Four Minutes of Mayhem (and Repeating)

Four Minutes of Mayhem (and Repeating)

Bez and Flea were sitting on the club's sofas, waiting for friends and
waiting for harder stuff to come from the club's speakers. The sounds
of the Manchester scene were playing away and the DJ knew that the
latest sounds of America were soon going to change that. The decor of
the Swansea nightclub, holding the students night (or indie night, as
it says on the flyers) on a Thursday night, was old and dated.
Bez got in the round, two pints of the cheapest lager in the club or
whatever what was on promotion, Flea just geared himself for the mosh
later on. Till then, they just talked about anything, college, drugs,
people, whatever.
'Did you see that band earlier then?' Bez asks, taking a gulp of lager
referring to The Pit that was only down the road, where most of the
crowd meet up, down cheap lager and get stoned. Called 'the Pit' cause
the bands play in the basement of the place
'Yeah and they were shite. They were trying to be the Happy Mondays,
and they even had a twat dancing with those rattle things,' Flea
replies in disgust. 'I paid fifty p to see that. I could've finished
off my essays in that time.'
'An indie band playing at The Pit, are you sure?' Bez questions,
downing more lager.
'Still, it was a change from a band playing covers,' Flea
argues.
'True,' Bez replies.
Bez and Flea have been mates since school. They got picked on but
didn't care cause they were doing better. Bought the same albums,
clothes, read the same magazines that came out in the music section
every week, even went the raves when every other mosher was dissing the
genre. The only thing they didn't share was the college course, Bez was
doing English and Flea was doing computer science.
The club was filling up, the atmosphere was building up. Most of their
friends had made their entry and often for a grin, they would bet which
one would be the first one to get thrown out. They could tell who the
YTS types were cause they wore trendy labels that would make them stand
out of the crowd and they'd be the first ones that got pissed the
quickest. The only time they'd make their way to the dance floor when
there was some rave stuff blasting through the speakers. Other than
that, they'd be at the other side of the bar getting freebies, legging
it when the doorman came into sight. They were still known as bouncers
in those days.
This was where the lads had this bet, and the loser got the drinks in.
They couldn't help but use the outcasts for their antics.
'I'm going for the one with the Adidas top and the well dodgy
trainers,' Bez says, taking a sip of his pint. 'What do you
reckon?'
'I'm going for that chopsy sod with the highlights,' Flea replies, on
about the one with the dodgy haircut and Reebok top, the main
trendy-wear of that time. Within ten minutes, they had a result.
'Well, Flea my good man, its your round,' Bez says, with a car
salesman smile.
The opening chords of their generation kicked in, the dance floor was
about to become like an organized riot, the punters pulled away from
their lagers, and into the dance floor, as the bouncers looked on, not
knowing if a fight was about to break out.
As the verses went they just danced, but when the chorus kicked in,
some pogo'd, some moshed like they've seen a band, arms pushing bodies,
bodies colliding, slamming, some slammed to the ground, pick 'em up,
repeat, and sing along to the chorus towards the end. Get all the
tension out, unleash the madman inside, get everything that pisses off
everyone on the dance floor come out in slams, a human clash after
another, nothing else matters as the alcohol burns off.
It didn't end there, as the DJ played punk stuff, like the UK scene in
'77, then going towards the early 80's American bands. In a way, this
was like an education. Rave might be new, E's and whizz giving the
establishment shit now they are making up laws to ban it but there was
a lot to build up on.
Bez and Flea missed out on the punk era like the others in the club.
They were still in nappys when the Pistols swore on TV, the Seattle
sounds that were coming out felt like they were part of something.
Having grew up in the Thatcher years, this was like a middle finger to
that genre, and that greed and shit, then get involved in a recession
after. The rave scene was coming up as well, times were changing, and
the four minutes of mayhem was their soundtrack.
'Fucking hell,' Bez says, stroking his shins, 'I've got a fucking
massive bruise coming up.'
' I'll get the drinks in then,' Flea says, making his way to the bar.
Some others got their glasses filled up again, some left, college in
the morning with course work to hand in. The lads downed their drinks,
then left.
'Are you going to that rave next Saturday?' Flea asks Bez.
'Down the Escape? Dunno, maybe. Got to be said, I'm fucking wrecked,'
Bez responds.
'Got enough for a cab or what?'
'Yeah, got enough for some chips as well.'
As the decade went on, they remained friends, but moved on, as they
say. Flea got through Uni. got a job, got married, Bez was his best
man, became a father, became normal. Bez did his exams, got a job, got
made redundant, and traveled, like many others of their generation. The
sounds that they endorsed weren't going to change the world like they
thought it would, but they were part of a culture that did make an
impact on the world around them.