The Black and White club…

8 08 2016

Once teeming with life, music, young faces with flashing eyes, the red brick building, it’s metal doors now dented, stood silent, jaded, its grime coated windows now framed by the artistry of busy spiders.

The passers by that helped me find this corner building again knew nothing of the life that once pulsated within it, or of the first floor room, its one small window the one I used to hang my hung-over head from to see what the weather was doing.

The music rushed towards you as guests pushed through chrome plated doors, already dancing before reaching glitter ball centre stage, neon lighting transforming monochrome rainwear into Technicolor dream coats once within the circumference of its glow. Faces lit up, dance moves evolved, drink, and other people, egged all to become less inhibited, more exuberant, rules about personal space forgotten. And just when most places would be closing for the night a new tide of people would squeeze into the room from the live venue hall next door, eager to hear their favourite disco vibes, shouting their requests at the DJ before bouncers took control and shepherded all from the venue.

Now a ghost of its former glory, a delirious spark of memory reignited this house for a sweeping moment, a crack in an upstairs window seeping ‘Hotel California’ into the fog of aDJ Graham King, Haslev, Denmark winter cold air.

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