Dance Floor Chronicles – Wall of Death

“It’s time for the Wall Of Death!”

Well, that’s what I assume the DJ exclaimed – the last three words came out as more of a wall of sound, a cross between microphone feedback and the bass growling of the finest of Nordic black metallers. This certainly didn’t discourage anyone in the room though, as the general anarchy of the dance floor swiftly organised into two opposing throngs and a gaggle of surrounding spectators.

Usually I would have been more than happy to charge gleefully into the crush of aggression and testosterone, however I was still more than a little sore from an earlier incident, involving a falling friend, and attempt to help her up, and new tattoo on the forearm. Needless to say my roar of protest was not heard amongst the tumult, however the lady was gracious enough to notice my expression of agony and be suitably apologetic once she had been returned to an upright position.

Still, spectating this near-medieval spectacle was no less enjoyable. The floor was split as the music built up, the factions encouraged and jeered on their sides by a bedreadlocked metaller acting as ringmaster, provoking the sides to louder cries as they practically pawed the ground, preparing to charge gleefully into the anticipated mêlée.

Akin to the flag dropping at the start of a race, the ringmaster stepped back and dropped his arms as the music hit the chorus, the wave of sound challenged by the charge of the antagonists.

No sooner had battle been joined than the first casualty became apparent, a slight man who looked somewhat other than sober literally flying out of the carnage. Though usually this would not seem to be a problem for anyone concerned, he had the unfortunate luck of being propelled face-first into a nearby iron girder, and lay still for some time.

Two young girls seemed in awe of the scene, and evidently inexperienced in such events did not have the good sense to keep their eyes on the action as two burly opponents, locked in a grapple, proceeded to flatten them as they steamrolled their way from the press.

Another recipient of a flailing elbow staggered away in the direction of the facilities, blood streaming from his nose while wearing an idiot grin.

Suddenly the music lifts, and the survivors step back and grasp hands with one-another, the rush of adrenaline evident on their expressions of elation, while the DJ yells himself hoarse over the tannoy, the crowd joining him in their exultation of the combatants.

And all the while I sit back with a smile on my face thinking, ‘next time… next time.’