I had talked to my brother the same morning, after finding out that the Binaerpilot concert was delegates-only, regardless of the price you could afford to pay.
"Then get us in as delegates, God damn it!" I demanded, and after the evening dinner he texted me to say that an MVIP list was in motion, courtesy of the performing artist himself.
You're only as good as your network, so thank God for the Internet. At a quarter to midnight, three good and drunk Most Valuable Important Persons entered the High Tower of the Labor Party where the concert was. A storm was coming and the air held a current of several mega volts, enough to make you shiver with anticipation.
We got to the door next to the closed down ol' Opera where a couple of wannabe uppity bellboys asked for our affiliations.
My brother stepped in:
"Koew, Kill All Humans CEO."
"Kornelius, Head of Wartime Inventory."
"Sigg3, Associated Press."
While one of them went through the short list of Respectable People the other gleefully smiled at us from a bellboy's holier-than-thou mountain top.
"Watch it, kiddo," Kornelius said, "we've got people in the IRS."
I put a hand on his shoulder. You never threaten the doorman. It's a rule. For the short while you're waiting in line, you're a thief and he's Saint Peter. When he's had visual confirmation with the higher-ups however, he's free game for pocket change.
"I'm sorry, but I can't find you on the list," the first one said.
"You're checking the wrong list, man." My brother insisted. "We're on the MVIP."
"That's RIGHT!" Kornelius yelled.
"Don't take any guff from these swine!"
The face on the other wouldn't recover with the help of a face-lift after the three of us were let through with all apologies.
"When's he starting?" I asked Koew.
"He said he was on at half-past, but you know how these things are."
"Excellent," I said. "I could use another beer."
"Me too."
"What floor is it?"
"Top floor."
"Yeah of course, but what floor is that?"
"Take it easy," said Kornelius taking care of all concerned parties for the time being. "Let's just milk this for what we can. I'm gonna try and get me a BJ from one of those inheriting rich kids."
They were playing plain club hopping when we got off the elevator. The bar was lit up in electric blue and all the bartenders were Asian.
With an air of world-weary indifference I paid a fortune for the first three beers.
"What now?" I looked at Koew, being he was the main reason we'd got so far.
"I'm gonna try and hook up with Binaerpilot if I can find him."
The place was crowding by the minute; delegates, investors, representatives and or their obnoxious little offspring from whom Kornelius anticipated essential services.
"Let's check out the view! I bet you can see the entire city from here."
We stepped out from the bar with our .4l plastic glasses and into the refined world of exceptional hypocrisy. Politics and money, idealists and the idealists' moneymakers.
The outside could have been any street-level porch-like café except from the fact that we were up among the clouds. The night sky loomed with pregnant darkness, while a million brilliant lights in white, blue and orange from the city below fought the epic battle as hard as they could. Sirens, shouting, gunshots and helicopters; everything was muffled by the distance, the clashes of winds and the occasional screeches from soaring pterodactyls swooping down at us. These giant cold-eyed beasts from the cretaceous had been stirred from their sleep, awoken by the loud music booming in the bowels of the metropolitan region.
"This is bat country!" I looked around.
Every one was here. I shrugged. Didn't know any of them. I took up the camera I had bought for the part and snapped a few of the scenery. The great outdoors. Most of Oslo lay in postmortem slumber, but the few of us still alive from the many nights before could see the machine gun fires in the outskirts. Bolts of lightning far away. Was it a rainstorm? Or a failing power plant participating in the glorious display of disco culture? Or was it simply the end of our joyful participation in the suffering of this world? Nobody knew. Nobody cared. This was the top of the world.
Lizard people all around: rich kids in tuxedos, freaks in aluminum suits, regular daft punkers, radicals with reggae/rasta hairdos and the usual secret service types hovering in the shadows. Before I knew it Kornelius had advanced on a couple of politically correct gold-diggers and was doing the usual persuasion routine. A redhead looked up at me with beautiful and wet duck-fucking eyes.
"Justine," she said in a fake French accent and extended her hand.
"Sigg3, Associated Press."
"Oh. What do you do?"
"International watchdogging. I dog the watchers so to speak. Keep them in line. We can't have any controversial conspiracy blow up all the time. Chaos needs planning."
"Oh?"
"But that's not what I do. I'm the go-between. Kornelius here is the go-getter. Dangerous trade. I really can't say too little about it."
"Are you here to see the concert?"
"But of course. We're close friends with some of the artists playing in this establishment tonight. And to have a look around of course. You can't be too safe nowadays."
"Do you really think we are in danger?"
I sniffed. She was eating the whole thing, fur and all. But we were empty and Kornelius didn't seem to get anywhere.
"Let's find Koew and get some more beer."
"Koew?" the girl asked.
"KAH CEO, love."
"Oh."
Time to let the hook sink.
We rustled away from the posing carpet-lickers and headed for the bar. It was Koew's round. He was easily found, the only one wearing a simple t-shirt in this place, scoring points for individuality.
"Meet Binaerpilot."
I had seen him many times before but never actually spoken to him.
"Sigg3, Associated Press."
Who was the silent side-kick? I'd seen him before as well but he always moved in the shadows. What was he? A people advisor? Bodyguard? Spiritual trip guide? Devil knows.
"I'm really looking forward to the concert," I said. "Did my brother convey my hit wish?"
"Yeah! And thanks for coming!"
He side-glanced at Kornelius who inspected the wall-carpets very closely.
