Last night was my second foray into late night Madrid. Normally I can’t handle dancing past 2 or 3 a.m. and most places I’ve lived don’t offer diversions much later than that. Madrid’s clubs and bars close at 5 a.m. Until recently they often ignored the official hour and stayed open until 6 a.m., when trains start running again. However, after the death of a young man outside a Madrid club, and a few other violations, there was a wave of club closings and the municipality is cracking down on code violations. No one knows whether or not this will be a temporary state of affairs.
The largest club in Madrid, Kapital, close to Atocha railway station on Calle Atocha, has 7 floors with lounges, table dancers and various styles of music playing. Desafortunadamente, not a single one of those floors played indie or new wave music. Where was my Bon Iver? Where was my Wolf Parade? Franz Ferdinand? Did you take The Smiths with you? We ended up bumpin’ & grindin’ to my least favorite style of music next to death metal – hip hop. Officially, I did have some fun. But I also got bored of the beats and we went back and forth between the house techno on the main floor where one of the table dancers had holes in her panties (above and beyond the three necessary holes) and someone lit a pile of weed on fire in the palm of their hand, apparently to “make a ball” with it. Why? I don’t know.
We high-tailed it over to a certain super hot table dancer, the gayest of them all, with some sort of weird backless, frontless leather jacket (essentially it went across the shoulders and ended in tatters of leather just below the deltoid muscles) and boot covers that I’ve seen before and have been dying to find. Two youngy young young girls started to talk to us, mostly because I was looking up at the table dancer and she jokingly put in her claim on his affections. I assured her that I didn’t want him, I only wanted to look at him. It is so annoying that I have mild hearing loss in one ear, I have trouble understanding people in loud situations when they speak English and for the most part my comprehension is completely fubar when the person is speaking Spanish. I just sort of laugh, shake my head, point at my ear and then give up. Usually running away is involved. For most of the night, my friend, his boss and I spoke Spanglish and I had a great time. What cracks me up is that one minute I’ll look at the clock and it’s 3:30 a.m. and the next time it’ll be nearly 5 a.m. Whoa. Thank god I got a ride home last night; I fell into bed around 5:20 a.m., ate some Sticks (cheese & ketchup flavor, please bring those to London and/or the States, Cheetos) and read Twilight before passin’ on out, earplugs firmly in place.
Oh, I should note that I finally sang karaoke and that Objection (Tango) is not La Tortura (both by Shakira, if you’re out of the loop). I can sing one, not the other, and was reminded forcefully of this when I accidentally picked the latter. Later, I managed to redeem myself with Let It Be. There were some fantastic older folks who sang lovely ballads I didn’t know but actually liked. I can’t wait to get to England and sing some karaoke in English. The offerings are thin here.
Rocio Jurado – Como Una Ola
Mecano – Hijo de la Luna
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