Most remarkable is the wall of heat. Whatever battles you may have overcome before, this is the frontline. This is your biggest enemy. You brace yourself, preparing for wet heat to caress your flesh; the blood of the slain, falling from the damp air into your eyes, your mouth, your soul. Your hair is slick with sweat. Your body slides unwillingly against those of your friends, your enemies… can you even tell who is on your side? In the dark hell of the warzone, you lose yourself in a steaming abyss. You’re swallowed. You cannot win. So, if you cannot beat them, you drag your beaten body onto a windowsill, and you join them.
The incompetence of the fresh warriors never fails to entertain. So presumptuous, so naive, they come bearing stylish war-paint, insubstantial armour and regrettable footwear, brandishing cameras, phones and other valuable goods practically begging to be wounded or seized. Their hair collapses under the weight of the heat, their garments are torn by the savage soldiers, their shoes, susceptible to the booby-traps of the rough terrain, endanger their supervisory body and his/her fellow troops. Fortunately, these catastrophic preparatory skills are quickly abandoned and refreshed. The cadets return with minimal clothing to withstand the heat and humidity, sturdy boots to enable agility for clambering upon speakers, couches etc, and a considerable amount more inebriated to endure the long night of warfare ahead.
Putting the novelty of being “at war” aside, why is it that this Friday night event has become so popular, especially among the “type” that it attracts? Theoretically, it shouldn’t work. It shouldn’t be a success at all. The venue, for a start, is a nightmare. Considering the heat of the main dance room, the smoking area should be much larger or at least more accessible. Sweating to the point of near-death and then facing several flights of stairs in all directions is a highly unpleasant experience. When you finally reach the dingy black hovel that is the smoking area, its depth and enclosure ensure that you get no air whatsoever, unless it’s being breathed at you from someone equally sweat-soaked and half-dead. The darkness of the bathrooms also adds to your general disorientation as you cannot see where you’re going or what you’re doing and this, when dizzy from varying altitudes, is just delightful. Granted, it’s probably a good thing that you can’t see your own reflection after so much as five minutes on that dance floor.
The upstairs section is often rented out to some posse of cupcake eating, champagne-swilling over-aged teenagers which often lends itself to extreme mortification when you find your hot, moist self collapsing into their party, much uninvited and unfortunately exhausted from yet another flight of stairs. This also means that one can only avail of the downstairs bar-services, four thousand steps away. Drinks promotions? They do exist. They’re just written on a piece of paper that’s so small and so hidden that you can’t see them. Wonderful. Suffering a severe dent in your finances, body-water content, air and dignity, your only options are to leave, or continue the onslaught of the “dancing” upstairs, another four thousand steps up away.
There, you’re in for a musical treat. Every song that you’ve ever cringed at, cursed for being on the radio, heard school-attending youths blaring on the luas and laughed to yourself at their immeasurably bad taste, is played at full volume for your pleasure. The WAR attendees and their attire certainly do not emulate this “pop music” image, so why gyrate against the couches, the windows and each other along to these “tunes”? Are their catchy melodies really that arousing? Biting their lower lips, caressing themselves and flicking their sweat-drenched hair around in some kind of mating-ritual fashion certainly sends mixed messages considering the soundtrack. Is it meant to be ironic because, really, they listen to bands that came out yesterday, and songs by Lady Gaga, Beyonce, Backstreet Boys etc are just, like, so the opposite of them!? Or perhaps, underneath it all, they have terrible taste in music and genuinely enjoy a good romp along to “Pokerface” over a quick nip to a so-fresh-it-hasn’t-even-happened-yet gig.
The strange, animalistic behaviour that people shamelessly engage in when in battle is somewhat appalling. In the downstairs bar, the rare but thoroughly amusing couples such as the forever awkward, Ass-crack and Camel-Toe can be seen vigorously engulfing each others’ faces while surrounded by similarly enthusiastic pairs indulging themselves in what can only be described as grotesquely energetic. However, this charming exhibition doesn’t compare to the incredibly egotistical displays of showmanship provided by the “dancers” atop the speakers with their cluster of groupies hanging off the pedestal in adoration. Surely this self-induced exposure is some kind of frantic, haphazard attempt to prove their outstanding, artistic interpretation of dance and screams a revelation of all kinds of desperate.
Despite the sweat, blood and tears of War, it is loved. Adored. And more importantly, frequented by hundreds every week, myself included. Whatever criticism can be made of War from the outside, it is immediately forgotten once enclosed in its dark, sweaty warmth. You don’t care who sees you doing what once you’re leveraged above the crowd, busting out your best moves for all to see. All that matters is getting up on something or someone, moving in a way that humans are not meant to move and seducing strangers, friends, objects, who cares? You wouldn’t get away with doing it anywhere else. This is where you can rebel against the laws of nature. This is where you can get away with murder.
It is only human nature to want to escape from social norms, fly your freak-flag a little higher, sweat more than you ever imagined was humanly possible. It’s just a shame that the only place we’re willing to do it is within the saturated, gloomy constraints of a nightclub.
