Tradition has it that club music is a very structured kind of music, admissible to the ears of club-hoppers only if certain implicit criteria are met: a silent audition of music. A DJ’s music should have a fairly constant rhythm that isn’t too attention grabbing, only subtle stumbles of bass in the dance floor to get the bodies shaking and thirsty. If the music grabs the ears, yanks them with a change in rhythm or rambunctious melody, it’s certainly not bad music, but not music for a traditional club. Take it someplace else, guys. The bouncer blocks the door from Von Südenfed.
Von Südenfed keeps close to the traditional club, but has certainly hit the bar with its head a couple of times before coming to this place. Südenfed lines up outside this traditional club, flamboyant, unabashed and unarticulated slurs of sudden speech and sound jutting out of its mouth sharp like its rapid reaching limbs. “C’mon baby, les danse,” Südenfed says to the dog being walked across the street, curiously late at night. The dog’s certainly out of reach, even for Südenfed, so it gives up with nonchalance and continued exuberance into its bojanglin’ on the street outside the traditional club. Other people in line tell themselves not to notice, not to provoke that kind of behavior, not at a club. The line to get inside dwindles in time and leads the unaware (or, perhaps, too aware) Südenfed to the door of the traditional club. The bouncer blocks the door from Südenfed
“Oh com’ohn man,” Südenfed lets fall out of its mouth and continues into the club as if there wasn’t some big guy named Lance blocking the door. Südenfed rubs up drunk against Lance when trying to get in, almost lovingly, as if trying to persuade him by other means. Lance remains unaffected.
Wha’s dis buwlshit? Südenfed’s got the right attire, he’s got the money to spend, so, quite accurately, “Wha’s dis buwlshit?” Südenfed accidently said that to the bouncer. Still, built like a wall, Lance remains unaffected, ears filled with mortar.
“Awright, ya know, das fine, I’wl jus’ ha’ my own party ou’ere, ya know,” Südenfed says and tries stares down Lance, trying to find out where Lance’s eyes are. Südenfed stares and keeps the bojanglin’ up, lunging long and stopping short, every once in a while something slurred sliding out the mouth. The care to get inside dwindles in time and leaves the stumbling Südenfed to stagger for fun, flipping and flopping outside the traditional club like an acrobat who lost his circus. The more time spent outside the club, the less Südenfed cares to get in: obstreperous, and proud to be such a word. Südenfed pulls a guitar from somewhere to start a surly serenade, yammering about “yiamas,” while the line keeps lingering ignorance just above their eyes, staring off into the sky that shines without a star, while Südenfed keeps on going, making ignorance irrelevant. The act continues for a little while longer outside the club, but not much longer. Soon Von Südenfed is so far away from the traditional club that he can’t even be ignored. The music goes on animated and anchored somewhere far away from the club, where Von Südenfed likes it.