Foreword
After requesting to attend a VIP Host table (one where drinks are provided to guests free of charge) at popular cabaret venue and nightclub The Box Soho with club kid DJ and host, Prince JayJay, and being told yes; I have organised with a friend to get ready and ‘pre-drink’ together. The ‘plan’, so to speak, has been set in motion.
Throughout the night, beginning the evening of the 1st of March and into the early hours of the 2nd of March I plan to record voice-notes using my iPhone. I plan on being the primary voice in these recordings, however other people’s voices will likely be present and I at points may ask others for input. Anybody who’s voice is distinctly captured in these audio recordings will be asked (either on-site or after the fact) to consent to their use in this research project before any further writing and/or publication of these audio recordings is carried out.
The particular club I am attending has a ban on photography and video inside the venue for the protection of guests and performers, but there is no rule against photography outside the venue for example in a smoking area. This is something I know through previous attendance to this venue. Anybody who’s identity is captured in any images taken will be asked (either on-site or after the fact) to consent to their use in this research project before any further writing and/or publication of these images is carried out.
Following tonight, I plan to write an auto-ethnographic account of the entire night. Through revisiting these audio recordings and images I will create a timeline and produce a sensory retelling in the first person of the queer club night I am about to partake in.
It should be noted that I plan on drinking alcohol throughout the night. I do not foresee this being an issue pertaining to the accuracy of my retelling – as I wish to capture the night as it truly happens even outside of my research. I typically would be drinking alcohol during a night out, therefore abstaining from intoxication on any level would impair the accuracy of my retelling. I would not be behaving in a typical way for myself. While many choose to party sober, a valid and real experience of nightlife – I do not feel prepared to speak or write on that experience.
Because I will be drinking alcohol, I must state that I am aware of the risks involved with doing so. However, I will be spending the night with a support network of friends and in a venue with security, vigilant staff and the correct alcohol licensing.
WEDNESDAY, 1ST OF MARCH 2023.
Approximately 7pm, getting ready to go to The Box Soho.
I wrestle with the fiddly tie-up sides of my underwear, and pick out thick socks to wear. I throw on the rest of my outfit, a leopard-print faux fur gilet and a crushed velveteen tube top worn as a skirt. I scroll through my camera roll for a reference photo, I’ve decided to dress up in my friend Charlie’s signature makeup and hairstyle tonight. Dressing up as one another has become an odd little tradition in our group of friends, Charlie has dressed up as me, I have dressed up as another friend of mine, Joemophobia and so on. Tonight, I want to both pay tribute to and poke fun at Charlie with my recreation. I shellac my hair to my scalp with hairspray and gel and apply a thick layer of white eyeliner on both eyes. Panic sets in slightly as I try to pick out the right pair of shoes. I end up with a tried-and-true favourite pair – 5-inch-tall platform boots covered with faux leather spikes. Adding a black choker to the look as I quickly collect my things and head out to get to pre-drinks on time.
It’s about half-past eight now, I’m walking down my street to get to the tube station. The weather is bitingly cold, winter won’t let go just yet and I feel that horrible simultaneous sensation of sweat fuelled humidity and icy numbness. I always wear a long coat out clubbing, especially when I am revealing a lot of skin. Tonight is no exception, I have a knee-length trench coat tightly belted around my waist. It’s only a ten-minute walk but I walk fast, listening to music with my phone kept away. I don’t necessarily feel unsafe, but I’m not oblivious to people staring and making comments as I practically storm through Edgware high street. This speed and determination of getting to my destination is almost a muscle memory response from a lifetime of being visibly queer and having to be slightly more careful in public. In these moments I long for the night ahead of me. I stop at an off license and pick up three cans of pre-mixed cocktails. The shopkeeper has a blank smile that I can’t decipher, I just wait for the ‘ding’ of apple pay completing and project my manliest “Cheers.” Once on the train and moving I feel a resurgence of energy as I message with my friends about the rumour spread earlier that day that Rose Wood, a legendary (and personal favourite) resident Box performer, is back in London from New York.
