Nights Out Concerto

Ruminations upon nights out and human desire, structured loosely as a 'concerto'. Focusing on the carnal nature of the ritualised act of 'going out'.

Movement 1: Moderato

The compelling feeling of lust lines the loins and minds of the multitude of party-seekers. Each second of preparation is a vain attempt at improving an end result, predefined in the mind as the best possible ending that ever was; something out of fiction, something embedded within the self throughout adolescence, by way of film and anecdote, snatched straight from the ethos.

Feeling great, getting spruced up and ready to hit the town, the simplicity of these actions is undeniable. Yet there is a certain feeling of artifice within the preparation and expectation of the night. Glory and esteem are possible rewards of the evening yet to unfold. A negative attitude can afflict anyone, not just the unsavvy. This attitude may lead to cataclysm. The positive flow of the mind must remain upright as long as it can.

The platitude of lust reaches its zenith in moments such as these - the thought of sex resides at the mental forefront of the prospective party people. Any moment is an opportunity, yet poses two outcomes based on the action taken. Do or don't. Do, and rejection may occur, this is the biggest point of contention. This is planted down deep within you - a visceral fear. Don’t, and you never tried anyway, best of luck to you.

Looking good is a self-perceived concept, a projection of the image of yourself that you want to show to the public sphere. This is soon quelled by the sight of someone else who you believe fits an image you wish you could meet, but do not currently possess. The self seeks out answers; it seeks to fit in and to be accepted as part of the whole. Possible dejection ensues, as you try to make sense of any given situation, whilst trying to be appealing to the people you want to impress.

Incentivised by promise and fuelled by primal lust, the inner-self acts with impulse, encouraged by the crutch of alcohol or drugs. Making a fool of yourself is easier to do when you aren't at the reigns.

Outside of this world and within every person exists a personal universe that is never even touched on in these moments. The personality of the lone soul is far different to their public self. It is as if two people exist within the same body. All that exists is the world before their eyes, the inner most thoughts and feelings are theirs and theirs alone. The outward self is a projection of all that you feel is right, interchangeable; made malleable by time and social pressure.

We are always searching, reaching for whatever we think will make us happy, unsure of exactly what that is until it happens. When it does we know we feel important in that moment - the kings and queens of our own egos.

If you don't act according to plan then the night out can be influenced in a drastic manner. With failure comes the self-interpretation; the soul-crushing analysis of what exactly went wrong.

Confidence is gained by opportunities being seized and actions being followed through in the best fashion that you feel you can achieve. Come on man, you've got this.

Words and actions are all we know, we can say and do what we feel is best in any given situation, but we're never happy until it all goes right. Lies and half-truths can be a saving grace to new faces at the mere cost of dignity. What do you seek and why do you seek it?

Do you think it is love? It seems to govern a lot of our decisions. It is the constant mechanism that drives us forth, and provides us our yearning. Lust and the satiation of such can lead to a happy place - but depression can follow fast.

Feelings of future failure spring from the amalgamation of your preconceived notions; though we know it is hard to remember that the night has not even begun. Victory can still be yours.

If only they all understood you. If only you could communicate, passing the spirit of your being onto them with resplendent bursts of social intellect. Grab at it, reach for it.

Where will this night lead?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Movement 2: Allegro

Out they go.

The myriad lights of the street cast themselves upon the enamoured crowds. The assembly of party-goers stand in lines on the crescents, avenues and back-streets, awaiting entry to a place that offers them salvation against the cold rain falling around them.

The movement of the masses does not cease, one place not enough to quench their thirst of the party. The oppressive rain streaking silent through the streetlights will not deter them.

Flitting around like restless particles, they pass one another by with nonchalance; they are dust floating free in a summer breeze, unhindered. They are a cosmic cloud sprawling through the universe of the streets.

Some stop to talk, others are content to shout. Some sing songs; solo, duet or as a group. They feel at home with the constant stream of taxis and the distances they have walked. They are happy here.

Whilst some lament the rainy skies, others embrace it uninhibited. Amused on-lookers laugh at the girl dancing in the street-side puddle; she’s too well dressed for this informal dance, but she doesn’t care.

Dee is here to let herself fall backwards into the unadulterated retreat of pure hedonism; she’s had a rough week at work and her puddle-centric jig feels like ecstasy, so does the pill she took an hour earlier.

She doesn’t care about anything else right now; the raindrops cascading down from above take her away to a place that caresses both her mind and spirit. She feels free here, if only for a brief moment.

An eclectic mix of pirates, animals and film stars walk by. It’s a costumed ensemble, boisterous, and enjoying the attention their now-sodden outfits grant them. A life-size ‘Where’s Wally’ (or Waldo depending on where you come from) is on his phone on the same street ten minutes later, he’s lost his friends. Or perhaps they’ve lost him.

