Instant Commune after Nightfall
1:30 AM, Friday night, Monkey Club’s Dance Floor,
Chiang Mai

When someone rides in a crowded Bombay train, he is expected to be soaked with sweat – from someone else’s body - before arriving at his office. But when someone enters the Monkey Club’s dance floor in Chiang Mai, he is not only expected to be soaked in a pool of sweaty bodies, but he must be prepared to make a sacrifice. He must give up his body altogether as an individual so that it could merge with the collective pool of flesh; pulsating with the same 120 decibel heartbeat of rock drums, distortion guitars, and slapping bass.

The dance floor is situated within a glass room; roughly 24 x 24 meters with at least 4 people per square meter. That makes it a community of 2,304. One can feel every twitching of muscles all around one’s body; and the sound amplitude -emanating from four identical 100 watts Fender amps - keeps the rhythmic twitching of those muscles in perfect synchronization. The anthropological dating of this collective mass of bodies is between 18 to 35 years old. It is an assemblage of students from colleges and university around the city.

Here, we see a new form of collectivism – a tribal ritual – that usually emerges long after nightfall. At the helm of this tribe is a young guitarist who goes by the name of “Blitz”. Like any other guitarists, he allows his hair to grow long with time. A pair of round wire-rimmed glasses resting on his nose conjures up the images of Gandhi, or more recently, of John Lennon. He is a man who - with his guitar pick - could strike up a chord or a community or even an instant utopia. His guitar hangs low near his waistline like a giant phallic; subduing the screaming young girls as they struggle to get a glimpse of his shiny instrument. His music has the energy of Jimi Hendrix’s “experience” combined with the innocence of Korean’s K-Pop. An attractive female lead singer shakes her rear in strong rhythmic thrusts; her long black hair swirls in the air like a goddess while the male audiences roar with joy. The drummer - totally drunk - is attacking the drums with extraordinary energy as if he has the four hands of Ganesha. His 28” cymbal shows some wear and tear; about one quarter of it is missing; being smashed off in one of these ‘hard’ sessions.

I try to approach the rock band from the far end of the dance floor. With a little bodily pressure and some eye contact, a small walkway is created as I walk through the ocean of people towards the stage. But it takes time and skill of biblical proportion to open up the sea of people. Since the sound in the dance floor is in the neighborhood of 120 decibel, it is not possible to say “I beg your pardon sir.” The atmosphere is highly free-spirited; most communication and transactions are being done in the realm of silence. Some girls are dancing with their boyfriends while giving phone numbers to other men - using sign language. Some men – when their girlfriends are not looking - simply handed their cellular phones to random girls of their liking so that they could enter their numbers. Drinks are being ordered using sign languages and lips reading. The whole scene is like a silent film - a very loud one.

The light from the disco ball flashes intermittently; randomly advertising the faces of prospective dating partners. Under such light – like the tribal bonfire of the past – everyone looks fresh and attractive. These youngsters are not the individualistic materialist freaks that their professors usually write about in their newspaper columns. They are highly communistic – even when it comes to the subject of love - and free spirited. They create this utopia so that they could “become the change they want to see”. There is no need for complex social theories or explanations. Like the new monks that are being ordained into a monastery; these kids leave behind their previous social roles to assume a new identity in the club. They have “discovered their real selves” as one of the patrons later tells me. In the club, and especially on the dance floor, everyone is equal under the disco ball. The son of a mason, the daughter of a professor, the sister of a local warlord, and the young policemen rub shoulders and body parts in the dance floor. There is no class distinction.

A song just ended; laying bare a very loud background noise of shouting and laughter. It is the newcomers that do all the shouting; the old hands use sign languages. Whistles and applaud follows. It is break time for the band. The DJ immediately appears on the stage to fill in the silence with a hip-hop song. The spiritual dance continues. “Blitz,” the guitarist, puts down his “axe” and climbs down from the stage to take a break. He immediately recognizes me.

“Been here a while?” he shouts.

I nodded. We wade through a large pool of screaming girls towards the exit doors. The journey of less than 10 meters long takes more than 5 full minutes. He is indeed the Alpha Male of the tribe.

