A VIP band, plus another with an unidentifiable purpose, soon encircled our wrists. Once our eyes adjusted essay writers to Europe's sweaty interior, a pond of bodies wiggled in the heat. Sweden's Nause was at the decks. The duo spun a mix of clubby moombahton that accompanied the spinning visuals. The light of Europe swung to and fro against the beat. An unabated flood of blue, red and green streaked around the room like a runaway Ferris wheel.
We strode upwards to the VIP area, which was guarded by a formidable man in black. His decisive glare was followed by a nod. Moments later we found the bar and set about ordering gin and tonics with tequila shots in a successful attempt to let alcohol bolster our withered hipster souls. With our backs to the bar we scoped the landscape like hawks in search of prey. After being told Rebecca & Fiona (Rebecca Scheja and Fiona Fitzpatrick) had just landed on Lambert International's tarmac, we had nothing to do with our time than drink and adjust to music that was somewhat outside the bounds of our usual tastes.
At about 1 a.m. the headliners showed up. Rebecca & Fiona look like two candy-coated pixies of the electric forest realm. Their Stockholm-bred hair is the color of sunsick Kool-Aid: white blonde with splashes of washed-out rouges. Together they must weigh a collective 120 pounds. They look like the electro pop they spin with merry abandon. Both wear a white crop top and skirt. If one was not wearing pigtails and the other a topknot they would have been indistinguishable from each other. I'm still not sure which was which, or what music they were playing.
The homie that stole us away from the line and into the venues spends his evenings as Absolutely -- a local electro DJ who splices together ambient patches of wispy synth and cracked bass. He was also my go-to to identify tracks I did not know. When I asked him what the girls were playing he answered, "Here's the thing. When you DJ, you spin shit you've made that correlates with other people's shit. You're not supposed to play things people know. You're supposed to play things that make people get turnt."
And. People. Got. Turnt. We left before any true mayhem ensued, but prior to our bailing, the entire dance floor gyrated violently like an electrocuted snake. Arms flailed and people jumped around and on each other. Scheja swallowed a High Life in 10 seconds and started to thrash before photographers' lens. People grabbed me to say how beautiful I looked and thanked me for being in their inebriated presence. I lost my plus one to her Tinder dude. I woke up the next day buried in a couch and knew I had had a good goddamn time.