The Nine People You'll Meet At Venues.

[DISCLAIMER: Here is the definition of 'satire' for those who might choose to get offended and angry over this piece. It's a hard word to grasp for some. I, myself, could not grasp the concept of satire for many years, and wound up curling into a ball of tears and shivering every time I watched an episode of 30 Rock or The Simpsons. It's been a rough time.]



Working as a photographer in Melbourne’s nightlife, it’s been [part] of my job for the past two years to document people in venues. Let’s be honest: when I’m not sashaying about taking photos of pretty lights and half-reasonable outfits, I’m most notably having some sort of eccentric-looking cocktail at the bar.

While I’m not always sober, that shouldn’t suggest that I’m not always attentive. What has made my jobs interesting – what has made them so gripping and enlightening – are not the lights, or the sounds, or even the culturally renowned DJs spinning sick beats – rather, it’s the people you meet at venues. The sometimes pleasant, sometimes vapid, but eternally fascinating and interesting people, gallivanting about the place several nights a week.

Being a dude who gets paid to take photos of various fabulous whores on their nights out, it’s hard not to notice some distinguished types running around Melbourne at night. So having said that: we’re going to go on safari. A satirical and scathing field trip, if you will, through the most interesting people you’ll meet on the town – the Nine People You’ll Meet At Venues. Whether they’re brofisting brodudes or catty well-dressed socialites, these are some of the many archetypes that make up the nightclub scene.

THE INDUSTRY FIGURE

They’re reserved, they’re observant, and they’re modestly cruising along – but judging from the looks of them, you just don’t know how to feel. They’re either dressed more suited to the Mornington races than any nightclub, or maybe they look so eccentric and vibrant-looking that you wonder if they’re modeling Romance Was Born’s new collection. Regardless, all you can think is: what on Earth is someone old enough to be my dad doing grooving to Bubble Butt by Major Lazer? Does this joint have a liberal door policy, or is it time to hide the underage girls?

Wipe that judgmental smirk off your face, child – because little do you know, you’re in the presence of the most powerful man in the room. The Industry Figure runs the night; or owns the venue – or owns half of the city you’re so recklessly pissing on. Be pleasant and respectful, because The Industry Figure could have you kicked and blacklisted with a simple text message – then barred from every club in the region, forcing you to get a taxi home. Then, when you wake up the following morning, you’ll check your emails only to discover that your order for a ticket to Future Music Festival has been mysteriously revoked. That’ll teach you for being so judgmental.

In all honesty, though; The Industry Figure is probably one of the loveliest men in the room. With a business mind, humor and genius that is probably beyond your feeble entry-level understanding, you best sit down, shut up, and pay attention – because you could learn a thing or two from this guy on how to be successful. Maybe one day that’ll be you in the several thousand dollar threads.

THE “BRO”

I probably don’t need to go into too much detail about what this guy is all about – because there’s a Bro in every industry, everywhere. About as exciting and intellectually stimulating as a rock, these poor Cotton On-wearing miscreants never quite advanced past VCE, but they sure did take a level in beer-guzzling misogyny. They flock up behind the velvet ropes in packs, with their “boys” that they met playing football as youths, only rarely bringing along members of the female gender - just to give the bouncer a reason not to knock them back. Granted, they’re friendly as fuck most of the time, and they’re here to party - and party hard - guzzling shots and pints with livers of iron, which makes for an entertaining evening. They might get into a punch-on later on, just for kicks, because their skulls are actually hunks of steel, rather than firing neurons and synapses.

They’re mostly harmless, really, once you get past the liver damage, catcalling and occasional King Street brawl, and the most exciting story they’ve got to share is from that time they got really stoned and ate a bag of chips. Ladies, beware: They will try to take you home, and you will later end up with a mysterious fungus, given to them from the multiple “no homo” circle jerks they partake in behind the scenes at overnight COD4-sessions. In twenty years you’ll find them at your local pub, placing bets on the races and loathing going home to their missus that they knocked up at the tender age of twenty-four.

MY 18^TH BIRTHDAY GIRL

Beware the screaming. Beware; for it will drive you mad.

