Friday night: Martin Nel
I had intended spending my weekend club- hopping, and was psyching up for (some) Therapy in Braamies, and was crossing Rockey Street in Yeoville when I got highjacked by Tony from Rockerfellas, bursting to show me his new club in Picadilly Centre, for “black queers”.
His last statement confused me, but as we approached the venue, aptly called Picadilly Caf, I could hear Motown coming at me and I felt much better. Before we could enter, a bleach-blonde coloured queen came swooshing out declaring to an audience of straight, pool-shooting African immigrants at the club next door: “What’s the matter with these people? You’d think they’ve never seen a moffie before!”
Motown dominated the evening for the cast of queers who could’ve jumped off the set of Paris Is Burning. The previous Thursday there had been a male stripper, but this Friday the queens were slipping into character as quickly as the DJ could change songs. And they mouthed the words to every last number. Soul also featured, and I swear I saw a miniature Aretha Franklin get born from the smoke. As you can probably tell, by midnight the evening had only just begun.
It occurred to me just how similar our queens are to their sassy New York counterparts who conquer the streets of the West Side on Friday nights, armed with ghetto blasters pumping Motown and R&B.
At midnight some straight patrons from Rockerfellas, across the road, ambled over to see how the queers were doing. And it was then that I realised what had captivated me all evening. It was our “connectedness”. It reminded me of Queen’s Day in Holland, a sort of drunken celebration of life, when people have so much fun they can tolerate anything, or anyone.
But this was not Amsterdam, it was Yeoville with its surprising inventiveness and cruel sense of survival. I had so much fun at Picadilly Caf that I completely forgot about going to the rave, as scheduled.
Curiously, at Picadilly Caf, that night, people took turns to be the centre of attraction. As one group left the dance floor to fetch another faceful of draught, so another troupe would enter to do something bizarre.
I thought of a line from Twelfth Night: “Thinkst thou because thou art virtuous there’ll be no more cakes and ale?” They were words that reminded me the display was not for my benefit. That night, Paris was burning for its own sake.
Martin Nel is the editor of the Mail & Guardian’s newly launched gay internet site Q online at http://www.q.co.za.