The rain has not deterred a sizeable pack of wedding hens. They are content to traipse around in the wet with their matching shirts, sashes, fluffy pink whistles and the other necessary accoutrement. Well-practiced at walking drunk in stilettos, nothing can stop them as they saunter on. Society dictates that they are allowed to be freer tonight; a bit more cheeky and unreserved. '£8.00 bottles for Hen Parties!' reads the sign. With champagne at those prices, they’re overjoyed.

Down a side street, two lads and a girl share a joint. The sweet scent of marijuana caresses the cold cobbles and wisps up and across the rain-beaten rooftops. Their reddening eyes dart around; they are furtive, looking for anyone who might object, or any law-enforcers who might pounce upon them - as if they were being watched from every angle. The clichéd sense of paranoia envelops them; they will soon laugh it off as the warmth of the pub embraces them once more.

The old men and women sink down their final brandies and whiskies for the evening, they’ve spent hours here already, taking advantage of retirees’ hours and the subsequent emptiness of the pub. Another day gone by, and more stories told; to foreigners on holiday and people with the day off of work. As more and more young folk shuffle in, they decide it’s time to call it a night. They’ll saunter off, ready to return the next day.

Girls armed with digital cameras snap all night long, the collective flashes create a rhythm or sense of normalcy in this environment. With three cameras in the group, it means each pose has to be done thrice and in ever-so-slight variations. Forty times an hour should be sufficient. If only they didn’t have to delete half of them, citing ‘bad hair’ or ‘facial awkwardness’ as the prime culprit.

A boy in a leather jacket stands under the down-light of a tucked away pub. Sam is his name. He’s smoking a cigarette, each inhale and exhale interjected by new faces passing through the alleyway. A girl comes out into the street beside him and he’s enchanted. She lights up a cigarette and he’s almost done with his. ‘I wish I’d bought super kings’ he thinks, anguished at the lost opportunity to talk to her without seeming assuming. Sam’s eyes have been opened to another good-looking girl - he sees himself with her. ‘But there will be others’ says his mind as he walks past her.

He flashes an intent look at her, accompanied by a half-hearted smile. He’s confused her with these mixed signals ‘I must have looked like a rapist’ he thinks as he slinks back inside.

Ten minutes later and he’s forgotten about all that, the new girl he’s talking to has emptied any trace of that memory. He has a smile on his face to match hers. Though he does wonder why she’s so drenched.

From under the bridge and up the rain-soaked pavement are two lads, one in a shopping cart and the other in the pilot’s seat. They are toting laughs, misdirection and lunacy - this kind of fun is unprecedented. A fault on the part of the driver is enough to see the cart-bound lad ejected into the nearest verge. He’s up and laughing within seconds. The bouncers did not share their amusement, but they did know they weren’t getting in. The lads had made it almost all the way to the club with that cart. One second of dismay.

“Oh well, on to the next place!” they shout.

This time they will do so sans cart. They’ll be fine, a slight loss of dignity is not even considered. There are plenty of places left to accept them with open arms.

Onwards they all tread through the streets, plying their charms, expending their funds and ignoring the growing detritus; broken hope and innocence lost.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Movement 3: Pt 1 Rondo

The lads are out looking for the girls, the girls are out looking for the lads; though they’d all rather that wasn’t known.

***

Sam has been talking to Dee for an hour or more now. Their connection is undeniable, mesmeric; perhaps it’s their lack of inhibitions. ‘Am I talking s**t?’ he thinks ‘she’s gorgeous’. Dee reciprocates his every word and feeling ‘he’s lovely’.

They edge closer to each other in the booth they share. Though the light source in the pub is meagre, their eyes are incandescent as they lock gazes. He moves in for a kiss.

“Come on Dee, we’re going dancing!” cries one of her friends.

Her friends had ignored the pair until this moment, and Sam’s had already sidled off home with their respective partners.

“Good timing, eh?” he says to Dee his voice withdrawn.

She tries to be graceful, but instead, in excitement and insobriety, lunges in like a bow-legged gymnast to plant a kiss upon him. Their hearts fly.

***

The sly hours of the morning creep up as only they can; the hopes and dreams of the beguiled masses shattered by the ring of a pub bell signifying last call. They are enveloped by the overhead lights; it would be time to leave soon. Chastised by nothing other than the bitter sting of time, the revellers continue their search.

Sleep is not of concern; all that matters now is the hunt, the quest, but for what?

***

The gleaming crowds fire their hands up in synchronicity; the DJ plays songs that are ingrained within the memories of the clubbers as total classics. It’s almost time to go, but that’s okay - it has only just turned Saturday. Sam and Dee dance with one another with reckless abandon, her friends look on and laugh. Sweat and exertion forces them over to the sidelines, to the crowded bar queue.

