Saturday, September 17, 2005
It's My Life
Psychological discomfort is something I haven’t experienced to a large extent. Most of us have different means of triggering off such discomfort, and I recently had the unfortunate opportunity to recall what mine was.
The event was Kent Ridge Hall Bash, a clubbing event organized by my university hall of residence. In all my stay in this hall so far I had never been to one of these, knowing full well my intense dislike for such venues. However, this year, the hall band was requested to play some songs for this event and yours truly, being a guitarist for the hall band, was roped in.
It started innocently enough. We moved our equipment to the club in the afternoon, set it up, went through a thorough sound check and all. Standard procedure for most gigs we play outside of hall. After that came the wait for the event to begin.
People streamed in slowly at first, some early birds arriving to check out the scene. The lights were dimmed, candles were lit and non-descript background music was played to set the atmosphere of the club. The program was put through its paces with a quick run-through to make sure most people knew what was going on. Some of the organizing committee ran around, checking that everything was in place and basically sorting out the nitty-gritty to ensure the smooth flow of the event. A few cigarettes were lit, sending streams of smoke spiraling up against the beams from the stage lights and priming the air for more to come.
After a while, the crowd started to come in droves. The background noise level increased slowly but steadily, egged on by the growing number of excited conversations and general crowd noise. The place was just starting to get livelier, no doubt fueled by the air of excitement and hype built up prior to this event. Digital cameras were whipped out and passed around as groups of hall residents eagerly took photographs of each other in their clubbing attire.
My downward spiral started when they tried to get the sound system running. Awful rap blared out from the house speakers at volumes that could be felt more than they could be heard. The crowd, as expected, raised their own volume to be heard above the din. Even more shrieks of excitement rang through the room, and the camera flashes had become almost stroboscopic.
This had a mind-numbing effect on me. The sound of a million conversations, the flash of a million xenon bulbs and exactly one distressingly loud rapper all conspired to overload my senses and hammer away at my mental consciousness. I tried freshening up at the toilet, but every time I sat back down I was subjected to the same assault and reduced to a conscious daze. I tried starting my own conversation to keep myself alert, but the circumstances were absolutely unconducive. The only alternative was dazed inactivity, a valiant struggle within my mind against sensory overload.
By now, the voices and noises had merged into a loud drone which threatened to drown out my thoughts. The array of disco lights and camera flashes turned the whole visual landscape into a maelstrom of chaos and disorientation. What initially started as mild irritation had now boiled over into intense, full-blown disgust.
I was right on the edge, fidgeting and shaking my legs vigorously in a vain attempt to work off the frustration. I was about to shout out at the top of my lungs for some silence (which, on hindsight, probably wouldn’t have been heard) but thankfully, I had the presence of mind to make a last ditch attempt to salvage whatever remained of my sanity.
I turned to my band mate and said (or shouted), “I’ll step outside for a while, otherwise I’m gonna go crazy in here.” I left without waiting for a reply.
Standing at the claustrophobic lift lobby just outside the entrance, the incessant beat of techno was still audible and threatened to burst out every time the door was opened, but it was still a much welcomed respite. Some of my fellow hall residents were curious as to why I was sitting out when the party was about to begin, to which I replied,
“It’s too damned loud.”
I got some curious looks. I didn’t want to go into the details of how my state of mind was being compromised, not that they would have understood any of it anyway. As I tried to recover my senses, I remembered why I never went into these places voluntarily before. I’ve been in worst circumstances which involved live gunfire, thunderflashes, tracer bullets (which exit the gun muzzle with an illuminated trajectory), late night fatigue, crazy shouting and verbal abuse (both giving and taking), but I still came out with my mental faculties intact. 5.56mm caliber rounds would have sounded better than the disco beats.
The rest of the night went very well, thanks in no small part to the energy of the band and the crowd when we did play at the start and end of the program. In between the 2 sets, the 2 singers who shared my distaste for the place and I made a quick exit and headed to the coffeeshop for a quick beer.
Perhaps I’m way ahead of or behind the times relative to my peers with regards to my reaction towards such clubbing venues, but there’s no question about it. My ears are better utilized on the bandstand than on the dance floor.