These girls have never been out drinking in a licensed venue a day in their lives – but now that they’re finally of age, they’re going to take the night and make it theirs. Or something. They’ve spent their whole lives watching Sex And The City, emulating Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and the ditzy one, preparing for the day they can finally hit the town with their girlfriends. Now, after eighteen years of waiting - it’s Vodka Cruiser time. They’ve had their pre-drinks; they’ve hopped out of the maxi taxi, and you better believe one of them will have a big tacky badge saying ’18!’ tacked onto their Supre maxi dress - which they will all point at in a screaming mass as they approach the agitated door girl. “It’s her EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY!” they’ll shriek - like anyone around actually gives a shit.

Bar angry junkies or juiceheads, these girls are single-handedly the biggest nightmare a photographer – or any person working in any venue – could ever have to deal with. They will accost you for free drinks every five minutes. They will request retarded songs by the likes of Justin Bieber and Ke$ha, and then scream the lyrics at the top of their lungs. They will grab and pull at you demanding that you take photos of them giving awkward leans and smiling faces – god damn, can these get the hell out of here, so we can have some peace and quiet?

Fortunately for everyone, however, these abominable wenches will be out the door by one in the morning to the tune of “I’m sooo drunk, SOOO drunk!” having consumed far too many vodka-lemonades than their frail juvenile bodies can handle. At which point the rest of us – those who can hold their liquor – can drink in peace.

THE FASHIONISTA

The Fashionista only has one rule – to appear far more glamorous and wealthy than they actually are. They will assure you that they write for a heinously successful fashion magazine (if not that, a blog) – when really, the only way they’ve managed to afford the Balenciaga they don so proudly is through their minimum wage shifts at Gloria Jeans. Masters of deceit, their aim is to make you feel insignificant, as they stand idly by the bar sipping cosmopolitans and puffing out their chests, planning their next move across the club, under the full expectation that someone will recognize the designer of their attire and thus dub them superior. In their minds, the only thing that separates them from ordinary patrons and themselves - is the Burberry scarf wrapped tightly around their neck.

Unfortunately, however, someone forgot to remind them that the only people who truly care about what they’re wearing – are themselves. While it’s perfectly normal to dote on a brand, to admire an aesthetic or a stylistic choice, what separates The Fashionista from any other person who wears clothes, is the fact that The Fashionista sees their attire as an elevator of social status – and will not hesitate to let you know. Because, as we all know, donning Alexander Wang permits one to shit glitter.

Of course, it’s more than likely that a Fashionista could merely be a man or woman who genuinely appreciates and enjoys wearing fabulous clothes – but the real distinction between a Fashionista and The Fashionista, is that when the designer brands come off and the tacky tracksuit comes on; do these people still know who they are?

Well, that was deep. Deep like the pockets of a Saxony trench coat.

THE MORAL COMPASS

There’s really nothing quite like a man who insists on being the most boring and pretentious person in the room. It’s fine if you don’t want to have a drink, or do a line of coke in the disabled toilets – so long as your penchant isn’t for loudly and arrogantly judging others who choose to do so. The Moral Compass has never had a drink in his life, and won’t hesitate to let you know. He will stand in the corner for the entire night, sipping his lemonade and fanning his face whenever someone would dare light a cigarette in front of or around him. Approach him at a nightclub, and you can be sure he’ll loudly declare how he “doesn’t drink, that shit’s killer, you guys. Don’t you know how gross you look? Seriously, that doesn’t look fun at all.” – It doesn’t so much make you want to put down the double-scotch-and-coke you’re so happily swigging. Rather, it makes you want to throw down and break it across his face.

While it can be mutually agreed upon by most that smoking a crack pipe on the dance-floor might raise a few eyebrows, being off your head on ecstasy at a rave is pretty standard business. The Moral Compass is horrified at the notion that people would take E at a warehouse party, and just doesn’t understand why people need to drink to have a good time - and loudly so. The Moral Compass hates going to parties – but he probably doesn’t get invited to them, either.

In short: Shut the fuck up and sip your lemonade, or go the fuck home.

THE ONE WHO TAKES A LOT OF DRUGS

In stark contrast to The Moral Compass, the One Who Takes A Lot Of Drugs isn’t an uppity asshole at all. In fact, he’s probably the nicest person you’ll meet in the whole venue. He might even be the best person you’ll interact with all night. For the very simple reason that he’s high on something at any given moment.

 Expect hugs. Expect affection. Expect them to want to know all about your life, and expect lengthy diatribes about how “you can do anything if you put your mind to it”, and how “You’re just here doing your own thing, and it’s so beautiful, man. You’re what this is all about, man. You’re just having a good time. That’s amazing.” – [Actual thing said to me by The One Who Takes A Lot Of Drugs at a nightclub].