"Don't worry about him, he's completely harmless."
But I knew we needed a time-out. The screamers had begun to kcik in. How long would we be able to maintain? Koew stepped in and side-tracked Binaerpilot while I took care of mister K.
"Let's stretch our legs a little."
"Excellent! God damn air in here tastes like moth balls. I'm all dried up here. Did you see that blonde? Totally repulsive. But she had the riches, and very plump lips."
"And?"
"Wasn't ready for marriage yet. Not without a prenuptial agreement. You know these girls. They wanna see your CV before they'd even consider a hand job."
"Give it some time, do the right thing, and they'll be begging for you."
"You think? Shit, I gotta use the bathroom."
"It's down here."
We passed the crowded barscape and down the cylindrical staircase to the toilets. The Ladies' and the Gents' combined were larger than my apartment. They had a servant handing you silk towels, and an air-drier with the potential of a 747.
"Shit, I could live in here," making conversation at the pissoir.:
"You're damn straight. We're toilet people, Sigg3. There's no hope."
"Shut up with that negative shit. The concert's right about to start."
"She really wanted me, man. But she just couldn't do it. I need to get her somewhere we can be in private. Away from all of this. Those dazzling eyes. Inka forehead. I think she is a virgin."
"Really?"
The servant steadied him while he shook the entanglements.
"What happened to the Mysterious Mr. S?"
Took me the good of two hours to remember who was missing.
"He had to baby-sit his fucking nephew. Fucking sister, I fucking swear."
"I know. She needs therapy or some shit."
"Nah. She needs a good fucking."
"Ha!
Anyway, he should have brought the kid here. Would have been a good learning experience."
"Fuck that. Let's make a rumpus."
"Agreed."
Expectations had grown while we were away and the primitive sensation of calm before the storm had really put the spirit into people. The Asians behind the bar were doing their best to keep up with demand. We elbowed our way through the crowd with the usual tacit threats and settled next to the Budweiser tap.
"Jesus Christ!" Kornelius exclaimed.
"Where!?"
"Are those two women fucking a polar bear?!"
He was staring at the empty corner of the room.
"Don't tell me that stuff."
"...dirty animals."
We got three topped ones and barely made it back to the standing table before 'Gesouble Gesutch' blared from Binaerpilot's home-made loudspeakers.
There are only a handful of tracks in the world that makes me move like that, most of which are MJJ signature tracks. With Kornelius deep into the abyss of world politics I headed over for the stage and put away the most unnecessary clothing before doing justice to the 8-bit blessing booming all around us. Binaerpilot's girl and Koew were already on the floor shaking it.
"Right!"
I braced myself before bottoming up. "Let's show these imperialists how to party."
It was just like ecstasy. I made it back and forth to Kornelius a couple of times but except for that I was one hundred percent present on the dancefloor.
You can't go wrong with console music. It's hard-coded into every one of us who just happened to be born sometime between the sixties and the nineties. Binaerpilot himself was dancing behind an altar clad with a pirate flag whereupon his technical equipment rested, while a blizzard of black and white drawings - Tokyo 3000 style - moved around in mechanical movements on a wall-to-wall projector screen behind him.
Because he played 'Gesouble' so early in the set I gave my max when 'Smile' came up. In complete despise of ambient noise the 8-bit keys fell like electro rain on my aural perspiration sensors Tokyo 3000 style:
You make me smile when you make your body move...It was brilliantly timeless, alas 'twas over all too soon. Time enough to convince some of the rich kids to abandon their sinful ways however, and step upon the righteous path of Mecha-melody.
Everybody just freaks when my people groove...
Could be the greatest hit - maybe this is it...
Fairly short after the gig, the follow-up ensemble - a vulgar hillbilly technopop group - gave us no choice but to leave the premises in order to savor the memories.
We regrouped at Café South, where Kornelius believed his love would follow in due time for some late-night activity. He had yet to see the ultimate meaning of being kindly asked to leave.
In the meantime we seated ourselves - beer in hand - at a table overlooking the pot-smoking, political crowd that frequents this hip hop joint. I got in conversation with a midget MC sitting next to us and we had a great time tossing stories about yesterday feats and conquests none of us would recite in court.
"This is no staying place," my brother pleaded.
"I agree. It lacks the right oomph a proper Saturday night out needs by this hour."
"Kornelius?" For the last hour he had been seeing Little People in the shadows, greatly offending our new midget mate.
These things do happen. Lady C herself bequeathed a story of a little blue man with a bowler hat in possession of her faculty of judgment while under the sweet tyranny of strong intoxication. But Kornelius's visions had subsided to give way for post-drug depression.
"She doesn't love me anymore. My dick-sucking muse of motherhood, my eternal love and longing, she - the most prevailing beauty of them all! - left me here to rot. It's her treacherous genes, I say! They're pulling her into this capitalist mess! And I'm nothing but a world-weary poseur reaching for the fruits the highest branches proffer. Long live the total lack of libido!"
He raised his glass.
"Kornelius?"
"Seriously man!... You're not listening! I mean. Who are we? Where do we come from? Where are we going?"
"To a tittie bar," my brother ruled confidently.
And he was right.
For what other ends had God intended by the creation of evenings like these?
With the divine blessing of a higher power, we were soon on our way further into the night, to the costly land of milk and honey, where sin and sainthood intertwine in the abominable vortex of man's twitching loins.
Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.
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