There’s a metalhead spraying smut on the Cadillacs parked out front. It’s too cold for the doorman to be out there watching. He looks the other way anyway, and the coat check girl has turned his head tonight.
Inside it’s hot hot. Or that’s the name of the song, or the dance that the girls are doing in a line under the neon moon they’ve hung from the ceiling. The percussion mix on this tune sounds like a bucket of loose staples, or a marching band, depending on how much you are partying tonight. Everyone’s partying hard, cold weather, you know, so I guess it’s the marching band. Still, I hear the staples.
Halfway through the song a fight breaks out in a corner of the dance floor. Everyone keeps dancing, only a few move aside, just enough to evade the falling bodies as the boxing morphs into wrestling. The bouncer has to leave the coat check counter to intervene, and he is not happy. He pops one of the guys and slits his nose. Blood on a white shirt, a Japanese flag. A bartender hops the bar with a rag and wipes the floor. Charlie, the DJ, seeing all of this, edges up the volume leading into the chorus, recapturing everyone’s attention until the hook hits – he floors it, volume to 11, fire the confetti cannon. Euforia. Strobes, massive sound, free bodies under a neon moon. Neon moves.