It is now 2:40 AM, and there are many diners that open late so as to accommodate the night commune of rockers and dancers. “Blitz” drives his old yellow Volkswagen beetle to a diner near the old city wall. He parks his car near several wooden shacks at the old city wall.

“This place is famous,” he says; pointing to the open diner with rusting tin roofs.

FRIED CHICKEN PALACE, says a sign.

There is a long line of people waiting for their fried chickens. Most of them are also taking a break from the pubs. Some girls are wearing nothing more than silk mini-skirts and their bright colors contrasts sharply with the old city wall and the earthly slum nearby. Some men in shiny disco t-shirts are seen devouring chicken wings next to a pale old plaster wall; the paint is chipping off. There is a great sense of hunger in this place. “Blitz” ordered several fried sausages and chicken wings to go with the chili sauce and sticky rice.

“I’ve heard you just got back from Songkla?” he ask

“Yes, I’ve been attending the Lak Pra festival where hundreds of teenagers pulled a giant Buddha statue from the city center back to the temple.”

“You dig it?”

“Yeah, the atmosphere is just like here - at the Monkey Club - except for the deafening sound of firecrackers. They were specially made to be loud, you know.”

“Like our Fender amps,” says the guitarist.

“Yes, and they were made by the monks,” I agree.

“Most of the people who attended the Lak Pra festival are in their 20s.”

“They were there to have a good time eh?”

“It is a spiritual experience,” I say.

A gaunt and grumpy waitress – probably in her early 50s - appears with 2 trays of fired chicken wings and sausages. She casts the tray aside over the table in a carefree manner and walks away. There is a certain directness about her that one cannot find in expensive restaurants. A long line of hungry customers could be seen waiting to order their late night meals.

“That’s Noi, she lives here next to the city wall,” says the guitarist.

“You mean the waitress?”

“Yeah, she lives in the slum, but it’s not really a slum, you know. The houses are nice and the people there are nice. They’re just squatters.”

“I’ve heard the department of Historic Preservation is having some problem with the squatters?”

“Yeah, they want them to move at least 3 meters away from the old walls; it’s impossible you know, some houses were built right on top of the wall!”

“How old is the wall?”

“At least 700 hundreds years old,” says the guitarist as he bites off a large chunk of chicken wing.

“Dude, how do you know all about this?” I ask in amazement.

“My dad used to work with the squatters; they called him ‘doctor’ but he’s not really a doctor you know; he just knew a few rudimentary medical treatments. Back then, there were no western doctors, and if you have some knowledge of traditional herbal medicine, the villagers would call you ‘doctor’.”

“He plays guitar too?” I ask.

“Yeah, he does. He’s from the 60s, you know; everyone played guitar then. He worked as a civil servant for the government; looked just like ‘Serpico’ with his beard. But his dream was to become a guitarist; it didn’t happen then because, you know, guitarists were seen as people who hangout on the fringe of society. And you can’t just work for the government during the day and play in a nightclub at night; people might think that you’re trying to organize some subversive activities. Those were the times of Maoist insurrection - the jungle people.”

“So he passes on his dream to you,” I observe.

“Sort of. Being a guitarist today is different; it’s like holding a public office – or even more so. You have to be a people person. You have to know the crowd and how to weave their dreams into music. I like talking to people and listening to their stories,” he says.

“In America, throughout the 60s and the 70s, it’s the guitarists who help ended the Vietnam War and raised new political consciousness among the young,” he continues. “Bob Marley, Bob Dylan, John Lennon, and Jimi Hendrix…you know. They strided around like a revolutionary with their electric guitars; they commanded millions of followers; they created dreams and utopia for them. Their concerts were instant cities; many thousands people gathered together to end the war and called for peace. There were no laws and regulations in these ‘cities’, no government, no crime, and plenty of love,” says “Blitz” as he signals the gaunt waiter. “Can I have the check please?”

I glance at the old city wall and the slums community near it; some tents and poster boards are being set up near the wall.

“Are they having a festival or something?” I ask.

“I don’t know, we can check with uncle Tongkum; he is the chairman of this slum association. He usually sits at this coffee stand near the main road; it opens at 5:30 AM, only 1.5 hours from now,” says the guitarist.