solstice chimed midnight. All light evaporated and the afterimage
of colossal sound shimmered across an ancient sanctum, then dissolved
to infinite black. There was a measureless interregnum. As if from
an unseen parapet of sleep, Dreamtime fell within this deep well
of silence, like eternity ebbing from a shore invisible. And inside this
occlusion, a nyctotropic ritual unfolded. A ragged and unseen multitude
gathered at the precipice of that melanic abyss and waited there. They waited
like soundless shadows in the void, clad only in the rags of faith.
Half-denuded supplicants of oblivion? Or disciples of some Forgotten God?
They gazed a megalithic gaze into the psychic eclipse for a long,
catatonic moment. Lungs sucking autonomically at the tenebrous mist, they
stood with their arms thrust high into the mute vault above their heads,
poised on the very cusp of exhalation... but this wasm't a propitiation to
some Stygian gloom. Not by a long road. They were there to light the dark,
to illuminate it. And with one multitudinous breath the throng howled, as
if to awaken who-knows-what. The ebon vacuum shuddered. They swayed, youths
and hoydens all, as their cacophony of screams began to dissipate the preconscious
miasma. On and on they shrieked and writhed, screeching and convulsing like
a host of serpent-spined Banshees, spasming voodoo and pagan until finally
the very air splintered at their shrill ululations and the primordial night
shattered into a jagged handaxe of noise. Shards of sound ripped through
bone and flesh and fur and they quivered like totems in the atavistic moment
of their instinctive NOW. At last! Time flowed again, like honey. Somewhere,
a shaman smiled.
Then the ground shook
to the renewed throb of an immense Sound System, pumping rhythm
directly to their thousand hypothalami. They whirled, like a swarm
of hominid tops, vibrating in an immense ceremonial cavern. Overhead,
silks and rare fabrics, dyed undreamed colours and scented with
strange incense, billowed in the pressure waves streaming from
industrial grade bassbins. Here and there, bongo players flammed
extemporaneously within the massive pulse throbbing from the huge speakers and
saturating the air. Pools of light swelled like luminescent waves across and
around the ecstatic dancers, tribal hearts beat as One and The Whole World
glowed. At the edges of this throng lay a few danced-out kids, crashed
on outsized cushions, slowly nodding off in demulcent bliss. What Bohemian
satiety! This, to them, was Heaven-on-Earth, or if not exactly that, it
was maybe Heaven-in-an-aircraft-hanger-on-acid. Whatever.
It was the hub and vortex of inspiration, the ever-flowering hothouse
of human creativity... and the most legendary club in the world.
It was Saturday night, and this was Metagnosis.