more forum forays

Another evening of magic and wonder, one that only an intrigued mind and a city of wonder can give. I arrived from work at the Forum, an excellent looking building on a Melbourne street, and collected the tickets from a haggard looking punker who informed me he was happily looking forward to his cigarette break. I waited outside for my friends and wrote an amusing journal entry about the hilarity and insanity of the night before.Manek and James soon arrived, and we entered in a search for beer.The forum is a beautiful venue. Made up like an outside courtyard, with classic statues lining the walls. A blue ceiling above us pretended to be a night sky, and while we saw right through it’s façade, we appreciated it all the same. We grabbed an overly priced beer and sat in a booth where we regaled each other with various tales of amusing conquest while the resident DJ spun the wheels and evoked feelings of wonder and brilliance with various eclectic tunes from around the world. Kev and Fiona soon joined and we all conversed upon the joy of the impending night.The first band appeared; a straggly bunch of misfits by the name of Barons of Tang. Like a pirate battalion marooned at a folk festival they warbled and shouted away on stage, strummed a double bass, thrashing away at the drums, fiddling away like they were in Georgia and their soul depended on it, and a curly haired well braced huff of a man lurched around the boards raucously pumping away at an accordion. The crowd mingled around, some dancing, some swaying to the hypnotic rhymes, as the band slowly welcomed them in to the wonder of a whimsical evening. Their style was classical and rapscallionesc with a hint of punk (one of their songs was named ‘Even with No Fingers, you can still make a fist’) but never fleeing too far from their singsong shanty style.By the end of their brief sojourn into the surreal the crowd were barking and screaming along, and happily joining in with the sing along anthem, which, to the best of my recollection went ‘la la la’ in a deep baritone.The Barons of tang left the stage with waves and applause and I went back to our booth, happy that my plan to skank had been successful.We briefly talked between ourselves and exited for a cigarette before the lights were once more dimmed, and Paprika Balkanicus entered to forayAs they waved to a cheering crowd, I realised that the 4 gentlemen onstage would not look out of place hunched in a small pub behind a table, awkwardly eyeing, but never talking to, the 40 year old divorcées that only a Wednesday night happy hour can produce. But onstage, behind their various instruments, they were Gods. They beamed their smiles and explained to us that, now, it was time to dance.In a flurry of Balkan magic they got the crowd cheering, clapping, spinning and laughing. To my left was a metrosexual pirate (though I doubted his actual nautical prowess) bopping and ‘hey’ing to the frantic beats. To my right a dreadlocked and corseted vampress was hoeing down with the best of them. And all around, various attractive Melbournites smiled and boogied away.They moseyed decadently through a collection of eastern European countries and styles invoking curious passions of gypsy dreams and exotic nights. The music slowed and accelerated through various lands, showing the wonderful abilities of the band, fast hands on strings, wonderful fingers on accordions and a violinist who could bring even the most fervent of sailors to tears. The wide eyed watchers of this fiendish collaboration couldn’t help but be whisked into wonderful turmoil and beautiful music. The band made sure everyone got involved, shouting for us to clap, stomp, join hands and dance as often as possible. And the assembled clique did do with gusto, do-si-doeing, kosaking, jiving, skanking and partying like refugee’s celebrating their pagan gods and being damn grateful for the opportunity.I did get to hear, what I consider to be, the greatest heckle I have ever heard. The lead singer, or, at least, person who shouted into his microphone the most, asked the crowd what we would prefer to hear Polka, or Rumba.The crowd called their answers into the air resulting in a strange obscure mishmash of language, and the singer shook his head‘See? Democracy doesn’t work’ From the back of the floor came a shriek and then a loud Spanish cry of “Communista!” Simply wonderful
Only when the music ended, the applause had died down and the crowd began to part, did I realise that I had been dancing with strangers, frantically grabbing their hands and swinging them round, slapping their backs and laughing hysterically while arm in arm. Sweat poured down my face and I smiled. I’d had a freaking brilliant time. I continue to simply adore my life. Hungarian Polka on a Thursday night in Melbourne. ¡Viva!