Determination and Dubstep

This is a story about how important music and dance are to my sanity right now. It is part of a process of re-birth. It’s also a story about England. And it also attempts to demonstrate what passion, persistence, independence, dorkiness, sheer pig-headedness and fifteen GBP will get you, if you try hard enough.

Please don’t be daunted by the length of my stories; I intend to write a book about this past year of my life, and books require large volumes of writing, so that’s how I write.

Okay, first of all: go to http://www.myspace.com/djcrissycriss. On his list of songs, down to your right, the second one down is “Kick Snare.” Click on it. If you have nice speakers attached to your computer, turn the bass up as high as it’ll go. This is one of my favorite examples of Dubstep music.

Maybe you don’t like it…maybe it sounds evil or weird or annoying…but imagine you’ve somehow grown to love it and you’re in a little club where there are 200 other people packed into a solid mass, waiting for the beat to drop after the voice says “Kick…Snare…It’s unbelievable…” and then the two enormous towers of speakers and bass bins at the front of the room hurl out the song so damn hard that the bass vibrates your skull and ribcage, and you and the whole mass of bodies launch into continuous, joyous movement to the same rhythm.

It can be pretty intense.

I am hopelessly and fiendishly addicted to these moments. I close my eyes and a huge smile takes over my face and I often actually laugh out loud as I’m dancing.

I had to loosen my grip on several addictions during 9 months of pregnancy, but this one just grew to be that much more powerful.

So, with the knowledge that this has been the only type of music that has moved me to dance for the last couple years, you should also know that this is one of the only things I truly love about England. This particular town is depressing, the weather has been shit, the food is shit, everything is ridiculously expensive, and the people in general are conservative, noncreative and gloomy.

But somehow…Dubstep music was born here.

The scene is so miniscule in Minneapolis that an event as well-attended as last night’s, if it were in my hometown, would be nothing short of a miracle.

Yep…it takes a special breed of people to invent and love something like Dubstep, and who knew the English were those kind of people?

The other thing I have to love about England, as reluctant as I am to have a now-permanent tie to this place, is that the child I just gave birth to was also born here. Incubated in a womb constantly permeated by yoga, orgasms and Dubstep, he is quite possibly the chillest, healthiest infant on the entire planet.

From the first week I got here in October until a few days before he was born, I went to this tiny little club situated under a bridge within a bus station, and danced my little pregnant ass off to Dubstep at least once a week. The doormen, bar men, and even some of the DJs and MCs know me by face – or, more likely, by shape – if not by name. I have been hard to miss. When I danced with Charlie in my belly, he was my only dance partner. I danced on my own, often with my eyes closed so I couldn’t see the people who were staring or sometimes even laughing. Anyone may have assumed I was “a bit mad,” but there could never have been any doubt I was there because I love to dance to Dubstep, and not because I wanted to get wasted or find drugs, and definitely not because I expected to pick up a man.

Last night was the first Dubstep event since before the holidays, and I have been looking forward to it since Charlie was born. I got dressed and beautified at Jackie’s house after spending some time with her and Charlie. I put my hand on his little chest as he was sleeping to say goodbye to him just before I left, and told Jackie it was a big moment for me to go dancing without Charlie as my companion.

I had become very used to his presence defining who I was, whenever I was there, and it had started to feel a little like security. This time, even though I was slim and back into my former body, and would be able to dance like I used to before I got huge, I was also – for the first time in 9 months – truly going alone.

This required a few extra deep breaths of courage when my taxi dropped me off. No one here ever goes to clubs alone.

When I arrived I walked by a side window of the club. The bass bins were on the other side of the glass, and I paused to feel the glass vibrate and to hear the music and wondered if there were many people dancing yet, since it was still only 1 a.m. – pretty early for UK standards. At the door I was astonished even at the size of the smoking crowd that was outside the club. I stood in line to pay my entry fee of five pounds, but then realized something was wrong. People in front of me were turning away from the door and leaving. The show was sold out.

