Freeze Frame by Sam 8

Wouldn’t you be happy to pick up 8 tickets to Animania from the post office? We were, ready and packed with ten rolls of film two writers, two photographers and one contest winner in the car. Find parking, find bathroom, run towards the music, run to the party. And so we did; through dirty streets and narrow alleys of downtown LA, towards the expanse of the huge lot that held Animania. Stepping out of the serpentine brick buildings a hidden valley opened up in front of me. Bordered by abandoned warehouses, some intact, some partially demolished, reflecting the huge spotlights shining from the four corners. Big Top Circus tents are illuminated in the center of the field, vibrating with the base notes, steaming from the heat and commotion stirring inside. Hundreds of people scuffle around at the front, not yet ready to begin to party and dance. With the "Try Jungle Free" sign we walk through the gates of Animania.

The lot was filled with rocks that were not cleared, tarps set right over the rocks did not prove too friendly to dancers. The lot was covered with a thick layer of dust, all though at the beginning of the night it was watered down to make the dust settle, by the middle of the party the dust dried up and rose high above the tents mixing in with the midnight sky, suffocating all those inside the tents, creeping into the lungs and mouth, making everyone sound and feel like fifty-year-old chain smokers.

Two aluminum arcs rose from the middle of the dusty floor and criss-crossed at the center. Light and lasers sprouted like branches and flashed upon the crowed as if by the force of autumn wind. Looking straight through the arc one could see the stage, bordered by stacks of black speakers. At the front of the stage, dancing was the Animania girl surrounded by her guardian dancers. Her pink silver mini skirt and tank top hugged her smooth bronze skin, while her pink hair flew from side to side as she danced. She took hold of a mesmerized Kande Kid by his pacifier, separated by a guardrail she pulled herself towards him and gave him a peck on the lips, he melted like a Hershey bar on a stove.

Two thirty a.m. and the turntables are no longer in motion, yet the speakers are still vibrating with melodies. Two musicians are up on the stage. They are working together yet separate, one is staring into the laptop while another rummages through hundreds of CDs. Music intertwines and blends together. The musician with short hair at the laptop sits with one ear on the Headphone, striking keys at the synthesizers next to him punching in new beats and melodies even with every base note. Suddenly everything abruptly ends and he with his partner gets up and bows down to the crowd. The crowd will not accept. They did not come for a concert they came to dance. “One more song!” They screamed, they were not prepared to stop dancing.

Doc Martin was forced off stage, a few DJs never even showed up, bass never even hit the mid range inside the Jungle Cage, yet no one was ready to leave. A man with a goatee stepped up and spoke to the crowed, he told them to keep the noise down while a master MC stepped up and brought out some scratch records. His fingers lay upon the records, etching grooves inside it with the needle, beets and music escaped but only by the will of his hands. As he scratched, the crowd disappeared, no noise no whisper was heard, the booming of the trance in the next tent no longer existed, just him and his record was all that was there. Flashes went off smiles and awing glances
went from face to face, yet this short Asian man stood at the tables alone with his records. He did what he loved, he did what no one else could, he did what his talent let him, he made noise sound like music.

Three gorgeous maids stood behind Diesel Boy. Tastefully dressed with a single beautiful ornament in their hands, strapped around their necks. A styling black camera was in each of their hands. They looked at the site in front of them not confident enough to start taking pictures, not sure whether they were allowed to. Lights flashing, dust rising, hands wailing it all seemed like so much, and then when they could no longer accept that idle lack of action on their part, they popped off the lens caps, armed the flashes and just as a firing squad snapped shots of the room, no action no light no act escaped their trained eye, their pinpoint accuracy and precision. Harsh conditions did not matter, set aperture, focus, rule of thirds, compose the frame, how is the lighting, take the picture and advance the film. Snap, snap, snap, snap. Reload the film.

Ice flew through the air shattering on my shoulder, bouncing in flew across another guys neck until it finally hit the intended target’s hand. The officer looked back with a vicious stare, yet the plaintiff was lost in the multitude of heads that stood in the crowd. The music was over and the Mixmaster was forced to pack up his records. The crowd dispersed, four o’clock what a jip. Small pockets of party goers here and there were being screamed at by the scurrying officers. The criss-crossed archs still beaming lights inside the empty tent. Kids roaming the houseroom looking for dropped E. An old man, humped over with huge forceps picking up a piece of paper from the sea of trash layered on the ground and placing it into his black trashbag, All kids packing into their cars, yet they do not move since they’re not ready to leave. They talk, joke and laugh. It’s chaos, and at the same time it’s wonderful. A girl surrounded by her friends sings. She sings of her love for the world, her voice is beautiful and makes me forget all hate. Her voice summons all that is good, and makes me realize what Kande plur is really all about.