, listening to Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, watching the lights of the city and the yellow brick and light colored stone buildings race by. London is so beautiful and full of life at night, and I really got quite the tour as I traveled southwards from Camden through to the centre, through Leicester Square to Trafalgar Square, across the Thames on Waterloo Bridge, and further south past London Bridge. Getting off at the bottom of my hill about an hour later, who do I run into but my cross country coach! He very nicely offers to walk with me home, we chat for a bit, but it’s really short so I say I’m fine on my own and we part ways.
It is worth me mentioning that I joined the cross country club. It’s fucking awesome. Organized sports here are a lot different than at schools in the US. It’s run entirely by students, and open to people of all ability levels. It’s pretty much entirely based on self-motivation and putting in individually what you would like to get out of it. There are some guys and girls who are internationally ranked, some who are really good, others who do it just to keep in shape. And the coach is more of a trainer who runs with us and trains us, but we are the ones who push ourselves and set our own pace. I love the freedom and choice we’re allowed, which is a far, far cry from the rigid, overbearing structure of my experience with college sports back home, imbued with a bit too much unhealthy competition, as far as I’m concerned.
Anyway, we have a meet in 3 weeks at the beautiful Hampstead Heath! Whoo! And after our first practice, we all went to a pub to refuel on chips and beer! And I kept up with the boys at practice! Yes! Go Kings College!
Other things worth noting as of late: I had such a nice day with my friend Veronica strolling through Hyde Park yesterday. We found a bench and she played some Bob Dylan songs and some of her own on guitar, while I people watched and took pictures. She’s a complete doll, and an excellent musician, and it was so nice to spend part of the day feeding ducks and searching for good trees to climb and watch the world go by.
Daily Slanderous Rants: I have come to detest these stupid, stupid leg coverings called “Jeggings," the jean-legging hybrid. I give them a big fat YUCK. They’re all a-boom over here, and I don’t know if the trend has hit the States yet, but seriously, they are hideous. And have a horrid name... jeggings. Ew. And don’t look good, on anyone, period. I am a very large fan of the jean. And a large fan of the legging when I’m not in the mood for proper pants. But united as one, they are a disgrace to both of these, and to the marvelous fabric that is Spandex. However, in defiance of this new trend, I have taken to calling my leggings and tights lederhosen, a tribute to the classic idea of a cottony and stretchy and nice looking leg-covering.
Schoolbooks: Spending 300 dollars on obscure literary texts is a real buzzkill. Oh, academia.
Anyway, my kettle is boiling, so I have a cup of tea to make to shake off my slog of a hangover.
XOXO
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