Music is the soundtrack of Youth.

I wonder  how many music scenes must you stumble through, like an uninvited guest, before you bump into a kid that dances like you, dresses like you and dreams like you. 

At 18,  I was sure of nothing and sure of this: I hadn't found a sound I’d stand up for: "So what music you into?"- asked those I’d never get to know, "Erm all sorts"  (came my weak reply)  as I struggled to give the hipsters the answers they wanted .

 RnB it didn't suit me. 

Five foot nothing without the tits and arse- and in my opinion with far more class than the average grinder, I found myself turned off by egotistcal rhymes on the dance floor which would later embolden the gold plated men children that stalked the dance floor:“Let me buy you Malibu baby”.

With grimacing sips of my sun lotion cocktail, I  would try and fit in; ignoring the blazing white loafers standing next to me ,or the overpowering scent of designer perfume assaulting me, made only for sex with horny bitches.

Indie was useless as the long haired boys that listened to it; bummed out by the meaning.

Garage made me angry. Thoughtless, clashing tempo of base and Mc’s that spiked the mike , shouting words at me like:  "brappp brap lets party through the night".

"Mix it don't spill it "  I would shout through a  crowd trapped in bad taste and kids trainers.

Putting a poor adolescent introduction to partying behind me- where clubbing had been nothing to do with the music , When I turned 20 I found her sound and i danced to it wearing converse high tops.

I was dubious when I was invited to my first House night.

"So what kind of music is it?"  I ask off tone- the groupy that needed convincing to join the group. "It's the base to every sauce; Jazz, Soul, Classic. House music makes you hungry;  I look into my friends gurned out face in the queue 10pm, he's almost over and i'm still not sure what to expect.Another mate jumps to the rescue: "House musics got nerve, you'll love it.

The queue drops a few fur coats and we are closer to entering my Narnia.

"It’s not like fucking  RNB is it?"

Inside. It's hot, a few beats in and I start to thaw, throwing myself into the mash of people moving, jiving, thriving hanging on to the white noise- thumping imperially from the DJ box. I look around – the only one that is -every one else held, alone and suspended,  following only that pied piper on the decks at the front.

Soulful, energized vocals- from a man that speaks in a mesmerizing monotone and a woman that sounds of sex, joined by  a trumpet and samples of a news broadcast all oversee tracks made about nothing you could put your finger on- that definitely mean something in the language of youth.

I look up from dancing and share a stare from the bare chest on the podium, as caught as him into it. How refreshing he doesn't look interested in fucking me.

Colored smoke blows in, hiding intimate moments we only want to share with the music.

 It also gives me time to get acquainted to the new beats that never break but shatter and evolve into the next fully rounded track;no corners.

Tucked behind a pillar off the dance floor I practice a wiggle and a thrust- dancing porno at a rave. THINK LESS, DANCE MORE,GET  ON IT. A guy wearing fairy wings an all the weight of a chicken dodging Christmas walks past, spilling Malibu on my shoe. It smells sweet in here.

 He’s right. Sober, I try and switch off all the observed etiquette to club dancing I've known till now. Tits arse, no class.  I re step it with arms in the air, feet light, head free- moving backwards  travelling towards 1960. I bump into a Mod.

Time out at the bar. People watching from a sticky  sofa.

I see heels and high hopes, scruffs and naked chests,  wide eyes, big guys who celebrate the  building temp with fisted salutes and hands in the air- for the front.

Kids I'll never know join me on the sofa- not one of them wearing lofa. All eyeballs and disco glitter. One of the guys- it doesn't matter which one, jeans and canary yellow trainers: soft air pockets, sweat wicking fabric, made for endurance. I see him again as I leave – "are you coming to the after party".

6am, I'm fucking hooked on electronic music.