Author: Zandi Mlotshwa

Categories
The Sensations

The Price of Hedonism

"Pill popping is as far as I've come to absolute perfect bliss."
What does it feel like to be in the throes of MDMA? One man’s rise and fall from a trip on Mandy. As told to Zandi Mlotshwa by an anonymous raver boy.
1. The Come Up

“

The best and worst substance that I’ve ever taken is MDMA.

People obviously talk about heroin and crack, and I have considered modest doses of meth and GHB just to kind of dip my toes in the chem session scene – if you don’t know what that is, it’s a naughty gay sex thing. But as a cheeky-chappy raver boy, I think pill popping is as far as I’ve come so far to feeling absolute unadulterated bliss.

MDMA is both a hallucinogenic and a stimulant, and it comes in two forms: pills (or pingerz) and crystals, which are generally called ‘Mandy’. You can get creative with the Mandy (MDMA crystals): you can grind them up under the weight of your fist or a debit card and snort them, or wrap the powder in a Rizla rolling paper, twist it and swallow with water like a Hay fever tablet. That’s what we call a bomb. Or you can just paste the powder around your gums. You’ll be sorted for a night if you’re taking Mandy ‘cause MDMA crystals are generally purer.

Mandy is disgusting. The last time I did this business, I mashed up the Mandy, about half a gram which is a good amount, and put the powder in a bottle of lemon-flavoured Volva water, and I remember that because it tasted spicy and chemical-like, as if I was chowing down on one of those air-freshener pills you see in urinals, like the ones Melman the giraffe from the animated film Madagascar eats.

Anyway, however you choose to ingest this sublime sexy substance, you have to earn the unequivocal bliss that we mates promise you’ll be feeling when you take it. What I’m talking about now is a sensation called a come up.

However you choose to ingest this sexy substance, you have to earn the
unequivocal bliss that we mates promise you’ll be feeling when you take it.

Anonymous

To access the high, you have to physiologically rise to the occasion. You have to see your way through the sickness to get to the part that feels good. For me, it slowly rises from my chest, in my cheeks, and it just sits there, throbbing. It’s like a weight slowly sneaking its way around your body, and you’re trapped between wanting to stand up and move around and wanting to sit down. You feel anxious so you wanna dance, but fucking depressed so you stay seated. You feel angry, you feel really ratty, you feel sad, but you also feel anticipatory, and your breathing gets a bit deeper.

When you’re in the proper throes of this shit, you feel so depressed, you hate everyone and, if you bang Mandy out as much as I did when I was doing it, no matter how many times you’ve been through the come up, you never know if you will break out of that sensation for the night.

It feels like you’re teetering on a ledge – either you come up or you don’t – and you’re trapped feeling like shit for the whole night until it wears off.

2. The High

So, you’ve taken Mandy. There’s you and there’s the rest of the world. You can’t talk and you can’t really focus on anything happening around you at this rave you’re at but trying to get through this feeling. 

Suddenly, your mate spills his drink down the back of someone in front of him and this person calls him a stupid cunt and you think it’s funny, really funny, and you come to the realisation that your mate is cute and he’s really silly and he couldn’t hurt a fly and the man in front of him is calling him names but it’s the most hilarious thing you’ve ever come across. You look around and everyone is having the best fucking time on earth, everyone is meant to be there in that exact moment, and your breathing gets shallow but deep at the same time. 

With every inhale, this buzzing feeling emanates from behind your eyes and the beat from the DJ infects you. Whoa, you get this mad, incredible rush and this excitement and this euphoria and you just feel so much love for everyone. That’s ecstasy, innit? 

If this is a dream, don’t wake me up.

You’re just consumed by this feeling like peace, but it’s not peace at all, you’re relaxed but wide awake. You start chewing, your jaw swings and you’re breathing funny. The music sounds so good and it’s fucking wicked. You are UP, baby. 

You spend the rest of the night proclaiming your undying love for everyone, unprovoked, and nothing feels like it can go wrong in that moment. The air tastes and feels so fresh in your lungs. Your eyes are so wide – it’s the most fantastic feeling – and you cannot stop dancing to those house tunes being played in front of the gaff. 

I really miss that feeling, the pure energy and happiness. Especially when there’s a beat and you feel community with those around you who are on the same shit. There’s nothing like it. But the funny thing about that is, obviously, all good things must come to an end. 

Normally, when you start taking Mandy, you can enjoy the first few gos without neurochemical consequence. The first time is really good and the second time’s really good, but not quite as good, but really good still. The third time’s not as good as the second and so on it goes. You still get some beautiful peaks and highs but it’s never the same, and the drug’s effects usually last up to six hours. That rush of blood to your head feels so good until it doesn’t, and you get depressed. 

That’s what happened to me.

3. The Come Down

Once the party’s over, you return to normal. 