“It’s hot in here, but I’m having so much fun” she says in Sam’s ear. He feels her warm breath fall across his neck. “I’ll be honest though, I have been on some party meds.”

“Not to worry, I’ve dabbled with some of that new synthetic s**t tonight, it’s definitely working” Sam replies.

“Synthetic? I don’t trust that stuff, here - stick out your tongue.”

Dee reaches into the small front pocket of her purse, and pulls out a small bag. She plays into it with her fingers, and retrieves what she was looking for. She puts it up to her mouth and sinks her teeth into it. She now has two halves of a chalky red pill in her hand. She places one of them onto Sam’s awaiting tongue and puts the other onto hers. They both retract their tongues and swallow them dry.

They grin at each other as Sam turns and orders them each a drink, his mind aglow.

***

All the single folk let out an inward and primal scream at the transient nature of the night; ‘Why don’t I have longer?’ He or she has eluded them again; that unknown person who could have made their life a little brighter. They believe this person would have been a halogen beam screaming into pitch-blackness. Yet tonight, in their midst, they have found only candles - this cannot be! They believe that it can’t be ineptitude on their part, it must just be time bearing down - a crude oppressor.

The slighted cries of the drunken lads resonate in the street as one day tumbles into the next, cast into obscurity by the waning indifference of the city. The sirens of police cars and ambulances wailing past are an accepted and unheeded element of the night.

Time flies when they’re having fun, it also flies when they’ve escaped this world - transcendent in their drunkenness and powered only by the promise of further drinking and more girls and boys to flutter past them within the hazy mess of the night.

Auto-pilot is a term that can be applied to all the black-out drunks littered about the pavements, the ones who appear to have only the most basic functions left at their disposal. Some wobble back and forth down a street alone, not knowing their direction, not even knowing the street. Their night is over.

Others have acquired silken tongues, golden words flowing from them like a one-armed-bandit coin jackpot; pointed - knowing their exact desire - uninhibited but definitely slurring. They could be geniuses in their own right.

The shiest of the bunch has emerged from his shell, and is now the most vocal, fumbling around like a somnambulist, yet still shining bright on the centre-stage of his peers’ attention. Little are these folk to even comprehend that they will not remember half, if any, of the words they have uttered, or the actions they have performed.

Regrettable as it is, their new friends that they have made on this haphazard odyssey will be also forgotten; non-entities mere hours later - ghosts in a disappearing fog. Their memories are licks of flame - starting and ending with each passing second.

The flourish of bravado and the unrestrained mirth granted by the alcohol Gods is in full force. Yet it hasn’t got them anywhere, it hasn’t changed a thing - it’s just another day in the office of the party-goers, pub keepers and in the nights of the young and the old alike.

Later on we’ll find them all grasping onto some latent set of desires; the addiction for more propels them onwards, encouraged as if by nympholeptic fuel.

“Why has it ended this way? Why do we have to go home? I’m certain I’ll feel this way tomorrow!” they all tell themselves. Yet the feelings and openness they have now are waning like the notes in their wallets.

Finding a pivotal point on any given evening seems to be the lost cause that afflicts the night-time celebrants, yet they are too far-gone to even realise the cause is lost. The desire, whether it is animated verbal discussion, the discovery of a new friend or of physical communication in the bedroom, is not always granted.

For this wish to be fulfilled it takes a heavy dose of circumstance alongside a mind of resolute and sharpened will; will being the only element which is self-regulated.

In the drunken fog, this self-regulation goes far awry, it is not to be seen again until the hour of waking, when the lazy arm attached to the drained body flails out at the blaring alarm clock that has awoken the scrambled brain.

Movement 3: Pt 2 Andante

In sobriety, those without confidence tend to fumble; tentative with their words, gestures and expressions to new faces. In silence, however, they know that there are many more words and ideas that they could posit. All manner of expression would flow in a natural state, given a correct set of parameters of which to follow - perhaps another drink will help?

Nothing has changed on most occasions. Yet this unrefined operation does serve some purpose on many nights. Perhaps one of these people has been successful in their mission to ingratiate themself into a group of peers; the raw acceptance that can only come from uninhibited excess - a primitive initiation.

The jokes, laughs and truths that only emerge in such a state have now occurred. The bonds are forged; the person has shown their true colours to the assembly.

Maybe one has just started a new job and felt sheepish in front of their fellow colleagues up until now. This night has changed all of that. Undeniable is the fact that they have all felt the unity within this hazy sphere, granted in a most gracious a manner by the smiling bartender.

Maybe one or two have accomplished the rarest of feats; to have shared a true side of themselves with someone they admire or adore, to have portrayed their substance and their persona with another with measured success. If well accepted by the other side, then this is a remarkable feat.

All of the lads and girls looking for one another have dreamed of this moment; to put their personality across to someone they desire. The failure to meet this target provides a burgeoning reason to drink, to drink some more and to continue drinking until the sun introduces itself to the day.

