A Dance at Mr. Kitty

I knew I’d be dead to the world half of today since I was out late last night and went to a show. Staying out late on a Friday night is tough after a day of work, but it’s not like Mr. Kitty is doing a five-day residency in town. And I knew the loud sounds would wreak havoc to the ever so fragile headmeats that seem to deteriorate more and more with each passing day.

I woke up at 10:30 which for some reason is embarrassing to be right now. I would have been all right with it even five years ago, but now it’s just foolishness for some reason. Most of the day was spent laying around watching Will and Grace reruns on WE TV up until about a couple of hours ago when I ran out of fruits to eat at the manse.

I got there in the middle of Scorpion Warrior’s performance. The surreal dancer perfectly captured just how ethereal and other-worldly the music was. Their stuff could easily have gone to a bad Dead Can Dance ripoff space if not for the foundation of good dancing beats. Sure it’s pop base, but everything else that adorned it made it compelling.

There was this one Latin guy who caught my eye by the bar. Included with the all-black uniform we were all wearing, he added a pair of suspenders which really highlighted his perfect ass. His beard was neatly trimmed, his eyebrows thick accented by his perfectly quiffed hair — he was the look of violence personified, like if I bumped into him by accident he would punch me out then brutally fuck me before going back home to his wife.

I caught a glimpse of him leaning against the bar, and his eyes bored right through me. Was he cruising me or just wondering what this malformed lump of flesh is doing looking at him?

Before I could get carried away with my thoughts, up came Bustié (pronounced as “bustier”.) As you can tell by this blur of a picture above, they are all kinetic energy. They are constantly in motion, screaming and letting the music violently wash over everyone. If Gravy Train!!!! went dark and more industrial, they would be Bustié.

It’s clear that Andy Deane, the mastermind behind The Rain Within, enjoys the fuck out of what he’s doing. One moment he’s crooning along to the synthpop soundscape he created along with Mike Johnson hitting things to the beat. Next he’s cracking a grin and mugging for the audience. It was one of the most charming performances I’ve seen in a long time, and it was fun to fall into the spell.

Rough Trade and I kept playing this game before Mr. Kitty got on stage: I would look over to find him staring; at other times he would look over at me staring. It was a dance that we kept going, a dance that made me forget about the guy he was with.

One thing broke the spell: something the guy he was with said made him laugh. It was such a kind sincere laugh. I saw the tenderness in his eyes, the kindness in him that wouldn’t walk up to me and punch me out and fuck me in the alleyway.

And like that, I was done. He probably never wanted me in the first place, but now my lust was completely gone.

I loved Mr.Kitty’s album A.I since it came out in March. The music itself is very synthpoppy and dancy, but the lyrics are very dark and personal dealing with depression.

Armed with his own lights and accompanist, it was cathartic to live the album for the 45 minutes or however long he played. His dancing onstage was very much taken from the dancing-in-the-bedroom scenes, but the music is very much suited for that. He even got in a cover of Belinda Carlisle’s “Heaven Is a Place on Earth” which made this oldie smile.

There was one bit of annoyance which had nothing to do with the music. In the middle of Mr.Kitty’s set, this group of girls made their way next to me to get up closer. Fine, they want to dance, and I let them. At 1:30 am, it’s a miracle that my old ass is swaying to the music. I heard one of the girls in between songs mention how much they hate it when people who don’t enjoy the music just take up space right as she was looking at me.

I really hate this fascist militancy of fun: that in order to prove I am enjoying something, I must show it the way they do. Sorry girls, I don’t have the energy as your 20-year old selves and can show it. I’m here letting the music wash over me and making me move. Well, more like sway in place, but that’s as good as it’s going to get.

For some reason, it reminded me of this entitiled Miss Thing I knew back in the day named Christiana Dominguez.

Anyhow, that was my evening, my reason for being almost non-existent for most of the morning. And now I’m done with this and will probably cry in the corner. Or something.