Disco Club 2

“When I go to River Sounds I feel old,” complained a Mongolian businesswoman in her thirties. “But when I go to Metropolis I feel old as well.” Metropolis is just a little further out of town, by the Sky Department Store and I went with a group of young Mongolians on a Saturday night. We got there early, about ten thirty, and some toughs were doing wheelspins in the carpark. Inside it was white and curvy, like spaceships used to be. We took a booth and waited for it to fill up. Vampish Mongolian women with long legs, pouffed hair and little clothes started arriving. So did westerners, so did bloated Mongolian men in shorts and basketball tops. “You like this place?” Said one to me at the bar. “Lot of fine women.” And the music was house, crowdpleasing mostly, ABBA gone strong, that kind of thing, but every now and then it would lapse into that duv-duv-di-di-di-duv-duv-duv that makes me afraid that my brain might just fuck it and leave right there. One thing River Sounds and Metropolis have in common, though, is strobe. Mongolians love to strobe. Get the thing on and leave it, make some shapes, wonder if the world is made of stills. When the ordinary disco lights resume, everyone seems so clumsy and pink and real.