It turns out that one of the other DJs walked off with Shane's bag by mistake, so he has his records back! Apparently the guy didn't even notice that he had a bunch of records that weren't his: Shane only figured it out when we spent an hour or two paging through 17G of webcam stills from the last couple hours of thursday night. Shane spotted a couple of shots of him packing up: one that showed Shane, the other DJ, and Shane's bag; then the next in which both the other DJ and the bag were no longer there. "Computer: enhance 34 to 46. Pull back. Track 45 left. Stop. Enhance 15 to 23. Give me a hard copy right there."
The Goldie show tonight was good. We were worried for a while about whether he was going to make it: he got hung up at an airport in Phoenix, apparently, and didn't make it to the club until after 1AM.
I really liked the records he was playing: very dark and menacing stuff. But the problem I have with a lot of jungle and drum-and-bass is that while I really, really like the music, I just cannot stand MCs, which so many d&b DJs feel the need to include. I was able to ignore them for a while, but it doesn't take long to reach the point where I'm thinking ``will you please just shut up so I can hear the music.'' Especially since MCs always seem to be the sorts of logorrheic guys who just can't fathom letting 30 seconds go by without filling it with their voice. "Oh my god! Goldie y'all!" Yeah, we can see that. "Here comes another record!" Yeah, we can see that too. Also they always rap in exactly the same rhythm on every song, making all the songs indistinguishable. I finally left when I couldn't even perceive the music any more, just the MCs.
Though one of them was occasionally playing harmonica, which was cool, and something I hadn't seen before. It kinda worked, but I can't hear a harmonica without thinking of, like, Sanford and Son or something.
There was a girl here tonight who, I swear, didn't look a day over fifteen. So either A) I'm really getting old, or B) she had a remarkably convincing ID to have gotten past the door guys. It didn't allay my suspicion when I noticed that she was drinking a Long Island, the signature drink of amateurs and cheapskates.