Is it time to hang up my dancing shoes?

WHEN I was 17, my two older sisters thought it was time to introduce me to "the nightlife".
As both my sister have very different musical tastes and also very protective, my initiation to this wonderful new world took two very different forms.
My eldest sister took me to watch some live Jazz at the Basement. I clearly remember freaking out that I was going to be asked for ID ( I was still only 17) and we would unceremoniously be rejected at the door despite my horrendously applied make-up. Why did I think bright red lipstick and fucshia eye-shadow would make me look older?
My stressing was for naught as my sister paid the cover, our wrists stamped and we were ushered into the dark club.
Instantly I was transfixed by the sounds, the smells, the clatter at bar, the myterious dark nooks were strangers were intertwined.
I felt as I had been given the key to a secret lair, one that has always been there but hidden and invisible from my young-adult eyes. I felt sophisticated, grown up.
Instantly I was besotted. And so began my love affair with live music.
Vince Jones was the act. I'd never seen the trumpet played live before. My sister had a big crush on him. As he got on stage, people extinguished their cigarettes (n.b back it the 90s, smoking was allowed in clubs. Vince Jones was probably one of the first who demanded a smoke-free environment at his gigs).
I was enthralled, but looking around at the 'cool crowd' I realised I'd have to mask my awe and transformed my 'eyes-ago and wide-open mouthed look' into one of cool indifference and nonchalance.
18 years later I still get a rush when I descend those stairs (although the venue has changed a bit ) and scope out the posters plastering the walls.
While I've seen some awesome acts there - including Sheila E - my biggest regret is not seeing Prince at the Basement. He preformed a 'secret' after show in 2003. I hate that I missed it.

My second intitiation by my slightly wilder sister was at a nightclub on Oxford street called DCMs. It was notorious for drugs and had the best techno music. It attracted people from all walks of life and was THE place to be seen.
Again, I was shit scared (being under-age) and terrified I'd be laughed at. I borrowed my sister's electric blue boob-tube and vinyl black pants. My sister was uber-cool and she just grabbed my hand, shot the beefy bouncers a look of disdain and walked in.
To say this was a culture shock would be an understatement. I was hit with a tidal-wave of bass, strobe lights pierced me tempting me to have a seizure. The concrete ground was sticky and my vision was obstructed by billows of cigarette smoke.
With a cigarette dangling from her mouth, my sister jumped on a podium and dragged me up. I had no idea what to do. So I danced.
Now, growing up in my naive sheltered little world, I thought when you went out to clubs, guys asked you to dance. Here, everyone danced alone. It was so liberating. As I looked around I saw girls with elfin haircuts dancing in circles. I saw Calvin Kline-esq shirtless guys with bleached hair and washboard abs adorned with body paint  dancing with glowsticks. I saw two guys kissing. This was a first for me to witness and I just stared and stared.  There were other firsts for me there including watching people do lines of coke, being offered 'E's' for $20 and dancing till I thought I'd collapse. We never, ever touched drugs, never drank a drop of alcohol, but smoked like chimneys. The water bottle was our best friend and so was the late-night pizza joint we would stop on the way home and inhale a family sized pizza in seconds.

The dichotomy of these two experiences was so vast. And yet, I loved both and loved that I had this special and unique relationships with both of my big sisters. How very fortunate I was - and still am.

Last weekend,  I went to the Basement. The familiarity was comforting and brought back a flood of memories. The fresh faced bouncer asked me if I'd been there before. Doing a quick calculation in my head, I laughed and said I'd been watching gigs there for 18 years. His retort,

"That's how old I am!"

I wanted to be swallowed up by my bar stool. I could feel every one of my 'smile-lines' rise up on my face like a road-map of my life. Had I become that 'old woman' we'd spot at nightclubs, sitting alone and laugh at when we were 18?
For a fleeting moment, I considered not going out to gigs anymore. It lasted but a second and was soon shaken off like the remnants of a bad dream.

However much longer I have on this planet, I'll slap on the make-up, strap on my highest heels and open my ears to the sounds that move my soul.