[Houston] Operation Houston clubs continues. I wouldn’t normally
review a DJ who only plays other peoples’ songs, without any alterations, but
this DJ is a Houston institution. [Edit: Apparently he does remix songs, but
this was not clear while I was there.] Choice excerpts from a Houston Press
review include: “a guy dressed up like a goth George Washington nursing a
dirt cheap Long Island Iced Tea and shadow-dancing, but such is the reality at
“Classic Numbers” every Friday… catnip for the drunken and lusty minions among
us who just have to cut a metaphorical rug each time we hear The Normal’s
stunner “Warm Leatherette”… The crowd is a mixture of prowling cougars, goth
kids, misguided teens, and affable drunks more than happy to make out with you
on the black bleachers for a spell. This is an underground Houston institution,
people. Get into it.” I had to see this for myself. DJ Wes Wallace has stuck to
his 80s goth new wave repertoire since he started DJing at Numbers in, well,
the 80s. Numbers looks like a deserted warehouse from the outside. I’d been
inside before during a weekend art market and was particularly impressed by the
broken mirrors all over the walls – so depraved. Massive dance floor, huge
stage. I showed up all excited and shiny at 9pm on the dot. First off, I
couldn’t find the front door – turns out the three people milling around out
front were not just smoking but were ‘in line’ because they hadn’t opened the
door yet. One was an already drunk middle-aged man with some of his shirt
buttons not buttoned. One was a woman in a Hot Topic skeleton shirt. My
enthusiasm flagged. Although uncomfortably engaged in discussions about Nazi
movies, the guy with face piercings, curly moustache, and suspenders was the
only hope for an interesting and inspiring crowd. Then his friend in the Star
Wars t-shirt showed up. And then my compatriots, StatsNCats and
HunterSThompsonsLostSon, bailed. And then the door just wasn’t opening. The
line grew to 20 awkward (seriously awkward) people. And then the guy in front
of me, JustRolling, felt the need to talk to me – I don’t go out to talk to
people – please! And then the guy in front of him, ColumbianDancingMan, joined
in. They were both Friday-nights-at-Numbers devotees and made it their mission
to convert me. JustRolling, aged 40, had been coming to Numbers since he was
17. ColumbianDancingMan is there every single Friday night. I enjoyed the extra
information but got tired of JustRolling finishing every piece of conversation
with “You’re going to be all right” or “It’s all going to be great” or “Yeah,
you’re going to be just fine.” He seemed to need the reassurance more than I
did. First my new friends told me they always open the doors 15 minutes late – the
long line lures people passing by to come on in. When the door still hadn’t
opened some thirty minutes after it was supposed to, my new friends told me it
was probably because they were trying to limit the time people could take
advantage of cheap drinks (9p-11p). At almost 10p, the door opened. I struck
out on my own hoping to shake my two new friends but it was difficult to hide
in a crowd of 20. JustRolling suggested we start by sitting on the black
bleachers and I told him ‘No! You love to dance! Go dance!’ He nodded and said,
“Yeah, you’ll be all right – you’re going to be fine.” Done.
ColumbianDancingMan materialized by my side. After I complained that I wouldn’t
be able to see DJ Wes Wallace shadow-dancing (whatever that is) because he was
hidden on a loft in a corner above the dance floor, ColumbianDancingMan took me
up the stairs to meet the man. Rows and rows of well used records. We were
given advance copies of a free CD (20 minutes before the rest of the crowd) and
I shook DJ Wes Wallace’s hand, saying “I hear you’re a Houston institution.” In
the dark, Numbers looked even more decrepit, setting a new standard for beat
down clubs, but the lighting and lasers magically masked our daylight awkwardness.
Meanwhile, the people who knew what time things really got started were
arriving, and the crowd became much more interesting – essentially the Vegas of
my youth – drag queens, goth kids striking poses, housewives, girls in bustiers
and fishnets, and preppy princesses. A
middle-aged woman kept trying to get ColumbianDancingMan’s attention and
lured him onto the dance floor, giving me a well-deserved break. And then a guy
in his 40s scooted over to me, and I sighed, sure he was seeking a black-bleacher-makeout-session.
He reassured me the woman (his wife) was not trying to steal ColumbianDancingMan
from me. I reassured him I’d known ColumbianDancingMan for 30 minutes, had a
boyfriend, etc. The man went on to tell me how he’d been coming to Numbers
since he was a teenager (It’s a Houston institution, people. Get into it.),
just remarried, has custody of his 8 year old, and X just isn’t as pure as it
used to be. All of this in a heavy Texas drawl. He was a DomesticatedBillHicks.
I am definitely not one to set the dance floor on
fire but I agreed to dance with the ColumbianDancingMan since he’d gotten
me the free CD and all. While I shuffled and swayed, he spun and leapt and
literally covered more ground than I’d ever seen a non-coupled dancer cover. As
DomesticatedBillHicks said, “He’s from Columbia. He’s got his own style.” The
second I happily sat back down on the bleachers, an old very tan man in
brilliantly white crop pants and a blue-and-white striped midriff-baring shirt
insisted I join him on the dance floor. To do the Texas two-step. To The Cure.
He spun me under his arm, around his back, and then just around and around and
around. My purse swinging along, taking out all dancers within ten feet of us. They
say people either love or hate this place – I am a lover.
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