The One Who Takes A Lot Of Drugs is a breath of fresh, albeit mildly hazy air, and you can expect lots of hugs, affection and adoration from him or her, which will carry on all throughout the night. When you’re feeling down and out, or just want a quick chat or maybe just a cuddle, consult The One Who Takes A Lot Of Drugs, and you’re in for a Deep And Meaningful that will reshape the way you see the world.

Just try not to be around them when they pull out the little white baggie and head into the bathroom stalls, though. It might seem tempting at the time – especially after a few drinks – but trust me. They’ll be going hard until 3PM Sunday afternoon. It’s all fun and games - until you start to come down, at which point you’ll be spending Monday-through-Wednesday in the cavernous pits of hell.

THE “V.I.P”

Find them at any bar or club recently dubbed “the cool place to be” by no one in particular. See them pretending to be close friends with whatever ‘current’ DJ is playing behind the booth, whatever club promoter runs the club night, or whoever owns the venue. Hear them complain about the tacky crowd between lines of cocaine or bumps of ketamine. See them standing at the bar making minimal conversation holding fancy cocktails purchased for the mere sake of being in possession of a fancy cocktail.

See them sashay to the front of the queue, then observe them react with personal affront when the door girl refuses to offer them free or express entry, because contrary to what they might believe; they are no-one special in particular.

“Can I come into VIP? I’m a friend of the DJ. Yeah, his name is Paul. Paul who? Oh, I don’t know his last name. His DJ name? Yeah, I don’t know that either. What? No. Do you know who I am? You don’t? Ugh. I was in that music video! That video with that guy! From, like, two years ago? You don’t know it? No, I swear! Let me in! I’m cool! I belong! Validate me!”

THE ACTUAL VIP

Then finally, from amongst the ocean of pretentious douchebags, beer-swigging bros and vodka-sipping hoes – in rolls an actual celebrity.

They might be the headlining act for that night – a foreign import that the crowd loves – or they might be a big-time celebrity; a movie star, personality or musician. It might take a while for people to pick up on it – but once they do, there’ll be whispering, ogling, ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’, photos for Snapchat and the excitement building up.

The funny thing is, without the gasping schoolgirls: you’d never even know they were there.

Because The Actual VIP doesn’t need to assert status or dominance over the crowds like The Fashionista, The Moral Compass or The “V.I.P”. The Actual VIP just is. The Actual VIP does not demand special treatment (unless they’re an asshole) nor do they puff out their chests (again; unless they’re an asshole) – and more often than not, The Actual VIP does not mind mingling around the bar with patrons, with their friends or whomever they brought along prior to their show.

In a place built entirely on escapism and the illusion of glamour, it’s a sighing little irony when you discover that the one person in the venue, who’s meant to be the most glamorous, turns out to be one of the friendliest and most ordinary people you’ve ever met in your life.

Maybe one day you’ll meet again, and exchange more small talk. Maybe you’ll wind up good acquaintances. Maybe even friends. Maybe they’ll bring you into their inner circle. Maybe you’ll be the friend they brought along to their very own headlining show. Maybe that’ll be you they’ve got their arm strung over in the tabloid pictures.

Ha! Nice try. Like that’d ever happen.

THE PHOTOGRAPHER

Now, for the last of the Nine People You’ll Meet At Venues: The Photographer.

What a sack of shit.

Ugh. Get out of my face with that hunk of metal, you ingrate. Do you even know who I am? Honestly, you’re so fucking annoying. How much do you even get paid? Do you think people care about you? If you were someone important, you’d be in front of the camera, not behind it. Yeah, whatever. Get the fuck away from me. I don’t want a photo. I don’t care if it’s your job. Seriously, stop! I don’t care! I don’t want a fucking photo! Ugh, photographers! You’re all the same. You’re paid to be a nuisance, and that’s all you are. Hey, how about this – I’ll let you take my picture, if you give me a drink card. What? You don’t have any drink cards? Then what good are you? Oh my God. You’re useless! I already told you, dude: I don’t want a photo. What part of that is so hard to understand? Wow, are you new at this? How long have you been doing this for? Yeah, whatever. You’re just another hipster with an SLR. This couldn’t be, like, your job or your career or anything. You’re just another party girl who wants to get laid. Yeah, fuck off. Get out of my face. See ya.

Sob.