A night in the life

by JACK OATMON

Sneaking backpacks full of booze into festival perimeters is a matter of taste. First off, I’m on a no-beer diet for the time being. But even if I were drinking beer, by no stretch of the imagination would it be the stagnant, aluminum-tasting swill that passes for hootch at the seemingly endless series of festivals that grace our city in the summer. So, after something of a bootlegging adventure, there I was at sundown, wine in hand, all set for an evening at Sex Garage at Berri and René-Levesque on Saturday, August 4. Frigid pounded out his usual set of sleazy, wailing glam to a growing, enthusiastic crowd. The street was jam-packed with all walks by the time Vive la Fête began their luminous, thudding display of dreary disco and rockabilly house.

An hour and a half later of dancing in the streets, I was off for a few rounds of gin and juice at the weekly Mod Club night at Vinyl, a soirée I’d been meaning to case for quite some time. The crowd was suitably well-dressed, with more than a few skinny ties and black dresses to match the well-informed grab-bag of bubblegum pop, ’60s soul and funk, real ’70s Britpop and subsequent derivatives from our own era. Definitely worth a peek, even if you don’t own a Vespa.

After that, it was off to another Saturday-night staple of a much different variety. Resting within stumbling distance of most worthwhile haunts on the main drag, Plateau Saturdays at Blizzarts attracts all the species of party animal that lurk around the nocturnal Plateau. On this particular Saturday, the dancefloor was lurching to the precise, surgical selections of scene mainstay Sean Kosa.

Unfortunately, I missed Nicky Siano at Academy, but one reputable source told me that the music and the party was amazing, recalling earlier days at the now defunct Playground, Montreal’s first legal afterhours club.

After closing time, I relocated to join a motley crew of perhaps 300 revellers for a booze-soaked rooftop session with a four-piece rock and blues band, while DJs rocked the interior of the packed building. It beguiles me to think that such phenomenal parties occur on a relatively regular basis in this town, uniting people of all ages from all across the board in a safe, respectful setting. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who was surprised, as the jam wound down with the arrival of no less than eight police cruisers, which seemed a bit excessive as there was, as far as I could tell, nothing particularly illegal happening.

When I got home, buzzing from all the action, and probably drooling and slurring my speech a little as well, my roommate had just arrived from another, completely different night of chaos. As we recounted our nights to each other and listened to the CBC’s national anthem playing at sunrise, my chest swelled up with pride about our unbeatable cultural scene here, in spite of the odd bit of bad beer or bad-mannered cop. I was overjoyed at the diversity and tolerance of this great city in this great country. Or maybe it was just all the codeine I’d been washing down with red wine all night.

WRESTLES WITH BED FRAMES...jack.oatmon@gmail.com