Niklas' blog

This Saturday I was out with [avatar:http://niklasblog.com/bilder/avatars/fdp.gif]Frederic[/avatar], and Lino is still the same place, after having been renovated: the bartenders still don’t use measuring-equipment, the walls are the same – albeit now covered up with cloth – the dance-floors are still smelly with the stale music that was played there last year – and the year before – so what’s new? Honestly, the position of one of their bars has changed, which, of course, matters not. You who know clubbing know this type of place. The owner makes a lot of money, the webmaster gets a fair share and the rest, probably a pittance. Think about the results of that for a second.

Sweden is a club-culture-barren country; it doesn’t really exist in Stockholm. So, what’s club-culture, then? My take on it is simple: music should be treated as the first and foremost reason to why you’re out, there should be mutual respect between you and the people who’re out for a good time and last, but definitely not least, cemented, there should exist a very generous give-and-take feel between you and the people who work for you. Here’s what I feel is quite missing from the Stockholm scene:

1. Music. I hope you know I’m not writing about pubs, social clubs or bridge parties, where the music doesn’t really matter for most. When at these kinds of events, you want to chat with your mates, bump into your friends, talk loudly, share drinks, text a friend, and you mostly sit down while having a nice evening, even if you end up in a blind stupor. Thing is, that’s what most Stockholmians do at clubs. I’m not joking. People give fuck-all about the music, and if you’re a mildly non-commercial DJ, you know the score even better; some behave like the dance-floor is a IRC chat-channel, they stand still in packs while loudly complaining that people – the dancers – keep bumping into them like fucking dickheads, while spilling their beer onto the floor and the people having a good time. The one good thing about these idiots is they can’t burn your body with burning fags that they handle like hot potatoes, as the smoke-ban is in effect since a few months back. And another thing: think of the DJ as somebody who plays records with affection, carefully sorting you out. Now, imagine you’re a DJ and somebody who’s utterly drunk tells (not asks) you to play “The Ketchup Song” and follows that up with a threat…ah, the normal night. Don’t be an idiot. Treat the DJ well, and the music will flow. Treat the DJ like shit, and most likely that’s how the music will end up. You will get a reflection of the DJ’s emotions, and even if the DJ’s a stone-faced pro, you probably won’t get to hear anything near as good as if you’d treated the DJ with respect.

2. Mutual respect between clubbers. I don’t give a fuck if I’m sounding like Rodney King at this point, but on the night you’re going out in Stockholm, chances are you might dress down in fear that somebody will wreck your wardrobe. I’m not making this up. I’ve been burned with cigarettes, had all types of drink thrown over every part of my dress, seen people puke on others, and there’s the aspect of merely behaving respectfully. Imagine this: you’re pished out of your mind, standing in line waiting to get from one dance-floor to another and you start pushing the guy in front of you to get a move-on, he or she gets mad at you (rightfully so), you push again, they mind, you keep pushing and you end up getting smacked – because you deserve it. Hopefully, you’ll get thrown out. You’re on my side? You should be.

If you drop a glass of beer onto the floor, it happens to shatter and spatter, you bloody well make sure the crowd is alright and that the glass and beer is picked up – even though it’s the staff’s responsibility to make sure nobody gets hurt. If anybody’s dress is fucked because of the drink or shattered glass – make amends.

Come-ons on the dance-floor: I’ve even seen people come onto others so hard, you could probably have gotten the aggressor thrown in jail for attempted rape. I’ve even seen rebuffs that have caused these people to rebuke using everything from insults to throwing other people at the person they we’re courting mere seconds before.

Standing around on the dance-floor should be forbidden, as well. My hair-dresser recently told me she’d been to Grodan to catch Steve Bug. She and a friend were on the dance-floor when two moronics struck up a stand-still conversation right in front of them. “Oh you can’t believe what happened to him and her, and so-and-so.” Bastards! On the other hand, the volume was so low their disrespectful conversation actually drowned the music, which turns me to…

3. Mutual respect between the staff and the clubbers. While Stockholmian club-owners and their staff face a lot of unnecessary shit every week, there’s a lot of stuff that they get away with as well. A memory from last summer comes to mind. I was having an asthma-attack right outside Snaps, when the door-guard told me to sit somewhere else. I was extremely short of breath, which is common when facing an asthma-attack, so I politely told the guard this. He replied by telling me to sit somewhere else. I repeated what I said previously, to which he said he’d kick me to where I should sit, if I didn’t get up and away by myself. I then pulled up my mobile phone and asked him to repeat what he’d just said as I started filming him. Another guard came to his (or rather, my) help as the first asked me how I’d like to be killed with my own mobile phone. How cute.

