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. Within the
occlusion a nyctotropic ritual unfolded: a ragged and unseen multitude
were gathered at the precipice of the melanic abyss, waiting. They waited
like soundless shadows in the void, clad only in the rags of faith.
Half-denuded supplicants of oblivion? Well maybe, or maybe they were the
disciples of some Forgotten God. They gazed a megalithic gaze into the
psychic eclipse for a long, catatonic moment while their lungs sucked
autonomically at the tenebrous mist. They stood on the cusp of
exhalation, with their arms raised up over their heads into the mute vault above them. But
this wasm't a propitiation to some Stygian gloom. They were there to
light the dark, to illuminate it. All at once, the throng howled and
the ebon vacuum shuddered, dissipating the preconscious miasma. The
celebrants were youths and hoydens, neither cult nor sect, yet they
swayed as their cacophonous wailing fractured and re-fractured the
chimerical edifice. It cracked, and they screamed into it and then writhed,
spasming voodoo and pagan, until finally they awoke to their own inhuman
crescendo, screeching and convulsing like a host of serpent-spined Banshees.
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. Some bongo players flammed
happily within the massive pulse that was throbbing
from the huge speakers and saturating the air. Pools of light swelled
like luminescent waves through 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 at least 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.