Camden Town always has an odd quality in the twilight hours, tourists flow back into the underground station as street vendors pack up and the odd drunk staggers around. I continue my brisk pace to my friend’s flat – he finally installed a doorbell so I no longer have to phone him five minutes before I arrive. I just have to push the button, so I do. Joe, (known socially as Joemophobia) opens the door halfway through his own makeup, setting powder sat on his cheeks and black eyeshadow mapping out the intricate eyeliner that has become his signature. After the initial shock of seeing me dressed as Charlie, our mutual friend, Joe invites me in. We put on some TV and ignore it as we download the events of Tuesday night. The conversation spirals from a recounting of the pub quiz we were at, to gossiping intensely about some of the people we saw there. Then we start to discuss the night ahead of us. The Box is notorious in the nightlife scene worldwide for its extreme burlesque and cabaret shows. Joe and I theorise to almost no end about what selection of performers we may see and what they may do. Joe in fact makes reference to a performer we know as Mouse, who does many variations of a ‘ping-pong ball show’ where she launches ping-pong balls from her vagina into the audience. Joe says in this moment of recollection “I have a vagina ball in the candle, what is so strange about that?” Pointing at a small candle holder with a tealight and a ping-pong ball in it.
Its ten thirty, and we’re waiting for the bus. I feel a slight buzz already but whether that’s from drinking alcohol or just the anticipation of the next few hours is up for debate. We, rather obnoxiously, fill the lower deck of the eighty-eight with mindless chatter and laughter. I already sense my guard dropping compared to my journey alone earlier tonight.
The time is almost hitting eleven as we tunnel through the side streets of soho. Walker’s Court is an empty alleyway by day, boasting only a small art gallery and a sex shop on each end. By night it becomes a throbbing mass of guests all vying to enter The Box Soho. As the younger sister to its New York counterpart it’s a hot-spot for the rich and famous – most likely due to the rumoured minimum spend of over one thousand pounds. I’m not looking out for celebrities in this moment though, Joe and I quickly lock eyes and say our hellos with friends and acquaintances, building our own area in the queue. We’re awaiting the arrival of Prince JayJay a club kid DJ and table host for The Box, as he is our ticket inside the club.
Before Prince JayJay arrives though I have more pressing issues to attend to – surprising Charlie with my recreation of his ‘look’. After he texts us that he’s nearby I decide to embrace the cold, take off my coat and prepare for his reaction. Charlie turns the corner and does a double take followed by what can only be described as a squeal. He then comments on the fact I had pleaded earlier for him to wear a certain outfit, and now understands why. We promise each other to take photos together once settled into the club. It’s around ten past eleven before Prince JayJay materialises in front of us, with an air of urgency that implies he was the one waiting for us to arrive. We’re ushered further into the queue, behind a red velvet rope. Those who have been waiting longer than us are chain-smoking and the noise switches momentarily from the racket of soho, to the thud of bass as the heavy wooden doors are cracked open to let in a few guests at a time. The door girl, armed with a clipboard and a sequin dress, calls Prince JayJay to her and whispers something to him. Before I can find out what she said, I’m told to head in and get my ID out. I present my driver’s license to a security guard who runs it through a scanner, and then I’m faced with a black curtain: I feel it in the pit of my stomach, the night begins now.
The warm glow of deep red light and a round of hellos face me as I open the curtain. The now familiar faces of the hostesses greet me, each of them poised around a cannon in the foyer of the club. My arm is grabbed by one of them and a mark written on my wrist in invisible ink. I have to identify myself to some of them; I look so different to my usual styles. There is a contained amount of chaos as they all take turns comparing my face to Charlie’s. It is here I manage to ask Prince JayJay what the door girl had whispered to him, and I find out that six people had to be turned away due to capacity. I feel lucky to have not been picked to leave, but confused.
I hand over my trench coat to the cloakroom attendant, who hands me back a playing card, I shove this along with my phone into my bag. Morlai (one of the hostesses) checks with Prince JayJay, who is now leading our pack, that everyone is ready to head upstairs. Morlai leads us spiralling up stairs and through a hallway that stands above the street of Walker’s Court into The Box’s main room. Small electric tealight candles, vintage toys and various antique-looking objects line the shelves of the hallway and I check myself in a weathered mirror right before entering the main room.
The first thing that hits me in here is the noise, a DJ is stationed in the corner of the room playing an array of mid-tempo house music, next to a stage covered by a grand red curtain. The music is followed by the distinct smell of incense. I wonder if this intensity, which comforts me, would be an assault on another’s senses. Ornate furnishings are plotted strategically in the room along a catwalk and podium, and our group is brought to a small table directly in front of the stage, and in direct view of the entrance. Our server, who will bring us bottles of vodka and juice to use as a mixer all night confides to me that it’s ‘oil week’ which frankly means nothing to me, but I assume means a lot of guests who are wealthy via oil will be in attendance. Perhaps this explains why Prince JayJay was asked to turn away some guests upon entrance.
