matamatics

London (Above, L to R: Roxy, D & I enjoying food & drink before Deadmau5 & co.)

The day that I have been anticipating since mid-November is upon me. It’s 7:00 am on December 31st, 2009. In a matter of hours I will be in London gazing upon the musical genius of Deadmau5, Justice, and Calvin Harris, whom I would refer to as the “Big 3” (if you will) of new popular electronic music. Roxy, D and I gather our belongings and make our way to the Schonefeld Airport. We get to the train station at around 8:30 am and it just happens to be the case that the train that we needed to take to the airport isn’t running. Sweet! Not to mention, it’s taken us about forty minutes in near freezing and sleeting weather to figure out this inconvenient truth. We follow a young German couple that has kindly informed us of the detour to the airport, and after a couple train transfers we arrive with plenty of time to catch our flight.

When I was originally packing for my trip in California, my mom gave me a dark green and black plaid inflatable neck-pillow. I had yet to use it throughout my travels because of some major personal neck pillow insecurity issues. I mean, who wants the cute stewardess to catch them wearing an unsightly neck pillow? Now, as my trip has progressed, I’ve become increasingly less self-conscious and more aware of comfort. “Function > Fashion” as a wise friend once noted. If it’s there, take advantage of it. This notion has no underpinnings of a greater sense of “self-awareness”; it simply means that at the moment I don’t care what I look like so long as I’m comfortable. Maybe it’s laziness. But I’d like to think otherwise. Needless to say, I rock the neck-pillow from take-off to landing and sleep nearly the whole flight to London.

We arrive at Luton Airport in London right on schedule and have plenty of time to find the hostel I‘ll be staying at for the next three nights. A feeling of calmness surrounds me as we enter the terminal and come to the realization that I will be able to communicate with just about everyone I meet here. What an empowering capability that I had previously greatly underappreciated. And it just so happens that London’s public transit system is about as complicated as they come; we find ourselves asking any person in an official looking uniform where we ought to head next. In Barcelona, Paris or Berlin such ease of communication between officials hadn‘t been possible.

Roxy, D and I head toward the southern region of London, an area known as Peckham, to find my hostel. We get off the train at the Peckham Rye Station and follow my directions to the Wishing Well Inn. We quickly realize we’re the minority in Peckham as we pass fruit stands, meat markets and liquor stores filled with people of African descent—seemingly Ethopian (thin and lighter skinned), however, I never looked further into this. We take in the new smells of the Peckham streets, many of which aren’t particularly pleasant, and eventually arrive at the Wishing Well Inn. Of course, when we arrive the place has no record of me booking a private room. After showing my confirmation email to the concierge, she pulls some strings to make the accommodations for me. I figure it’s the least she can do but remain unperturbed. I end up getting put in a room with three other people. See ya later privacy. That said, my most basic philosophy for this trip is survival—other commodities and amenities are readily disposable and I’m merely happy to have a place to sleep for the next three nights. I get my room key and drop my stuff off in my very modestly (at best) assembled four person room and D, Roxy and I head toward our final destination of 2009.

The O2 is a massive arena in London tailored toward housing tens of thousands of people for music shows—it feels very much like the Staples Center. Soon it will be graced with the presence of three of the biggest names in the electronic music game, and three of their biggest fans. It’s a little after 6 pm when we enter the facility and find a place to get dinner and drinks. The doors of the O2 won’t open until 9, so we have a bit of time to kill. We manage to get a table at a relatively modestly priced restaurant and place our orders for drinks. I start with a pint of Stella, D gets a cocktail based on the waitresses’ recommendation, and after a short mental debate, Roxy musters up the courage to order a pitcher of Long Island Ice Tea for herself. Roxy is a small girl (one of D’s nicknames for her is “My Little Basket”) and Long Islands are known for their alcoholic potency—perhaps not the best combo. I tell her that if she can’t finish it, I’d throw a few British pounds in her direction and help her with it.

Over the next two and half hours we eat and drink until no such things can fit into our bellies. Roxy’s pitcher empties at a consistent pace—neither I nor D have more than a sip of it—and she’s completely competent and energized. I’m impressed and a bit surprised. Or should I be concerned? I don’t think twice about it and a surge of adrenaline overcomes me as I think about what we’re going to witness and be a part of in less than an hour. There is no other place I would want to be to bring in 2010 than where I am. We pay our bill and head toward the restaurant’s exit.

