55-57 Parramatta Rd
You have to be in the know to know.
Typically, to ‘support local artists’ means to promote them through word of mouth, social media stories, etcetera. In the case of the ‘underground’ scene, though, you are to be selective, discrete. We call the scene a ‘rodent-free zone’— locations are dispersed through fractions and code, so no rats or moles are to be given the opportunity to dig their claws into our definition of fun.
To be in the know does enlist a sort of self-importance, a pretentiousness — such self-inflicted royalty carrying through in our ways of life: wired headphones and professions of admiration for our typical uniform (indie sleaze) are key in identifying one another. Some may think of us as the vagrants of the new millennium. We come out at night, under bridges, in quiet parks, warehouses, or abandoned buildings to celebrate each other's sweat by the pulse of a speaker.
Midnight Star was to be our next room to boil in. We were to be pioneers of the T2 trainline.
Never before had our bodies melted together at any location farther than Stanmore from the CBD. Maybe it was the DJ’s indie-meets-polka-meets-calypso-meets-club-classics setlist that made her so hungry for the Homebush home’s mouldy walls. Or, maybe, it was the historical integrity of the once theatre-restaurant turned cinema turned 1980s ice rink turned reception-centre-money-hole that pumped her aesthetic libido.
Having never heard of the Midnight Star before, we all googled it in advance. Images showed the paint inside; green and glowing like the skin of a radium girl, itching off the drywall underneath. And still, among the many hues of the modern world outside, the building remained worn yet stoic in its 1920s stature, resilient in its sepia exterior. It was something Hollywood could seize for a set as it reeked of stories upon stories from decades before.
Despite Google's notice that the place was ‘Permanently closed’ and had been vacant for more than 20 years, we could all feel that there was life still lingering.
Not that we believed in ghosts.
Still, we all thought it would be best to assimilate; to be students in uniform. It would be an act of sacrilege to taint the premises with any footprint of a modern sneaker. If the Midnight Star were to be haunted by the ghosts of patron’s past, we wouldn’t want to force our generation’s modernity down their airless necks.
***
Some girls muddied their go-go boots on the walk to the crawl-space entrance, others tightly held their flapper-inspired, depop dresses to prevent themselves from getting snagged and stripped by the loose fence wires. The well-dressed boys looked like they were trying to join a 1920s Surry Hills razor gang. The less fashionably adept lads, however, could've been mistaken for teens auditioning for a high school production of Newsies, Guys and Dolls or Grease.
The space was colder than we anticipated, goosebumps sprawling underneath many of the girls’ sheer tights. Between the piles of bird shit, cracked glass, and empty nang canisters, a dampness ornamented the air. It was still early in the night. We didn’t need watches to know that — it was obvious because the place hadn’t yet been fragranced with our body odours, though it was bound to once the music started. Instead, the place smelled of a grandmother’s curtains, mildew, urine, and stale popcorn.
It was crazy to us that regardless of how much time has passed, a theatre will always smell of popcorn.
Maybe it was something in the grandeur of the high yet sagging ceilings that forbade us from uttering a word to one another, or maybe it was the fear that if we opened our mouths we would taste the asbestos — not that any of us were familiar with such seasoning.
Or maybe it was because no one dared to admit that they were afraid. Afraid that with every step over a creaking floorboard or already broken VB bottle that they would trigger some ghastly wail of an up-and-coming starlet that never made it to technicolour. A soul trapped in the Midnight Star.
Not that we believed in ghosts…
But just in case, we were dressed appropriately for them.
And so, with a pop of a speaker that could have been confused with the breaking of the wounded infrastructure, we felt the familiar buzz surging through the floorboards. The music had started, and the night had begun.