Sometimes it is a demand of assumed necessity. They’ve trained themselves to be far different in this altered state - a state easy to achieve. The brain cells scream out in disdain, their recently fallen comrades surround them.

This mental erosion is definitely a disadvantage to the free-flowing nature of speech and the confidence with which the person in question may have held a week prior, drunk or not. Perhaps they can no longer elucidate or engage in the way they have done previously.

‘Maybe I need even more to drink this time? Maybe that is why this night is just not what it could be! I’m going to make it happen!’

Money has been spent, drinks have been drunk, places have been explored, music played and dances danced. Friendships have been steeled; welded together by drink, drugs and the spirit of the night.

Amidst the afterglow of the pubs and clubs, the street masses make their distracted way home. The sales of pizza and kebabs reach their nightly peak. Hope is high, as is morale. The street full of smiling faces indicates that tonight was indeed a great night. Should they choose to follow the alluring scent of the party once-more, another night similar to this one awaits them all.

***

Sam and Dee have sobered up a bit after their spate of dancing, less enchanted with each other than a few hours prior, perhaps because of their come-down, and the current situation. One of Dee’s friends has passed out in the club, now an effete lump. They have both been waiting outside with her for a taxi to arrive. Sam clings to the hope of going home with Dee with benefits to follow, not just for sex, but for the early-morning pillow talk he longs for, the residual thoughts and feelings, the unerring and open conversation that would ice the proverbial cake.

The taxi arrives and Dee says “Well, goodnight, nice meeting you, I had best go home with her, she’s in no state. I’ve got your number; I’ll give you a call sometime.” She kisses him once more, this time it seems more perfunctory.

“Yeah it’s been a great night” Sam adds.

In his head he recalls a mercurial set of events, a satisfying build up, but with an underwhelming ending. The faint glimmer of a future phone call would see him through the night. It is sad to note that the call in question would not come tonight, and neither would Sam, at least not with Dee, not right now.

Sam walks the hard road home, propelled by his overwhelming desire for clean sheets and a soft place to rest his head. It is a practiced walk, dodging through lurching crowds, those still hanging around, or meandering in an aimless manner. It is now the hour of the rag-tag bunch, the motley-crew, those who have been ejected out of the clubs and left bewildered yet unflinching on the curbs.

Some sleep beside dustbins, their friends having abandoned them earlier through choice or not. Sam feels the sense of dread, the fear of the hangover, coming at him in the ten minutes it takes him to reach his apartment. When he gets home, he plugs his dead phone in to charge. He brushes his teeth with onus. He launches himself onto his cool, smooth bed sheets. His descent into sleep is that of a cliff-dive, swift and unmerciful.

***

Dee wipes the remaining vomit out of her friend’s hair.

“F*****g hell Yasmin, do you want to go easier on that Tequila next time?” she asks.

“Yaaa nevurr drinkin‘gain” - her reply is a garble.

Yasmin is asleep before her head touches the pillow.

Dee sighs, thinking that she would have liked to have spent more time with Sam. At any rate it would be more preferable than mopping up dry sick. She reaches for her phone and looks for Sam’s number, if anything to remind her that he wasn’t a dream. She reels as she realises that in the heat of the moment she had not saved it down.

‘Damn it was a messy night. Maybe I’ll see him around.’

As she curls up into a spoon position behind Yasmin her heart screams at her in the overbearing silence. The stimulants have not quite worn off. She pops a sleeping pill from within the nightstand drawer and washes it down with an electrolyte drink. She sinks into the darkness of sleep. Hypnagogic imagery floods her vision, she is thinking of Sam and the chaotic blur of the night gone by.

***

Alas, it is inevitable, what they do is what we all do; slaves to a conformity that takes on any number of shapes. Human nature is predicated by the ebb and flow of its surrounds. In this instance, each day is but a coming and going of the same themes - erhaps one or two minds have learned something on this route; but the masses continue to learn nothing at all, and continue onward with the search, seeking for that undefined element.

They are forever willing to put forth an endless supply of money, hope, dignity, time and reprehensible amounts of brain-damage to find it.

They will be back again.

Author's Note

This is just a piece I've been working on, which takes a lot of experiences I've had, or observed and applied it to a piece that I hope people might be able to relate to. Perhaps it might be being annoyed with loud, drunk singers on the street as you try to get to sleep, the personal quests you set for yourself as you prepare to embark, or the bonds you have forged on nights out, from youth through to adulthood.

Trying to capture the spirit or the 'ritual' aspect of nightlife, the vices, folly and adventures. The descent from sobriety to complete lack of lucidity, and why we continue on doing so.

I encourage constructive feedback of course. The main point being what to do with this piece...does it work as it is? Should it be fleshed out or cut down? Are the ideas hackneyed or duplicated?