Nectarine overdose. Parrotdog beer on ice. And a flashback. The above den of joy, house music, bongos, bunting, art installations with tentacles, and rampant hugging, delivered them all. On the Nest Fest rundown it was the Market Stage, for it was where people sold vintage threads, Ilford 400, and well-meaning folk made a pitch for you to sign up for something meaningful.
It started so quietly that day: January 9, 2021 in Hawke’s Bay, in the East of New Zealand’s North Island. Enclosed by drooping trees, and with dust at one’s feet and vineyards a cork pop away, stepping into this scene was like stepping into a sleepy Mediterranean village. Early risers, down in Hawke’s Bay from the big smoke of Auckland, poked their heads in and made their way elsewhere. This was not the place for the vibes. Not yet.
Not yet passed. And it was on. This was the place to be. From mid-afternoon to dusk, this dance enclave was Cafe Del Mar in a vineyard. Black Barn Vineyard. The dust at one’s feet could no longer be seen, for one did not look down. Just at each other. Smiling. Embracing. Dancing. Drinking. Eating.
The drinking was Parrotdog beer (gratis if an artist… or a photographer). The food: Nectarines (also gratis, which led to the overdose and a grumpy digestion). The dancing: By people who knew how to dance on speakers, benches, hay bales, and whilst piggybacking friends with balance.
Which brings me to the flashback. It didn’t happen with the DJ in this picture, but the vista was little different. People. Lots of them. All having a good time. Me too. Standing up there in the DJ booth, supping on a Parrotdog and snapping away, this was being young and carefree again, and caught up in the moment.
Which is probably why I didn’t notice it at first.
Something had changed.
The DJ was no longer there.
It was just me.
In the DJ booth.
And a track that had outstayed its welcome.
Oh.
Here cometh the flashback.
It’s the summer of 2000. And I’m in a DJ booth. Only I’m not working as a photographer. I’m the DJ. The actual DJ. And I am actually in the Mediterranean. On the island of Crete. In a crazy party town called Malia.
Some context. Back then, and today, my two greatest obsessions were 1) Liverpool Football Club and 2) House music. I carry these obsessions quietly. I don’t need to shout about them. But they are my obsessions. And in the summer of 2000, obsession number two led me to being a DJ in Malia.
My dear friend Adam, who knew everyone of note on the strip, and seemingly was respected by everyone of note on the strip, got me the gig.
One night, a bar owner asked him, ‘Do you know any DJs?’
‘Dave’s a DJ’, said Adam, pointing to me.
‘You can DJ?’
‘Yeah, I can,’ says I, bending the truth (I had some experience, but not enough to say yes).
‘Come tomorrow. You play.’
I got asked to do a trial. I passed. I got the gig.
For the life of me I can’t remember the bar’s name. I can picture every part of it though and also where it was located on Dimokratias Street (a.k.a the strip).
Apparently, so says Google Maps, there’s a bar there now called Zoo, so, let’s go with Zoo for convenience, not fact’s, sake.
Zoo was huge, outdoor, and had a bucking bronco that cost buttons to have a ride on, but cost you your dinner if you’d had too much ale.
Everywhere you looked in this joint you saw bamboo, drinks with parasols, and staff in flowery shirts. Put it on the water and you’d be on a cruise ship.
Now if you’ve been to a party island, you’ll know there’s a hierarchy to a night on the strip. You never go to the best place first because the best people aren’t there yet. And you don’t go to the up-and-coming spot as that’s an hour or so from peaking. You find a small (ish) launch pad, then scale up.
Zoo was not the first stop on a night out, and neither was it the last. It was in between, or the place you’d go if you’d had a large one the night before and couldn’t handle the Factory (the names are coming back to me now) but wanted more than the Red Lion (great spot in the day/early evening, cracking menu and gave us ‘workers’ a discount).
My job was to get people to two drinks. In they’d come, typically as a group of 4-6 lads, peacocking across the tiles, all sunburnt and moisturised, guys looking like Popeye in their tight River Island t-shirts, looking at the girls looking at them, waiting for a wink, a smile, a something that promises something.
First, the fishbowl, a Dirty Dancing-sized watermelon chopped in half and filled to the brim with cheap juice and cheap liquor.
Popeyes would crowd at the bar, getting all matey with the Uni-break bartender, cajoling them to let loose on the spirits as it was someone’s birthday/first time abroad/first time anywhere. And then they’d get to work on the bowl. Party straws clamped between chapped lips, these professional guzzlers would drain the watermelon dry in seconds, fist pump, and declare to no-one listening that they should ‘***** have it.’
As the bravado passed, a big call had to be made by the lead alpha at the trough.
‘Want another?’
If people were dancing, and more people were joining the dancefloor, then they’d always stay. It’s just a thing that happens. You don’t leave somewhere when it’s getting going or you’re too drunk to walk.
Instead, you order a second bowl and stare at the dancefloor, unaware the bartender was following house rules and lowering the potency.
More cheap juice + reduced spirit = more profit. Bar owner happy. Boys watching the dancing happy. Everyone’s a winner. I’d got them to the second drink. Job done.
The music won.
Only it had to stop. At once.
I was being lasered.
Not lasered like split in half, science fiction lasered. This was a red laser pen, pointed at me by Spotter John. Spotter John wasn’t his real name, but it’s how I knew him.
Old Spotter (lovely man) was an ex-pat Brit who had retired to Malia’s old town and earned a few drachma (we’re in a pre-Euros age) by standing at the door looking for the police, ready to point his laser at me any time between midnight and 4am.
If I got lasered, the music had to stop. I didn’t believe him at first. I mean, this is one of the most hedonistic party strips on the planet. Why should the music have to stop at midnight?
Noise pollution. At least, that was the reason I was given.
Whether the music had stopped or was playing full volume, it didn’t matter. Along the police would come. The bar owner would go out and shake hands, exchange money and the music could resume.
Happy days.
‘You got Angels, mate?’
‘You what?’
‘Angels… you got Angels?’
Every night, irrespective of what I was playing, a pissed young holidaymaker would want to sing along to Robbie Williams.
Bless.
No. I didn’t have Angels.
Flashback ends. I’m back in Hawke’s Bay. The DJ returns from the portaloo and all is well.
I finish the Parrotdog, raise my camera for a final shot and step away.
So long DJ booth.
Thank you for the trip down memory lane..
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