Tuesday, 11 December 2012

Katapult: Getting On It and Giving It Up

We'd been debating it all week and in the end we decided to just fuck it and get tickets- I've wanted to go to Katapult since Julia told me about it back in September. We even discussed having a 'huge night' and going to Concrete the next morning...

Katapult was supposed to be in a 'secret location' but B discovered pretty quickly that it was at a venue called Seven Spirits which, from the photos on the website, looked like it mainly did bar mitzvahs and weddings. The people behind Katapult obviously claim that the party is in a 'secret location' because they don't want to advertise the embarrassing venue.  Look at it:


Nevertheless, we knew the music would be good and I'd heard that it was always a 'good crowd'.* 

I didn't really think about the fact that it was just going to be me and B, on our lonesome twosome. It could have been intense, considering it was only our second meeting, but do you know what? It was the 'best night ever'- that's what we kept squealing to each other over the music. Nobody was there to witness our squealing and arm squeezing, so we don't have to be embarrassed for ourselves. 

It was kind of like going on a night out with myself.  B turned up at mine an hour and a half later than we'd arranged but when I opened the door, I still hadn't done my make-up.

"It's like we're in perfect synch!" we kept saying. 

And it was! We got the same level of fucked (right, just to say, for any French or American people reading this, you know when I say 'fucked' I don't mean we had lots of sex with various men, right?) and just danced all night, sometimes not speaking for ages, both in our own little worlds. We kept standing right in front of the DJ booth and then coming out of our Rave Trance to realise we were now standing at the very back of the venue, with no idea how we had moved so far back without noticing.

The venue, by the way, was fine. (Drinks were predictably expensive, but B snuck a bottle of rum in, so we only paid for cokes.) It would have been better if it had been a warehouse or a car park, but remember- this isn't London, there aren't any large, unused urban spaces in this city.  It also would have been better if there had been more people there, but I think the venue might have put a lot of people off- the last Katapult was in the same place. 

The music was really good. There were only two DJs- Daniel Bell and Jacques Bon- and I'd never heard of either of them, but a bit of researching before we left mine suggested we were in for a night of deep house:




We were having such a good night and then... all of a sudden... the lights went on and it was over.

Except it wasn't over, because there was still Concrete!

It's been my Secret Rave Dream for some months now to go have a massive night on a Saturday night and then go straight to Concrete the next day but somehow, something always gets in the way. This time, finally, I was going to do it... We left Katapult and started thinking about the awfully long metro journey that lay ahead, when an amazing thing happened: a guy asked us if we were going to Concrete, because there was a FREE COACH waiting to take people there!



We jumped on the coach, chuffed as two steam trains, raring to go. But we were among the first people to get on and they wanted to fill the coach up, so we had quite a long time to wait before the bus set off.


As we waited longer and longer, we started to feel less and less eager to go to Concrete. The excitement train we'd been riding was slowing to a halt. We convinced ourselves that we would just get back on it and everything would work out wonderfully.

The bus pulled up outside Concrete and it wasn't open yet, even though it was 7am, the time it was supposed to open. We stood in the queue, too frozen to even shiver, like two hard crystals.

"Are we sure we want to go in?" asked B.


We both knew we had to make a decision, but neither one of us wanted to suggest leaving the queue. Maybe it would be amazing, once we got inside and the music started? But what if it wasn't, what if we paid fifteen euros to get in and then decided to go home straight away? We no longer had the excitement train with us to pull us through... it finally seemed as though the night was ending.


It was the right decision, I was so happy when I got home and saw my bed. Snuggling under the covers, closing my eyes, thinking 'that was the best bar mitzvah ever' before falling instantly asleep... a perfect ending. 


But that's not the end, because I forgot to tell you something. 


On Saturday night, while I was getting ready to go out, I received a phone call from an unknown French number. I struggled to follow the conversation, but I heard him say something about Le Mizmiz. It had to be Mizmiz Man, not dead but very much alive, asking me what I was doing that evening! I told him I had tickets for Katapult, but that perhaps I would be pre-drinking somewhere. At the end of the conversation he said something I didn't catch and then asked 'ca marche?' 

"Oui, ca marche." I said, with no idea what I was agreeing to.

Something didn't feel right. The whole thing smacked of what happened with Personally Recommended, when I thought someone was asking me where I was going that night, so I kept saying 'I'm not sure where it is', when really they were telling me that they were going to a wedding. They thought I was asking where the wedding was, as if I was invited and... oh God, it still makes me want to die, just thinking about it.

Why would Mizmiz Man ring me from a different number anyway? I sent a text to the number, explaining that my French wasn't very good over the phone, sorry if I caused any confusion etc, but the message wouldn't send. Ah, the mystery number could have been a phone box. I then sent a text to Mizmiz Man, asking him if I had spoken to him on the phone earlier, sorry for the confusion my French isn't very good etc etc. 


Then it hit me-


Ageing Reggae Man.


What was more likely, that the mystery caller was a good looking guy I chased down the street to ask for his number, or that it would be a creepy old man that I only gave my number to out of politeness?


I GIVE UP. 


Do you hear me Paris? I give up. I concede defeat, this city is full of weirdos and I will be alone forever. I fucking give up. The Vow of Celibacy is reinstated, everyone can fuck off, I've had enough. I give up. 


Look, I don't want to end this post on a negative note, so guess what?


When we went to Katapult, the gold-striped rave jacket came out of retirement! It was just like old times, apart from the fact that on our way from the metro to Seven Spirits, a dodgy pervert approached us asking for a fag and he was wearing the exact same jacket.

*I realise that I say that a lot now and that it makes me sound like a dickhead, but sometimes the 'crowd' can make or break a night- it doesn't matter how good the DJ is, if there are dickheads bumping into you and spilling drinks on you, or not dancing, or trying to rob your bag, then it's not going to be a Good Night.

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