Mutek day III: Females and foreigners

The adults who used to go to raves leave feces in co-ed bathroom stalls. They have Ph.Ds, take ecstasy, listen to noise in theatres; have cruised village sex after. The adults who used to go to raves go to Mutek now.

It’s day three of Mutek and we’re drinking in a hostel. A foreigner at the kitchen table tells me he’s just spent six months on exchange in Toronto, is now traveling around. He’s planning to head down to New York and Boston, would like to go as far south as New Orleans. I advise him to go to Miami over Angeles, tell him its less trashy, but not that I’ve never been.

The Australians come in and pound on the bathroom door though the shower is audibly running. I shake my head and stare into my beer. I watch the girls get ready, wish I’d saved a clean outfit in my suitcase for a second Friday night.

When we realize we’ve missed Brixton-based dub act Actress’ set we scramble for the exit. By the time we make it to Club Soda, where the third installment of Nocturne, titled ‘Shedding the Past, Dubbing the Future,’ is, the sound system lingers with pre-recorded interludes.

We walk next door to the Society for Arts and Technology, a new cultural venue built to look like an old warehouse space. It’s down into a dingy basement for a stamp on the hand and back up a staircase towards the open space. We gather along the long pane of glass separating the south wall from the street and wait for Ikonika, one of the only prominent females currently spinning dub step.

The beats are good and we dance up near the front. Sarah Abdel-Hamid, a.k.a. Ikonika, makes her North American debut affront beating red pixels and blasts of silver flashing lights. We bob our heads and watch the DJ work.

Spin and spin round the record, so many songs to share the beat with. We lean our heads back into Club Soda, but see the night is finished. The sidewalks of Saint Laurent are filled as we make our way back to the hostel for a night-cap.

On the walk home the cops bust a pregnant prostitute, smoking in heels and a thronged onesie. I push my hands into pockets, whisper to myself: Only in Montreal. Only in Montreal.