Underworld on Brighton Beach
Lager, lager, lager, shouting, Mega mega white thing, mega mega white thing. Yeah, fuck, that's it, isn't it? The beat thuds like a heartbeat, the bass a pulse in my veins. It’s relentless, pounding, all-consuming, as if the night swallowed the beach, the pier, the fucking whole of Brighton in one deep, dark gulp. I’m floating, no, fucking soaring—soaring on waves of sound and sea mist and, god, that sweet, sharp bite of cold night air. It stings. Feels good.
Shards of laughter cut through the music—there's Charlie, his teeth a brilliant slash of white in the dim, his laughter a match to the sparklers some kids are twirling by the railings. "Mate, this is fucking epic!" His words dissolve into the air, but the feeling, that fucking feeling sticks, thick as the mud squelching beneath my trainers.
And me? I’m shouting lyrics like they’re lifelines, "Shouting lager lager lager lager!" Me voice cracking up with the beat, cracking like the sea against the shore. Thump, thump, heartbeat, drumbeat. Every syllable a pulse that my brain catches and rides like a wave. Fizzing, my head's fizzing, neurons pop-pop-popping like the lights on the pier.
Colours blur. Everything’s a smear, the stage a burst of light, the crowd a painting half-finished, strokes of people, dashes of sound. Twisting, twirling, I’m a dervish, man, a fucking dervish spinning through it all. The lights, the sounds, the smells—fuck, even the sea smells sweeter tonight.
Then the shift, a gear change, a smooth transition into "Rez", and it's like we're all connected, every single fucked up soul on this beach, connected by an invisible thread, tugged by the same rhythm, the same beat. A new wave, and I’m riding it, I’m flying. The song builds, layers upon layers of synths like the waves on the sea, building, crashing, rebuilding.
Echoes around me, whispers of ecstasy, snippets of conversation that float by, carried on the breeze. "This is the best, man, the absolute best!" someone near me shouts over the music, and I nod, grin, fuck yeah it’s the best, we’re here, aren’t we? We're fucking here and alive and it’s beautiful. My thoughts skip, jump, syncopate with the rhythm, never settling.
“Rez” rises, it fucking ascends, and it’s like climbing, each note a step up, higher, higher, till it feels like we might just break through the fucking sky. The song's a crescendo, a peak, and I’m peaking, can feel every eye, every heart, every soul on this beach lifting with the music.
The music, the moment—it’s a living thing, an entity, and I’m just a part of it, a cell in its body. I laugh, shout, sing, scream—feel the chords vibrate in my chest, resonate, resonate, resonate till it feels like my heart might just burst with it all, with the sheer fucking glory of being here, now, in this sound, in this crowd, in this night.
The perspective of an older woman walking past
What the hell is that racket? The night was supposed to be a quiet one; just the whisper of the sea against the shore, maybe the distant laughter of some late-night wanderers. But this? This thunderous, thumping, thudding—god, what do they even call it? Music? It's more like a barrage, an assault on the senses, every beat a hammer against my skull.
I shuffle closer, curiosity a nagging itch beneath my skin, mingling with irritation. It’s bright down by Madeira Drive, lights strobing, pulsing, an erratic heartbeat of colour splashing against the night. Young bodies move like waves, undulating, a sea of limbs and heads bobbing to a rhythm that feels alien, aggressive. "Bloody noise," I mutter under my breath, hand clutching my coat tighter around my frame as if to shield myself from the onslaught.
The air is thick with it, the bass, the beat, the sheer, overwhelming volume of sound that seems to push against me physically. How can they stand it, enjoy it even? My head’s starting to throb, throb, throb in time with their damned music. There’s shouting, screaming, singing—lyrics that slip through the cacophony, something about lager and shouting and white things. Madness, it sounds like pure madness.
I keep walking, feet drawn almost against their will toward the source of the din. It’s mesmerizing in a way, the energy, the euphoria that I can almost taste in the air, tinged with salt and that electric charge of youth I can barely remember. The crowd parts occasionally, and I catch glimpses of faces, young, so young, eyes wide, smiles wider. They’re lost in it, whatever it is, this pounding, pulsing beat.
A woman beside me, barely in her twenties, catches my eye and grins, a wild, ecstatic grin. “Isn’t it amazing?” she yells over the noise, and I just blink at her, baffled. Amazing? More like overwhelming, overpowering, over everything. I nod, though, can’t muster the energy to argue. What would be the point? She’s swept away before I can form words, drawn back into the swirling, swaying mass.
I feel a sudden, inexplicable pang, a twinge of something like longing, mixed with a hefty dose of disdain. To be that young, that uninhibited, that ridiculously carefree... and yet, thank god I’m past all that, past the need to fling myself into the fray. I edge away, back towards quieter streets, the sound gradually diminishing, though the thud, thud, thud of the bass lingers, a ghostly echo in my chest.
Quiet returns like a slow, spreading calm, but inside, there’s a restlessness, a disquiet I can’t quite shake. What the fucking noise indeed, but part of me, a tiny, traitorous part, wonders what it would be like to just let go, to dive into that sea of sound and lose myself, just once. But no, not tonight. Tonight, I walk away.