The three of us find the arena entrance and make our way into the venue. Everything goes smoothly apart from the fact that we’re all wearing heavy jackets, as the outdoor temperature is hovering in the mid-30s, and the O2 doesn’t offer a coat check. So, we’re stuck with our jackets for the evening. Damn. The bass from the opening DJ, Dave Spoon, shakes the floor outside of the arena. We find the arena entrance and make our way down the rows of seats to arena floor. The music is loud. Very loud. We get situated, set our jackets out of the way on the floor, and the party begins.

Dave Spoon gets our robot ears warmed up, then comes Calvin Harris. To my surprise and delight, he plays a completely live set—drums, guitar, bass, keyboard and, of course, vocals. D, Roxy and I find our spot in the crowd and sing along as Calvin smashes on the keys of his synthesizer and yells out, “These are the good times in your life, so put on a smile and it’ll be alright…” Just as 12:00 am approaches Calvin’s set ends and the crowd’s focus is shifted from the main stage to the circular stage in the center of the arena. An unknown DJ spins a song, then cuts out the tunes to begin the countdown. 10…9.…..3…2…1… Happy New Year! A mass of confetti flutters from the ceiling down on to the audience. Everyone rejoices in happiness. Hi-fives and hugs are exchanged between complete strangers. Not a single face is lacking a smile from ear to ear. And before we have enough time for the new year to sink in, D, Roxy and I notice a graphic appear on the main stage’s backdrop screen.

The image appears as a few metallic objects assembling themselves. We immediately know what this means: Deadmau5. The three of us make a break for the stage and finagle our way through the crowd to find a spot within good viewing distance. We find our place dead center about 60 feet from the stage. Our eyes are locked on the screen as the metallic objects slowly assemble themselves into the head of Deadmau5. Shortly after, the man himself appears above us and drops to the stage on tethers that are attached to the ceiling. His set begins and the crowd becomes entranced. Pyrotechnics shoot from the stage during various drops in his songs and lasers beam above us. It’s a experience to behold and we truly appreciate it. We’ve all seen Deadmau5 several times before this and agree that this was a performance like none other.

After Deadmau5 my legs become the consistency of jelly and we decide to take a breather. We find a good viewing spot in the arena’s seats and watch as Justice performs a DJ set from the center stage. It approaches 4 am and Justice ends and Eric Prydz begins. I’m not much of a Eric Prydz fan and remain seated through most of it—the heavy trance bass is nauseating and I’m quite tired. Roxy pulls D and I back to the arena floor and we have one last dance session, then head toward the exit. We hop on the still crowded metro a little after five in the morning and make our way back to London Bridge Station where they‘ll catch a train back to the airport and I‘ll get a bus to Peckham. We get off the metro, say our goodbyes and part ways. As I make my way toward the escalator I feel an emptiness open in my stomach. I’m going to miss D and Roxy.

It’s now approaching six and my mental capacity is at around a fourth grade level. I’m running on autopilot as I attempt to decipher the bus line maps in the station. Apparently, there’s been a major bus accident and a few of the lines had to be closed—one of which happens to be the most direct route to Peckham. I ask a local bus attendant what I should do and he gladly informs me of which line to take and where to catch it. I wait for a few minutes near a bus stop, then realize I’m on the wrong side of the street right as the bus across the street is leaving. I take off and sprint after the bus through the near empty streets in the center of London. I catch up to it at the next stop about 200 yards down the road. Through my panting breath I tell him that I’m trying to go to Peckham. The bus driver then informs me that it’d be better if I waited on the other side of the street and he’d pick me up when the bus turns around. Wait… That’s where I just was… I heed his advice and cross the street as I catch my breath. Ten minutes go by and my bus appears. I make it back to Peckham at around 6:45, make my way to my hostel and find my room. My three roommates are asleep, two of which are snoring, but it doesn’t affect my ability to fall asleep. I sleep until nearly one in the afternoon. My roommates are gone when I awake.

The rest of my stay in London is spent sightseeing during the day and spending my evenings at a pub near my hostel where I become friendly with some of the locals. My tavern respect grows quickly as I beat a few of the locals in straight pool. Guinness becomes my beer of choice and anything lighter becomes completely unappetizing. I feel a part of a certainly deeply established local crowd.

At this point, I’m beginning to find Western European “sightseeing” a bit dull. London is great—don’t get me wrong—however, after the ornate architecture of Barcelona and Paris something about London’s just seems to fall a bit short. My brief stay in London comes to an end and I become increasingly excited to get to Shanghai. Garrett and Giuce, here I come.