Now that everybody has entered the club and shed their protective (from both the world and the forces of nature) coats, I can finally appreciate everybody’s outfits. Some have dressed up – in suit jackets and shirts decorated with art, and some have dressed down, in revealing bodysuits and ripped tights. The server brings out a bottle of Absolut vodka and we all flock to Prince JayJay who pours us each a generous measure. Once a drink has been acquired I turn my attention to dancing, as time passes the music picks up speed, and the DJ sneaks nineties and noughties RnB into the flow – then surprises the room with some contemporary hits. A remix of Estelle’s ‘American Boy’ peaks the interest of our table, and Beyonce’s ‘CUFF IT’ from the ‘Renaissance’ album follows in suit.
An urgent need to use the bathroom kicks in. There’s a queue for the cubicle in the men’s room, and while I wait I study the walls. The walls in the men’s bathroom are chalkboards and usually covered in graffiti from guests. They don’t always have chalk available, so my eyes widen when I see the little plastic box by the sink. I grab a stick of chalk and go to town scribbling my name in whatever empty spaces I can find. It’ll be wiped off in a week or so but I feel happy to have contributed this time. While in the cubicle I laugh at another guest’s contribution: ‘I LOVE DICK’, accompanied by a crude drawing. I leave the bathroom into an exit passage to the smoking area and I decide to head downstairs to get some air. The extravagant decorations of the venue extend even to this stairwell – even more miscellaneous knick-knacks dotted along the walls tell a story I can’t quite decipher. The wallpaper is plastered with set lists for the cabaret show, going back almost ten years. The oldest are yellowed with age and ones from the past couple of years are a bright white, illuminated in blue and red from above.
I leave my drink with a security guard, receive another invisible ink stamp on my wrist and step out into the smoking area. It may just be a cordoned off section of Walker’s court, but it is also the only area of The Box where phone usage, including cameras is permitted. Inside the venue there is absolutely no photography or recording of any kind, although it’s far too dark and loud to bother attempting. It’s now that I see Charlie step out of the unmarked door I just left and we gather in a corner. Thrusting our phones into the hands of a stranger we pose together. I won’t bother looking at the photos right now, if I thought it was cold while I was wrapped up in my coat it’s even colder now. I run inside, while Charlie stays outside to smoke.
The night starts to pass in a much more fluid way now, as I make my way through four, five and six drinks. The first show always starts at 1 am, so when I notice it’s half past midnight I duck back outside for some air again, making a pit stop in the bathroom. Another friend comments that the show is going to be really good tonight, having looked backstage at the set list. The suspense I feel could almost be better than the show itself. I’m ready.
I’m sat on the second row, one seat away from the runway. The lights go down and a spotlight hits a small hallway to the side of the stage, a cheer comes from the audience – who are all either seated or cordoned to the back of the room by the team of ushers. Out walks the master of ceremonies ‘Duke’, singing a powerful jazz song, dressed in what can only be described as sexually formal attire. The curtain behind him opens as he introduces The Box Girls, a trio of burlesque dancers who are a lasting tribute to the historic building that houses The Box – the Raymond Revuebar. Traditionally during this opening act of the show an audience member is brought up to interact with the dancers. Duke reaches for a man sat a couple of rows behind me who shakes him off, after throwing him a quick-witted insult, Duke turns his attentions to our group. I’m impressed by his strength as he grabs my outstretched arm and launches me up to join him on the runway, which I follow to the stage. The curtains close behind me and the deep tones projecting from Duke are muffled, the dancers tell me to get on my hands and knees and they position themselves around me, waving sex toys. My knees are almost getting sore on the hard stage, but my focus shifts when I head Duke order the curtains open, and I’m hit with bright stage lights and the eyes of the entire audience. I hear the distinct screaming of my particularly loud friends. The moment is as long as it is short – and the curtains shut. I’m helped to my feet by a stage hand and I have to funnel through a small passageway back out to the audience space. I do a double take on my way as I practically run directly into Rose – and I’m left with a giant grin on my face knowing now
My seat has been taken by someone else, so I’m left perching on the edge of a bench for the first act. Rose comes out from the same hallway I did, and moves slowly onto the stage as another performer moves from the back of the room to the stage. Rose removes the other performer’s clothes and proceeds to give her a sponge bath in a ritualistic way – the music and costuming is ancient Greek in style. The act peaks when Rose removes her clothes and appears to perform oral sex on the other performer. The curtains close and Duke asks us all how we are feeling. I’m elated. The second act is announced, and we watch as two men at an afterparty are accosted by a nude female contortionist. Large bags of fake drugs are thrown around the stage, and their usage mimed as the contortionist bends and stretches, offering various body parts as surfaces to mime drug use on.
