Arriving fashionably late at around ten-thirty (hey, the FB event listing clocked an end-time of 6am), we found parking to be next to non-existent. Some vulture-like circling and U-turning later, we eventually bagged an empty spot two blocks up. I felt a pang of Vortex nostalgia as we bundu-bashed down a muddy slope toward the Bellville Velodrome.
Getting through the red-carpeted VIP entrance was a breeze with no queues whatsoever, and soon we were ensconced in the twinkling semi-darkness of the dome. Local legend, Dean Fuel, was mixing it up on the decks and the dancefloor was already simmering.
Checking out the set-up, I was surprised to see flat screen TVs hanging above the numerous bars, flighting Camel pack shots. Glass-fronted cabinets displayed the full range of the brand's cigarettes on sale, and another glance at certain stands confirmed that they were actually dedicated cigarette counters. And then it dawned on me: this was the infamous Camel Experience. Ok, maybe not, but it was as near as one could get these days. The last chance I had to attend one of those events was way back when - at a time when the DJ was just old enough to pass the bouncer's inspection, back when Papa Fuel was still producing the gigs; before the big ban on ciggie advertising and headline sponsorship. But if this is where Camel is plugging its full ad budget these days, bring it on.
After being carded at the entrance to the Platinum lounge (we were only VIP, dah-link), we scooted up a steep metal staircase to the VIP section at the back of the venue with its view of the main stage - er, rig. Said to be 16 metres wide by 8 high and 6 deep, the multi-faceted structure was something to behold. Stretched between the bones of scaffolding was layer upon layer of transparent gauze that was to add another dimension to the light show, which had yet to begin.
The lounge itself was stylishly decked out with U-shaped arrangements of white leather couches and scattered pouffes... The organisers were going to regret that decision later. Behind the safety of the bar counter, gogo dancers shimmied and writhed in Lady Gaga-inspired outfits. The queues were brimming at three strong and after some artful dodging, I made it to the front.
Drinks in hand, we headed back down to the main floor. Dean Fuel had just wrapped up, and the strobes were put into motion, reflecting on the rig in squiggles, tumbling to form dual radars that locked on target before flatlining. The heart monitor then blipped across the central DJ box. And we had life. GodsKitchen was officially open as James Algate (UK) took to the decks and the lights contorted into a boombox complete with reverberating subwoofers.
At this point my partner in crime decided to go find the lil' boys room, and looking around at the thousands and thousands of faces obscured by the flashing lights, I knew it may be the last time I'd see him for the night.
Sometime - and no sign of my siginificant other - later, the illumination on the rig flickered through maps of the world, punctuated by the shows city destinations.
Then the dancefloor suddenly grew two feet taller around me... All arms were raised to the air... And with a flash of orange light, out stepped our esteemed host, Armin van Buuren. Cue insane screaming.
Armin coasted us through the early hours with ethereal, up-beat mixes, never delving into the dark, somewhat sinister psy-trance I'm used to. Some say it was more electronica/DnB, which reminds of a conversation I had with a friend, just back from the UK, who'd complained that the European trance sounded like house.
Either way, I enjoyed the refreshing sounds that kept my inner creepy-crawly critter firmly in place.
Alas, Mother Nature starting to holler and I ventured toward the bathrooms/porta-potties to see what kind of carnage lay in wait. Fortunately the mankiness level only rated an acceptable 2, but clearly there were people who still weren't au fait with the kind of fine ablutions on offer. Folks, there isn't a handle - for your hygenic convenience, there are flush peddles on the floor. Use them.
Wandering back through the smell of spilled beer and dope, I climbed up to the VIP lounge where I encountered the evening's best pick-up line: "My friend's always wanted to have his photo taken with a model..."
Response: "I'm too short to be a model..."
By this time, the white leather furniture was doubling as standing room as people clambered to get a better view of the show. I wondered what the dry cleaning bill was going to be like, doubting whether the organisers were going to get their deposit back.
After hitting the bar - the queues having thinned substantially - I weaved through the bouncing bodies and furniture to the front of the mezzanine level, directly opposite the DJ box. Now, the Platinum set may have been closer, but the VIPs got full frontal baby! And as the 'trance overlord' lifted both arms in the air and pointed across the room at me, for a brief moment he was playing only for me. My spirit lifted and the room fell away, and I settled in for a jam with the creator.
Eventually I had to step off my pedestal as nature was calling again, and I descended into the heaving mass below, through the rising air of stale beer, smoke and b.o. to discover what extent the loos had degenerated to. Upon reaching the stock of cubicles, I was pleased to see one open... and marginally more pleased to see a staff member already in there, freshening it up.
Back on the floor, and I'd just missed the start of the Sistine Chapel of light spectaculars which flashed 3D images of some of the art world's greatest works. The atmosphere was bouyant with energy, infectiously seeping into my bones. The crowd dug deeper and stomped all the harder.
But staring up at the mammoth rig was putting a crick in my neck and a dire need for a refill sent me scuttling back to the VIP hilltops.
Centre stage and my spot is occupied by another group of ardent followers taking their turn to bask in the halo of stage light and the warmth of Armin's perpetual vitality.
It's been some three hours since I've seen my accomplice and it's time to resemble a search party. Moseying through the floor's fray, stepping on and over scattered clusters of plastic cups, bottles and broken glass, up on stage Armin takes the first of his final bows. The crowd cheers while the lighting crew incite more with the display: "Come on, Joburg was louder!"
Armin stepped back behind the decks to spin the crowd into a final frenzy. But it was clearly passed a lot of people's bedtimes when they were next called upon to beg another encore. In fact, the reaction made me wonder what happened to the Cape Town stamina of rocking it out, somewhere where the air is clear, for three straight days. I was ashamed to call myself Capetonian as the masses barely feigned a last cry of appreciation to our honourable host before bolting for the exit.
The floor haemorrhaged two-thirds of its occupants within a matter of minutes, leaving the die-hard followers and a sea of debris in their wake. Cleaning staff armed with black bags looked on in sheer horror at the task ahead that surely could have been helped by a few strategically placed bins, which were nowhere to be seen.
But with the majority departing, it was the first time I was able to get within twenty metres of the stage to finally locate my PiC. And I had to hand it to James G for sticking out that final set. It can't be easy to watch a packed floor dissipate like a herd of sheep, knowing that you're the hungry wolf. But he took it like a man and the dwindling crowd gave them what they could.
But it couldn't have been enough as about a hour (and another feeble attempt at getting him to play an encore) later, the rig was shutdown and GodsKitchen was officially closed.
We left with the feeling of having enjoyed a gourmet meal... not stomach-achingly stuffed but rather with lingering sense of wanting to come back for more... And I'd definitely come back for more.
