12. Romanowski

12. Romanowski

When I got to San Francisco I quickly decided that Romanowski was my guy. He played clubs, for sure, but he also kept turning up as the DJ at the kind of loft/warehouse/art gallery scene that made me feel like I needed surgery for artificial coolness implants. And Roman was cooler than even that school: crate-diggin’ at the back, louche, skinhead and lanky in a wifebeater and baggy jeans, seemingly oblivious to the ecstatic creativity bobbing and weaving with his every cut and blend.

There were a lot of these parties in San Francisco before internet money fucked everything up, and each seemed to outdo the previous. It was my mission in life, at 25, not to miss any of them. The best of them all was in a converted space – I suppose somebody actually lived there? – above a petrol station in the south of market district. By the time I got there at the unfeasibly early hour of 11pm Roman already had them in full sway. Getting from one side of the … apartment? Art gallery? Squat? … to the other was a 20-minute journey through a forest of elbows, but eventually the whole place became one big dancefloor, so wiggle room became less important. I was parked next to the keg of beer, and in what can only be described as a singularity, Romanowski’s explosive deployment of ‘Funky Kingston’ coincided with the beer running out and the heat levels in the joint reaching intolerability.

I was desperate for three things: 1. Air. 2a. More Romanowski 2b. A continued supply of booze. I recognized that 2a and 2b were both equally critical to the continuation of the vibe, but subservient to need 1. Thinking on my feet, I spotted an untouched bottle of gin on the mantelpiece, swiped it, and headed outside for a breather. I was not alone – a stream of people, peaking post-Toots, followed me out. But as I had the bottle with me, I was confident that my re-entry would be a successful one. I had visions of myself as the conquering hero, pouring neat gin into punters’ mouths as they danced to rare groove.

Unfortunately, this particular petrol station was across the street from the San Francisco City Police Headquarters and County Jail, and just as the motley crew piled out of the door, three patrol cars on their way home stopped at the light in front of the building. The party people around me scattered guiltily and ran, for reasons unclear. There stood I on Bryant Street, alone, a large open container in my hand, and three of SF’s finest looking to make their arrest quota for the night.

That was my first and hopefully last night spent in jail. For those of you who haven’t been, let me dissuade you: it’s a terrible place. I spent the night cowering in the corner of the cell as massive, angry drunks hurled lunchmeat from the ‘free’ sandwiches at each other and vomited near, but never in, the open toilet. I never slept a wink, fearing I’d miss the moment that they’d come round to tell me I could go.

And damn. I missed the rest of Romanowski’s set.

http://www.mixcloud.com/ROMANOWSKI/old-rski-party-mix/