War Party

Every ‘Cool Kid’ has been saying I should make a pilgrimage to Cassette, but I’m starting to wish I hadn’t listened. Every punter in the place is throwing themselves willy nilly in front of my companion sister Alexandra’s camera – they seem to be under the illusion that we are here to publish these images in some rag’s social pages, accompanied by witty captions in praise of the scene. Sorry muppets. 
Actually, the club is more impressive when it’s empty. The decor is really quite striking, capitalising on the notion that the ’90s are now ‘retro’ in (dare I say it) almost tasteful and definitely wonderfully creative fashion. But in full swing, stuffed to the gunwales with town rats, the music is terrible and far too loud, the smoking balcony cramped and the clientele trashy – I must fight my way to the edge in order to breathe some air, ducking and diving to avoid getting stabbed in the eye with Marlboro Lights. Someone even ashed down the back of my surplice in the confusion. 
In fairness, Cassette is packed to full capacity on a Wednesday night and the queue is stretching down the street, patiently waiting in the pouring rain for a chance to be seen inside. Clearly, the bar appeals to this demographic; and by appearances it’s a demographic that spends, so full marks for something, sure, but I won’t be coming back. As my companion put it: “It’s like the indies became the preppies of Auckland… and this is where they come to breed.”
Good business if you can get it.