It is the last day of the year. You came home from the supermarket which looked like it was looted before the apocalypse actually happened. Well, you too could have bought your beer yesterday, but you didn’t. You could even have bought some good stuff instead of the cheap stuff that was left. But then again, it is the end of the month, and you know you will need all the money you have left for tonight. You stood in the queue listening to experienced grey-clad tourists who have been here for days, shouting proud advice to inexperienced grey-clad tourists who have been here since today, on how to get in. You do not care about where they want to get in. You know where you will be heading to, and it is a place where everybody looks different, even though it does not really matter how you look. But once back home, that does not stop you from pondering which shirt to wear for way too long. Your shirt is going to be up against a lot tonight. It has to be smart, effortlessly stylish, casual even. It has to complement your personality, and attitude. But it also has to look sharp after spending hours on a very crowded floor. So you take some more time thinking about it. And you have not even started with your footwear. Or your hair. You hum and groove along to the music while you are taking care of that. You put on crackling records that you bought in sleeves that smell of moist basements. Some of them have stamps from old clubs, long gone, with exotic names. Most of them were probably located in some outskirts, and not very glamourous. But if the music you got was played there, it probably helped the dancers to forget about that. You like the thought, because you first heard some of this music in the place you are going to tonight, and it is not exactly glamourous either. And it always helped you to forget almost everything that you wanted to forget.
Soon you are on your way. You decided you do not want to be on your own any longer. Not tonight. You have sweet vocal harmonies in your head, kicking rhythm sections, and swooning orchestras. You sing some refrains out loud, and people in the streets look at you. Some seem to understand. You hope for some of your favourites being played later on. You hope for some favourites you do not even know yet. Where you are heading to, that has happened before. You walk because the cabs and trains are not running, but it helps you to sort out what lies ahead. So soon. You fuel the anticipation further with probably at least one drink more than necessary along the way, but you know when you will arrive, everybody will have done the same. As you approach the area, you probably walked through the time it needs to play ten 12“s or long album tracks, or twenty 7“s or radio versions. But frankly it could have been even more, or less. You do not really know how long it took. It does not really matter. You know you shortly will arrive at a place where time dissolves.
You hear fireworks going off near and distant. You heard them going off for a while now, but the intervals are getting shorter. You know when the real hell will break loose, you will watch it from above, dancing on that floor, embracing those friends, singing along to that music, hoping that everything will be better. You look up to the club, and the windows are already steamy. You see arms raised. The mirror ball is revolving and shining bright. You cannot tell who of the Druffalo DJs is playing at that very moment, but that does not really matter anyway. But you see somebody is holding that microphone, and you can hear cheers. And you want to hear what they are cheering for, and you want to join in, at last. And you rush up those grim stairs towards the love awaiting you.
For it is the Druffaloma New Year’s Extravaganza, on a promising New Year’s Eve in Berlin.
And it will be alright.