My friend and I thought it would be fun to take acid when reviewing OPM at Marquee.
The website promised a fucktonne of shiny lights and also we guessed the casino carpet in all its obnoxious twirls and colourfulness would be good to look at. Cobbling together my notes from yesterday, I legitimately had to look up whatever the fuck my Thursday night was supposed to be. The website description says:
Come join us this long weekend for a night filled with mystery & magical experience. We have chosen the best party rocking DJs in Australia. Get ready as we release more information on this shortly.? RNB : MASHUP : HOUSE
There was mystery and magic experience, oh gosh yes. The party was also rocking in a self-conscious clubby kind of way, where instead of losing yourself in a munted flailing fit of dancing as my friends and I are prone to do, people half-danced and half-checked everyone else out. That is, until after the over-priced SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS SHOTS, SHOTS SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS SHOTS.
Marquee is a club on as many steroids as Arnie circa Hercules in New York (which you should probably also watch on acid, if you like being simultaneously both extremely frightened and amused). OPM’s night at Marquee was like Jersey Shore if everyone were well-dressed and Asian instead of oompa loompa-orange and obnoxious. Two dancers on stage alternated between being sexy cats (or possibly Pikachus), slutty Xena Clubbing Princesses, and scary yet unenthusiastic corseted bluebirds.
My friend is such a great person to trip with. I wish she didn’t live in Western Australia, but she gets to do cool shit like scramble around amongst red rocks and desert all day, and ride choppers, so I’m happy for her.
Lucky she’s chill though, as Star City on acid was over-stimulation to a tee. There are so many lines in marble tiles, and everything is a mirror that reflected all the giant spacecraft chandeliers and bipping machines.
As we walked in the main entrance, someone yelled “Hey, hey, hey”. Predators, I thought. Predators puffing themselves up in their jackets like seagulls.
“We need to go stand in front of that aquarium for a while,” I announced.
“It is full of soothing Dory fish,” agreed my friend.
After a bathroom trip mostly spent giggling for entirely too long at the hand dryers because they felt like delightful marshmallow darts bouncing off our hands, we realised the people yelling at us were in fact people I knew, people who I’m not entirely sure realised that everything appeared to be breathing and swirling and fragmented to us. Hey guys, if you’re reading this, my gibbering giggle fits were because of drugs. We somehow managed to communicate that we were on some kind of list, and were put on the right side of a purple velvet rope without paying the $30 cover (small victories). Marquee has a policy of taking photos before entering the club. Those records would be such a goldmine of paranoid munter mugshots in their clubbing best.
Inside was fantastically ridiculous. Skateboards made of mirrors, video art of a glum girl sitting in a bath of champagne, lasers, anemones of light beams, personal bartenders at magical little tables with potions in glass vials and little rose arrangements. Amazingly kitsch out of control; wonderfully over-whelming. We were feeling so fly like a G6. The point where they played Gangnam Style while those feline Pikachus salaciously grinded away was a culmination of the retarded decadence, and resulted in a plentiful harvest of lols.
“I have walked on a large number of shiny surfaces tonight,” I said, lighting a cigarette outside. We’d spent a long time trying to leave, out of the hordes of well-groomed clubbers through rows and rows of (decidedly less glamorous) legitimate gamblers. They were slumped over machines, their faces fluorescently pallid somehow. But we got trapped on the way out, because the foyer had giant succulent flowers, and a Grimes song was such a welcome breath of fresh synthy air after hours of autotune and cheesy beats. Also there was a glorious ad featuring tango dancers prancing and staring at each other passionately to backdrops of pyramids and slow motion water droplets.
Our bodies were confused by the lack of stimulation. We sat at Darling Harbour, watching the water ripple like thick strokes of oil paint.
I don’t know how long for.
Warhol's Children's 'Chemically Assisted' series:
Check out the original series here.