After all, it’s my life.
The event was Kent Ridge Hall Bash, a clubbing event organized by my university hall of residence. In all my stay in this hall so far I had never been to one of these, knowing full well my intense dislike for such venues. However, this year, the hall band was requested to play some songs for this event and yours truly, being a guitarist for the hall band, was roped in.
It started innocently enough. We moved our equipment to the club in the afternoon, set it up, went through a thorough sound check and all. Standard procedure for most gigs we play outside of hall. After that came the wait for the event to begin.
People streamed in slowly at first, some early birds arriving to check out the scene. The lights were dimmed, candles were lit and non-descript background music was played to set the atmosphere of the club. The program was put through its paces with a quick run-through to make sure most people knew what was going on. Some of the organizing committee ran around, checking that everything was in place and basically sorting out the nitty-gritty to ensure the smooth flow of the event. A few cigarettes were lit, sending streams of smoke spiraling up against the beams from the stage lights and priming the air for more to come.
After a while, the crowd started to come in droves. The background noise level increased slowly but steadily, egged on by the growing number of excited conversations and general crowd noise. The place was just starting to get livelier, no doubt fueled by the air of excitement and hype built up prior to this event. Digital cameras were whipped out and passed around as groups of hall residents eagerly took photographs of each other in their clubbing attire.
My downward spiral started when they tried to get the sound system running. Awful rap blared out from the house speakers at volumes that could be felt more than they could be heard. The crowd, as expected, raised their own volume to be heard above the din. Even more shrieks of excitement rang through the room, and the camera flashes had become almost stroboscopic.
This had a mind-numbing effect on me. The sound of a million conversations, the flash of a million xenon bulbs and exactly one distressingly loud rapper all conspired to overload my senses and hammer away at my mental consciousness. I tried freshening up at the toilet, but every time I sat back down I was subjected to the same assault and reduced to a conscious daze. I tried starting my own conversation to keep myself alert, but the circumstances were absolutely unconducive. The only alternative was dazed inactivity, a valiant struggle within my mind against sensory overload.
By now, the voices and noises had merged into a loud drone which threatened to drown out my thoughts. The array of disco lights and camera flashes turned the whole visual landscape into a maelstrom of chaos and disorientation. What initially started as mild irritation had now boiled over into intense, full-blown disgust.
I was right on the edge, fidgeting and shaking my legs vigorously in a vain attempt to work off the frustration. I was about to shout out at the top of my lungs for some silence (which, on hindsight, probably wouldn’t have been heard) but thankfully, I had the presence of mind to make a last ditch attempt to salvage whatever remained of my sanity.
I turned to my band mate and said (or shouted), “I’ll step outside for a while, otherwise I’m gonna go crazy in here.” I left without waiting for a reply.
Standing at the claustrophobic lift lobby just outside the entrance, the incessant beat of techno was still audible and threatened to burst out every time the door was opened, but it was still a much welcomed respite. Some of my fellow hall residents were curious as to why I was sitting out when the party was about to begin, to which I replied,
“It’s too damned loud.”
I got some curious looks. I didn’t want to go into the details of how my state of mind was being compromised, not that they would have understood any of it anyway. As I tried to recover my senses, I remembered why I never went into these places voluntarily before. I’ve been in worst circumstances which involved live gunfire, thunderflashes, tracer bullets (which exit the gun muzzle with an illuminated trajectory), late night fatigue, crazy shouting and verbal abuse (both giving and taking), but I still came out with my mental faculties intact. 5.56mm caliber rounds would have sounded better than the disco beats.
The rest of the night went very well, thanks in no small part to the energy of the band and the crowd when we did play at the start and end of the program. In between the 2 sets, the 2 singers who shared my distaste for the place and I made a quick exit and headed to the coffeeshop for a quick beer.
Perhaps I’m way ahead of or behind the times relative to my peers with regards to my reaction towards such clubbing venues, but there’s no question about it. My ears are better utilized on the bandstand than on the dance floor.
After all, it’s my life.
# posted by BloozeGit @ 12:12 am 
