Funky G
The lights flash over the bodies, packed close tonight but not moving any less energetically. It's dark but at the same time bright and the colours dance across a thousand faces turned upwards.
Turn it up, turn it up
The music is little more than a sound and a vibration coming in waves through the air, bypassing the senses and rushing straight to the blood, straight to the limbs that wave and stamp out the beat.
Turn it up, turn it up
Around the bar it's cool from the air conditioning but also hotter than anywhere else, more aware of the bodies pressing close to yours, the stickiness between the feet and the hands and the faces craning forwards to put in their bid. You have to shout to make yourself heard over the clamour and on the dancefloor there's no point, communication occurs through sight and touch. Sensory overload: the lights, the noise, the dozen bodies brushing against yours and none of it means anything at all. All you can do is tune yourself into the wave, ride the music until for some reason a million miles away you'll go home to bed and morning and some alternate existence that's made up of light and space and quiet punctuated by sound rather than vice versa.
Turn it up, turn it up
It stings to see a couple (or not) kissing in the middle of the dance floor, oblivious to the crush around them, stings in a way that makes me want to simultaneously watch and turn away.
Turn it up
Midnight, the DJ announces, silhouetted against the dark wall, half twelve, one, two.
The floor pulses and sways, dancing dancing dancing
Turn it up, turn it up
The music is little more than a sound and a vibration coming in waves through the air, bypassing the senses and rushing straight to the blood, straight to the limbs that wave and stamp out the beat.
Turn it up, turn it up
Around the bar it's cool from the air conditioning but also hotter than anywhere else, more aware of the bodies pressing close to yours, the stickiness between the feet and the hands and the faces craning forwards to put in their bid. You have to shout to make yourself heard over the clamour and on the dancefloor there's no point, communication occurs through sight and touch. Sensory overload: the lights, the noise, the dozen bodies brushing against yours and none of it means anything at all. All you can do is tune yourself into the wave, ride the music until for some reason a million miles away you'll go home to bed and morning and some alternate existence that's made up of light and space and quiet punctuated by sound rather than vice versa.
Turn it up, turn it up
It stings to see a couple (or not) kissing in the middle of the dance floor, oblivious to the crush around them, stings in a way that makes me want to simultaneously watch and turn away.
Turn it up
Midnight, the DJ announces, silhouetted against the dark wall, half twelve, one, two.
The floor pulses and sways, dancing dancing dancing