Caspa…The Friendly Ghost?

I could deal with Drum ’n Bass. The name was pretty self-explanatory. But I can’t be dealing with DubStep. And to be honest, I don’t think you can either. Did anyone understand the genre description of Emma Ents’ advertisement for a Jungle / Dubstep / Grime / Electronica night last Wednesday? Didn’t think so.

There used to be only one edgy bloke at school. Back in the day, he was ostracised by his desire to listen to music that made teachers think the floor was caving in, and mothers fear for perforated ear drums. The penchant for baggy cargo trousers and retro ‘80s sports gear was laughable. But not any longer. Now it’s me, confused and alone at the back of some dingy club, looking at that guy surrounded by a group of people hypnotically bouncing on their knees, thrashing their heads around like pigeons on acid, hands and fingers raised  in an apparently universal gesture – the meaning of which still evades me.  When did everyone find out that it is in fact Chase AND Status, not Chasing Status?

And why are all of my friends now stealing from veterinarians and horticulturalists? Probably because they realised DubStep is horrifically embarrassing to dance to unless you are categorically tent-pegged. It puzzles me that Mephedrone Cambridge Delivery advertises on the Cambridge DubStep Facebook group. My dad likes gardening but he can’t tell his Caspa from his Rusko.

Most importantly, there aren’t any words to chant along to in these DubStep mixes; I know the words to La Roux, but this Skream chappy put an end to my skreaming, ruining those great club moments of delirious abandonment that I remember fondly every Thursday morning. For instead of dancing in a nice welcoming circle, offering each other VKs and gyrating with the person next to you, everyone at DubStep evenings stands in lines looking at their shoes. No abandoned fancy dress litters the dance floor – and where are those high-heeled, lipped-glossed sex kittens fresh from Cheltenham for me to prey on?

My pink stripy Charles Tyrwhitt shirt does not fit in amongst American-style trucker caps with the hologrammed label still hanging off the back (is this to prove they’ve stolen it?). I want Veuve Cliquot (Shark Buckets at the end of term), not bottles of Fosters. Essentially, I don’t want the police to turn up to my night out unless Benji’s got in a fight with that twat from Girton again; all of the above are not part of my well-practised ‘night out’ repartee.

So whilst you might be tempted to swap your Blues blazer for what you’re passing off as a vintage neon ‘80s shell suit jacket (but is actually your mum’s cagoule), no one will be conned by your change in accent (you’re dropping your t’s, and chatting in some bizarre dialect, but we all know you stole that ketamine off Mummy’s horse trainer). Your pseudo-knowledge of ‘sick’ artists (thanks, Wikipedia) doesn’t fool anyone. The image of the Dub-fiend is as evident of latent insecurity as the Cindies chief. Don’t try and pretend that when you head to Caspa tonight at Clare Cellars, you are a little bit cooler than you were on Wednesday; you’re still the same person, just projecting yet another cultivated image.