I guess a lot of clean-up is required for that act, as the following performance happens on the podium at the end of the runway. A singer called Gia belts a power ballad, dressed in bondage and sequins. The way my seat is positioned I can’t see her without twisting my body around, the discomfort of leaning is worth it. Her illuminated silhouette is breath-taking as she raises her microphone to hit the final notes of her song. Which leads Duke to introduce the final act. The curtains open onto a bed, and scattered children’s toys. A lady wearing a baby outfit walks out and climbs into the bed, feigning sleep. The music shifts to something slightly more sinister – and it’s at this point I sense the faint smell of petrol. Chrysalis, a firebreather who is a staple performer at the box, appears at the back of the stage in makeup that reminds me of Cabaret. He skulks around the stage and gradually sets the children’s toys alight, ending with setting the perimeter of the bed on fire. This awakes the other performer, and Chrysalis proceeds to shoot huge plumes of fire from his mouth. I can feel the heat on my entire body, in waves between each breath and burst of flames from the performer. The curtains close and the lights return to club settings, Duke bellows through his microphone that we all must get up and continue to party – so we do.
Only one more hour of dancing and drinking passes y before they start to seat everybody for the second show. I feel drunk and make a mental note to try and pay as much attention as possible. The lights drop once more and our MC Duke returns to the stage. Wearing bedazzled underwear and introducing the Box Girls – adorned in sauna towels and headwraps they select a woman from the audience. At the end if his song, Duke bellows once again for the curtains to rise. They reveal a faux massage scene, the Box Girls gyrating on top of the audience member.
The acts seem quicker this time yet even more intense – a pair of muscly sailors swung from the ceiling, perch on a giant anchor; a butcher and his helper drag a performer on stage and fake blood is squirted across the stage as she is struck with a cleaver. The finale is pure chaos, Rose storms onto the stage and throws up on the edge. Gasps of disgust are barely finished before she launches jugs of water into the crowd, I am directly in the splash zone and my entire back is dripping while the screams of other guests overshadow the music momentarily. In time to a rock and roll track, Rose strips off naked revealing her genitals and opens a pizza box. Slice after slice is thrown into the crowd and then Rose begins to duct tape the pizza to her body, culminating with a hole being torn into a slice and her dick being shoved through it. If that wasn’t shocking enough for the rest of the crowd I can’t help be cheer as she rips off her wig and tapes a final slice of pizza to her bald head. There’s a mad rush when the curtains close, as dozens of damp and pizza-covered audience members head directly to the bathroom to fix their hair, outfits and makeup. It is nearing 3 am now, and I feel a hit of satisfied exhaustion. I make a quick plan with a friend to split an Uber home later, and get myself one of my last couple of drinks.
In this last stretch of the night, as people one by one drop off and head home I feel a sense of community – drunken heartfelt goodbyes, promises to see each other tomorrow, or next week. The odd person running back into the room when their favourite song starts to play, “Just one last dance!”
Its almost 4 when I stagger down the stairs that led us into the box – followed by two friends: Charlie and Cameron. We stand next to the security guards at the entrance/exit before our Uber confirms. In the car we talk nonsense, breaking down the show, joking and picking fun at people. I can’t wait to get back to mine and wash my hair – the thick layer of styling product has grown more and more uncomfortable through the night. The car drops off Charlie and Cameron and I’m nearly home. I put my airpods in and browse the food-ordering apps until the car pulls up outside my own place. The night is over.
The previous piece of writing was informed by my own voice recordings, available at the following link, with transcriptions.
The previous piece of writing was informed by my own voice recordings, available at the following link, with transcriptions. https://soundcloud.com/shawfowler/sets/nightout-voicenotes-1