I asked the doorman if they were letting new people in as people left. He said there was no way to know who was leaving for the night when they left, so no. I asked if there was any hope of getting in if I wait, and again he said no. This is not happening, I thought. I can’t not go in there.

So I picked a square of pavement 2 feet from the door, right in the middle of people going in and out, central in the doorman’s field of vision, and didn’t move from that space for over an hour. It was obvious I was alone, as I always am. There was no way I could remain there and look cool, so I chain smoked cigarettes without inhaling, in an effort to look just a little less lame, but I absolutely refused to leave.

I stood there in my heavy full length coat, sort of bouncing a little to the music I could hear through the door, and watched everyone around me for someone who might be selling a ticket. At one point I think the doorman realized I had not moved for a long time, and started looking at me warily, and from that point on I made eye contact with him every minute or so.

Every time a group of tottering drunk girls in miniskirts (you can’t possibly dance to dubstep in 4 inch heels and a miniskirt!) got in because they were on the guest list, every time a bloke stumbled outside to smoke, so messed up he could barely walk or even open his eyes, and every time someone walked out with their car keys in hand, I shot the doorman a glance. He eventually started to look down each time.

I was convinced I was wearing him down.

At one point when I looked up there was a different, nicer doorman standing there. This guy also recognized me and had even talked to me a bit in the past, so I made my move.

“Hey,” I said, “Look, you’ve seen me dozens of times, and this is the first time I’m not hugely pregnant, right?”

“Oh, right! Congratulations…when did you have your baby? You were a surrogate, right?”

“Yeah. Just before Christmas, thank you. Look, I know you have to follow the rules but there are tons of people in there who aren’t here to dance or because of the music, and you know I dance every time I’ve come here, and this is the first time I’ve gone out to dance since the baby was born. I need to get in there. It’s really important to me. Isn’t there someone selling a ticket, or a way you could let me in, like if someone gets kicked out?”

“Sorry, love, but we’re far past capacity as it is. There’s really nothing I can do.”

“Okay. That’s okay. But I’m not leaving. I have to go in. I’ll be right there. All night. Until I get inside.”

I walked dejectedly back to my square, and noticed him talking to the other doorman when he came back. I also saw several other bouncers talking to each other and someone gestured toward me. I was sure they would take pity on me and let me in. But they didn’t.

I chatted a little bit with people who came out to smoke and approached me, and told them my story. A couple of guys insisted there was someone inside who had a ticket for sale, and I immediately told them I’d pay them to find him. They went back in on a mission. I talked to others who were also looking for tickets. They were all in groups of several people. I told them my sad story as well. Finally, after an hour, I was started to lose hope. I had stuck one earbud in my ear and was listening to dubstep on my iPod. I was cold and angry and was ready to approach the original doorman with “Okay, before I give up and get a taxi home, I just need to tell you that…” and then plea my case one last time.

That was when one of the people in a group approached me with a guy selling a single ticket, saying it was no use to them because they wanted to go in as a group, and asked if I’d pay 15 pounds for it. DONE. I was in. I gave the ticket to the doorman, who said “Didn’t you just have a baby?” and ended up knowing my whole story without my having said a word, the coldhearted robot.

It seems I have never been so thankful to be somewhere, never danced so hard, never had so much love for that music as I did when I got in there. I felt like I had just won an enormous battle, even though all I had done was remain stubborn enough not to accept no for an answer.

I’m glad I got in when I did, because I was ready to do one of two things after giving up: I was either going to stand by that window I’d passed where I could hear and feel the music, and dance there by myself, or I was going to walk up the hill to the park by the ocean and dance by myself in the dark and freezing wind to Dubstep on my iPod until I was exhausted.

Both of these would have left no doubt in the mind of any observer that I was truly “mad.” I would have had to agree with them, and would have kept dancing anyway.