For example, it’s like when you go outside to the smoker’s area and realise that you’ve run out of cigarettes. Earlier in the night, that wouldn’t have been a problem because you would adoringly ask the stranger next to you for one and they’d oblige. This time, though, that realisation just leaves an empty feeling in your chest instead. It’s a small and sudden dip in the vibe, a little shift from a default positive response to a negative one, that brings you down from the high. The music becomes repulsive, and your skin feels like sandpaper. Your mate who is banging on about some shite is now insufferable. 

It might sound as though you’re lucid during this come down but you’re not; you’re a zombie. 

If coming up feels as though you’re emerging from the sea towards the sky, the come down is you sinking from your position way up there, down, down, down, until you crash into the sea, into the murky depths of depression.

Anonymous

It should take a few days to feel like yourself again but that wasn’t my experience after abusing Mandy for so long. When you use MDMA, your muscles can dangerously overheat and eventually break down, it can damage vital organs and it can lead to death. 

I would wake up sober, sure, but feeling empty. Sullen, stuck behind a wall with the whole world cracking on on the other side.  

If coming up feels as though you’re emerging from the sea towards the sky, the come down is you sinking from your position way up there, down, down, down, until you crash into the sea, into the murky depths of depression. And when the high equalises, you’re back in your boat on the surface of the sea. The bigger the rise, the bigger the fall, and it took me a while to feel solid ground the last time I took the drug. I sobered up, but any positive thoughts I had were no longer convincing and my life lost all its lustre. I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I felt this way for years.

I can’t imagine any night out worth going through that again. 

“

Categories
The Sights

Taking the Piss

Table of wares.
Toilet attendants are an integral part of a night out in the UK who provide a splash of perfume and aspirin to clubgoers in a pinch, and, importantly, foster a safe space for anyone seeking refuge in the club bathroom. 

It took me a few seconds to notice the penis paraphernalia, standing upright in a clear plastic cup, an assortment of pinks, nudes, oranges, and whites.

I would not say that they featured prominently on the toilet attendant’s table of goods, but they were not hidden either. Fitting, really, seeing as I was in the toilet of a nightclub where, frankly, everything goes.  

Holding back a few giggles, I asked the toilet attendant: “What are those, Aunty?” 

“Drinking straws,” she answered. Retailing for one quid each, I would say they were a steal. And they are fun and kitschy. Aunt Blessing is a hoot. 

Welcome to the world of club bathroom workers, a regular fixture in clubs around the UK that sell a splash of deodorant and aftershave, refreshments and even flip-flops to clubgoers, and may clean as part of their job. In my experience, they may also perform emotional labour, providing a safe space for anyone seeking refuge in the club bathroom. Toilet attendants often work independently or as part of a venue’s staff. Considering that, as of April 2022, the national minimum wage is £9.50 and the living wage in London is set at £11.95, many of these workers subsist primarily on tips.  

View into club bathroom.
Aunt Blessing’s table of wares.

Aunt Blessing is a middle-aged Nigerian-born woman who now resides in London and works as a toilet attendant on the weekend at a buzzy nightclub in Brixton. I met her on a Friday night out in the city and we got to talk about her work, the means of taking care of her family and a taxing job. Statistics show that the cleaning industry in the UK employs more non-British workers than average, so I often encounter fellow Africans working in club bathrooms on my nights out.  

“It’s very cold tonight but you people tried your best to come out,” she admonished with a laugh. “I know that I am looking for money, otherwise I would be in my duvet.” Inquiring about her hours, Aunt Blessing let on that her job is manageable “for now. I make enough money just to get by. Some days are better than others. Today was very quiet,” she said, gesturing to a collection plate with a few quid.  

Aunt Blessing’s presence was warm and inviting, although I was under no illusions about the nature of our interaction as potentially disrupting her doing her job. Our conversation was interrupted several times by punters purchasing sweets and penis straws, punctuated with drunken politeness, before heading back to the dance floor. Nonetheless, Aunt Blessing let in that toilet attendants often go unseen or unacknowledged, and like many service workers, are treated like trash.  

I make enough money just to get by. Some days are better than others.

Aunt Blessing

What’s more, extended working hours in a loud environment such as a nightclub come with significant health risks. A study published in the International Journal of Noise and Health found that the average daily noise exposure of participants working 20 hours a week in a club was 92 decibels. Over time, any exposure greater than 85 decibels for eight hours can lead to permanent hearing loss.  

At the end of our chat, I asked Aunt Blessing what a night out for her looks like and I was regaled with tales of a youth well lived. “Make sure that you have fun, but you should always take care of yourself,” she shared. “There is a time for everything. Use your wisdom and keep your eyes open so that you will not fall victim.” 

A young woman walked into the bathroom, making a beeline for the table of goods. “How much for this hair tie, Aunty?” The conversation begins again. 

