“We’re pro surfers, man. We don’t have to pay the cover. You’ve never heard of us? I guarantee some chicks in there will recognize us.”
The bouncer looked at our IDs. “California. Yeah, alright, we need some more bodies in there anyway.”
“Thanks, man.” We walked into the London dance club, trying not to seem overly excited that the pro-surfer line worked again. Our hair was sun-bleached after spending several weeks on the beaches of Spain and Portugal. We emphasized our Southern California slur, using “dude” at least twice in every sentence. The surfer lie was perfect.
As I parted the velvet curtain to enter the club, a shiny empty dance floor beamed reflections of the lasers into our eyes. Maybe this surfer thing wasn’t all that powerful; this must have been the lamest club in London. A solitary man danced alone as if he were leading a congo line around the club. Several silhouettes of hunched-over bodies hovered by the bar. There was no one worth introducing our fake identities to, but the club was all ours.
I hustled over to the DJ to request that M.I.A. song I had stuck in my head. “It’s electro night, chap. No hip-hop,” the DJ screamed over the blaring drum ‘n’ bass music. “Okay, whatever.” So we danced our little Californian hearts out, like a double-act Bacardi commercial — or the video above from Maxmillion Dunbar’s newest release House of Woo from RVNG Intl. Records.
Stream the whole album over here.