That’s part of the problem with a lot of the anabolic steroid-addled door-guards, and of course, I’m sure most of them are doing their job, albeit very stone-faced; when in London, for example at the Scala, I remember being met by the door-guard who opened the door for me, welcomed me and wished me a pleasant evening. I almost broke out crying from sheer hospitality. Such a professional and caring attitude spreads the rumor of the place being great, which brings more punters, which means more money. Simple math that any club-owner should care for.

I can’t even begin to count the number of times I’ve been insulted, lied to and incorrectly corrected by waiters and bartenders at Stockholmian clubs. Every time I’ve aired that the bartender hasn’t used the proper ingredients (e.g. using vodka instead of gin, slivers of apple instead of lime or a dirty glass instead of a clean one), I’ve asked the bartender to please use measuring-equipment (i.e. not because I wanted more booze, but because I wanted a drink that would at least reminiscent of what I’d ordered) and not display pathetic “skills” that didn’t even work very well for Tom Cruise back in the day or told a DJ that he (it’s, sadly, always been a he) is playing the same song for the third time in half an hour just because he wants to impress somebody, I’ve extremely seldom been faced with a sort of “Oh, I’m so sorry, Sir, I’ll immediately fix it for you” answer, but instead either with a look that means I’m an idiot for being right and deserve to be punished by being ignored, or a swift “Yeah, right”-ish reply, indicating I’m an idiot and should be mocked with a suave answer.

Those people should not work with service at all.

Because that’s what it is, service. And we pay good money for it. Even though Stockholmians at times pay quite a lot of money to get into clubs, they don’t get their money’s worth. An example. Frederic and I visited Indierave, a very popular monthly club where I’ve been merely once. The entrance fee is 80SKR (appx. 9USD) which means another 10SKR to hang your jacket. The queue was OK, the guards correct and nice, the wardrobe nice. So what’s the problem? The music? Not really. So what? I’ll tell you. As people started trickling in the queue grew, naturally, but if we’d arrived an hour later, chances are we’d have to wait in line for 30-45 minutes. That’s almost an exponential rate. There were a few more details. The bar was outrageously small, had very little on offer, and everything was served in small paper cups. Come the fuck on. As more people amassed, a very unpleasant stench emerged throughout roughly half of the place, and that smell was…poo. No joke. Poo everywhere. I’m sounding like Eddie Izzard ranting about poo, but it’s never-the-less true. And as the DJ’s were only intent on talking to each-other rather than creating a dance-friendly atmosphere, people started drinking like mad. This is what young Swedes do, so don’t tell me the indie rock-culture doesn’t carry a clubbing vibe, because it sure as hell does. Read up on it through Simon Reynolds’ “Energy Flash”, mind you, even though that book is mostly on electronic music, you’ll get the picture. So, people got drunk en masse. I think I had two beers and a drink spilled onto the front and back of my shirt, courtesy of idiots. Nice going. Then Frederic and I wanted to leave; having battled to get our jackets for fucking 45 minutes, I was ready to leave, alright. The guards couldn’t even be bothered with saying good-bye, but I did feel a guard’s comforting hand on my back, pushing me and others out to the cold so that more money, i.e. people, could get in.

What a fucking gyp.

People, start demanding more from the clubs, but before you do: make sure you’re in shape for the club. It’s a three-way combination, and people have to start saying what they want, take everything at face value and make the club-owners realise they have to do more than just bask in what they perceive to be glory. Then the money will be spent the right way, turning more international DJ’s and great bands to Sweden. Note that the club-owners perceive a lot of stuff that may very well not be true, such as “having my name on a club is all I have to do to reach glory”, so tell them like it is. Turds shine at you as well, if you spray them enough. But the stink is still there! So make sure you’re not the poo, poo, poo.