The Chronicles of a Loo Lady 

Inspired by my chat with Aunt Blessing, I spent just under an hour as a toilet attendant in a Manchester club. Here’s how it went… 

What do you wear to go and stand in a club bathroom? Your croppiest cropped top, of course. And a comfy pair of jeans, and sneakers.  

One Saturday night in Manchester, I decided to don my best dress and fill the shoes of a toilet attendant for 45 minutes.  I took my bathroom attendant duties very seriously, down to a pretty pink purse stocked with mini bottle of perfume, hand lotion, baby wipes, Halls Soothers and Ibuprofen. 

I wasn’t sure what to expect - after all, I was going to be standing awkwardly in a private space trying to solicit conversation from strangers. But, as ever, the camaraderie in the women’s club bathroom is unparalleled. I set up shop next to the hand dryer adjacent to the bathroom door and this is what I witnessed. 

A cacophony of voices, two besties belting U Remind Me by Usher with harmonies included. “The vocals are coming out tonight,” someone shouts. A mum in front of the mirror fixing her makeup, talking over the phone about a frozen chicken in the fridge: “I’ll be home in a few hours,” she assures the babysitter/partner.

“I spilt my drink all over my jeans,” I hear, and offer my baby wipes. A smile of appreciation. “Your bag is so cute by the way.” 

A conference about a cool top from Primark and a glance of approval at a cute outfit. The laughter of familiarity shared by strangers at the sink and the screeching of the hand dryer. I offer the two ladies drying their hands some lotion, knowingly.

“Thank you so much!” one of the ladies says. “I always forget to bring my own, then I have to walk around with ashy hands.”   

A smile, a nod, a glance of approval from across the room.
Categories
The Sights

Subcultural Snapshot: Y2K Fashion Romance

Two young women.
Pictured: @andileenyoni.
The 2000s babies are coming of age, hitting the clubs and reviving the shiny futurism of Y2K fashion. Get into it.

Ah, the 2000s.  

The golden age of Disney Channel, reality television and out-there (read: extra-terrestrial) fashion with style marked by metallic fabrics, lush velvet Juicy Couture tracksuits and chunky shoes. Okay, maybe not of another world but informed by the future-forward sensibility of the new millennium.  

Y2K, which stands for ‘the year 2000’, refers to a widespread computer glitch that was expected to occur in the minutes between 1999 to 2000. It didn’t happen, and now the term is shorthand for a playful fashion sensibility that characterised the era. Think apple bottom jeans and boots with the fuuuuurrrrr, a whole lewk.  

Y2K style was all about maximalist experimentation, the blending of disparate aesthetics like the trashy-chic Von Dutch trucker caps and über miniskirts, which were the comeback kids of Miu Miu’s spring/summer 2022 collection. And, lest we forget, the extremes of baggy FUBU trousers and baby tees, bright colours and futuristic accessories, baby.  

Two decades later, nostalgia for the early aughts has reached a fever pitch thanks in part to hit US TV show Euphoria’s ode to the decade in its wardrobe choices and a sentimental Gen Z who are at the forefront of the Y2K style revival on TikTok.  

Fashion is cyclical and trends worn by older (sorry!) generations inform the self-expression of those who journey after them.  

So, what exactly is the Y2K aesthetic? Scroll through the article for outfit inspiration from Gen Z-ers around the world.  

Y2K Style Around the World
Alisha in dressing room
@alishancc1

Alisha, 17

Middlesbrough, United Kingdom

“Everyone has melanin, but not melanin like this.”

@andileenyoni

Andile, 23

Berlin, Germany

“My inner child was screaming at Chris Brown’s concert.” 

@crvigisto

Craig, 24

Brisbane, Australia

“Steady chilling, steady cooling.” 

Hilarry Nyathi
@hi_larry20

Hillary, 24

Newcastle, United Kingdom

“Not the bayang.” 

Israel
@thy_nobleman

Israel, 23

Bulawayo, Zimbabwe

“Sittin’ next to you but I’m still askin’, ‘Where you been?’” 

@krissvaul

Kriss, 19

Bulawayo, Zimbabwe

“I look glossy.” 

@br00my140

Lewis and his mate, 22

Bristol, United Kingdom

“We’ve been expecting you.” 

@imwaltermgp

Walter, 26

Birmingham, United Kingdom

“A short story about snow and a skirt.” 

Do you have a dope Y2K fit you would like to share? Drop us a message on Instagram (@pwdrzine) with your name, age, location and cool caption. Ta!
Categories
The Sounds

DJ MQ: “Watching people vibe to Amapiano feels like joy”

DJ MQ
Pictured: DJ MQ (@mqkiddo).
The West-Yorkshire-based DJ is one of the rising stars of the UK’s amapiano club scene, a community knit together by a shared affinity for amapiano, the soundtrack of the southern African diasporan club experience.   

