Trancemode Express 101 – Review

TranceMode Express 101

(Hypnotic)
by Valerie Smith

It was Friday night and my look was black. Freshly dyed hair, eyes lined inside and out, a diaphanous floor-length dress, and scuffed lace-up boots fit my look to perfection. A knock on the window signaled the time of my escape. Being 15 in the ’80s was a drag, but the guys were cool about it. Each was dressed in black with hair gelled, moussed and sprayed into place.

When we arrived at Xandra X, a new club we weren’t even close to being old enough to get into, we waited in the back of the parking lot until a group left. For a small bottle of tequila, they modeled the hand stamp while the artist in our group reproduced suitable copies with a marker. As we entered, fog was rolling through the dimly lit labyrinth revealing mirrored walls, black lights, and dance drums. Strobes illuminated bodies swaying to the Cure, disorientation the key. A Depeche Mode song began, and someone handed me a drink. I downed it and felt an immediate rush as I made my way downstairs.

I stumble through foggy rooms in search of the familiar, panic one step behind. The music sounds familiar yet alien. People begin to look different, older. Hair is uncombed, greasy, and knotted. Is that an earring in that girl’s tongue? There’s a guy with one in his nose and eyebrow! People are dancing, but it’s jerky, like marching marionettes. I move as one of the dead through room after room. I don’t belong here. The music haunts and taunts me with its strange familiarity. Where am I? I’m terrified yet floating on adrenaline.

A blond man in black approaches. Silently he hands me a drink. When I finish he takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor. My head clears of all thought. I’m left with sensations and images I’m unable to process so I let myself go. The music commands my body like the ballerina in the music box. I am a slave to its whims. The beat is my lifeline. My eyes fix on a couple that seem to following our lead. I move towards the woman. She moves towards me. I dance faster until I collide with her? Myself? A mirror. Standing, I see that my favorite boots have been replaced with shiny patent leather that goes up well past my knees. My dress has been transformed into the shortest, tightest black creation I have ever seen, and my hair is chaotic, rivaling Medusa’s snakes.

Music beckons while narcissism draws my eyes to my mirrored doppelganger. We dance until the fog obscures my vision and I collapse, exhausted in the corner. A familiar hand pulls me up and guides me towards the exit. While “Master and Servant” fades, the fresh air attacks our lungs and my head begins to clear. I look down and note that it might be time to replace my scuffed up boots. Maybe with something in patent leather…