You can feel the bass rattling in your bones. 

Singing at the top of our lungs, our bodies moving in unison to the music with hedonistic abandon. If your clothes aren’t clinging to your body when the sun comes up, you’re doing it wrong. The air is thick and saccharine, brightly painted vapes and red solo cups filled with Hennessy and Coke erupting in a kaleidoscope of colour. 

At the centre of this nice time is MQ, dark shades on and head bopping to the ‘piano mix, in command of the dance floor. He is at home in the DJ booth. 

That level of cool takes practice. “When I performed for the first time, my hands were actually shaking,” MQ says. 

DJ MQ, born Maqhawe Ndlovu in Pretoria, South Africa in 2003, is reminiscing about the first amapiano gig he played in an out-of-the-way venue in Leeds at 17. Amapiano, meaning “the pianos” in Zulu, is a subgenre of house music born in the townships of Johannesburg, South Africa in the mid-2010s, and carried across continents by pioneering artists such as Kabza De Small and DJ Maphorisa, collectively known as the Scorpion Kings, onto dancefloors across the globe. 

DJ MQ on the decks (@mqkiddo).

Amapiano is distinguished by pitched-up piano melodies, a speaker-shaking log drum and catchy vocals. It is a sound that bridges gaps between Black experiences, informed by deep house, jazz and South Africa’s kwaito music, merging old school songs, the sounds of Lebo Mathosa and Malaika we grew up with, with piano beats. 

It calls to the past and it sounds like home. 

In 2019, this new wave of house music gained mainstream and crossover success, culminating in a BET Best New Artist award for Zimbabwean-South African amapiano artist Sha Sha in 2020. Today, amapiano artists are headlining global festivals and the Scorpion Kings performed a sold-out show at the iconic London club, Printworks, last December.

MQ jokingly admits that the first time he heard amapiano, he dismissed the genre as a passing fad. “I remember thinking, ‘What is this? What is going on in South Africa?’” he adds mockingly.

A true child of the Internet, MQ came to DJing by way of posting mixes on Snapchat and YouTube, and when those blew up, he was approached by a local promoter to perform in front of a live audience. “I had only made mixes on my phone, not on the actual decks, so when I was DJing that night, I needed someone to guide me on the decks.”

The final verdict of that first event? MQ shrugs. “I didn’t like it, but I said I would learn from it.” A fellow DJ and amapiano producer, Manchester-based DJ Maniac, took the novice under his wing, and the only thing shaking now is the crowd.  

“The first time I heard amapiano, I remember thinking, ‘What is this? What is going on in South Africa?’”

DJ MQ

The 19-year-old DJ, now based in Dewsbury, West Yorkshire, is one of the rising stars of the UK’s amapiano club scene, a community knit together by a shared affinity for amapiano, the soundtrack of the southern African diasporan club experience. 

Although most ‘piano, songs hardly feature any English, their themes of success and soft living are universal, and the music just feels good. “Last night, I was DJing amapiano and there was a white boy who came and asked for the name of a song I played during my set,” MQ shares. “My response was, ‘Huh? The song that’s playing right now?’ and he’s like, ‘Yes, I want it.’ So, when he bucked out his playlist, it was just amapiano. That makes me happy. It’s exciting.”  

When MQ prepares for a set, naturally, it involves a lot of time on the Internet, crafting the perfect track list, a meticulous schedule kept in the Notes app on his phone and travelling the day before for an out-of-town gig. And a pair of black sunglasses, the same pair, every time. “Everyone knows it’s my signature,” he adds cheekily.   

https://youtu.be/oi_hAPn5GGo
A mix created by DJ MQ.

After our interview, MQ must prepare for a weekend in Birmingham with two back-to-back nightclub performances. It’s safe to say that the Birmingham crowd is among his favourites. “Every time there’s an amapiano event, there’s always someone ready to go up,” MQ says. He tells of one Birmingham show where “everyone was screaming my name. I thought to myself, ‘Wow, this is crazy.’ I don’t smile when DJing but that got me smiling.”

Then, during the week, MQ juggles two jobs as a carer and working in a factory. As an up-and-comer in the DJ game, MQ is responsible for all his travel and accommodation expenses, and then there’s the occasional wrangle with promoters to be paid on time. I remark about his busy schedule. “It’s hard work but I’m just trying to get there,” he responds with a smile. By there, MQ means KONKA, a popular nightclub in Soweto, South Africa, a baller’s playground and the home of sun-kissed revelry to the sounds of amapiano. Until then, the grind continues. 

If you’re reading this article and are still trying to figure out what we’re on about music-wise, check out our beginner’s guide to amapiano playlist. “Look for amapiano songs that are mixed with R&B or Afrobeats songs mixed with amapiano beats,” says MQ. “Ease your way into it, see what you think, then you can hop into the gqong-gqong [imitates a log drum].”