The Irish Club was situated above the Hillbrow Squash Courts, on the corner of Pretoria and Edith Cavell streets. There was no signboard. No fluorescent lights. No indication to the casual passerby that there was anything at all above the courts. Except maybe for the rabble spilling out onto the street in between sets, a heaving, sweating mass of hair and tattoos, denim and leather.
The Irish had started out as a social hangout for Hillbrow’s Irish community, but had somehow been taken over by the metal crowd. Friday nights, it was a bar. You could take along your favourite tapes, and listen to them while having a drink or two with your mates. But on Saturdays…
On Saturdays there was a stage built out of beer crates. Two or three of the heaviest bands in Jo’burg would be sure to turn up. There had been festivals, starting early in the day, where a dozen or more bands would gig one after the other, through to the small hours of Sunday morning. Viking had played a few times. Strider. Lynx. Desecrated Altar. Helter Skelter. 2 Dogs Funking. The Blast. And the fans would come swarming from all around.
Ragnarok was on stage now, all attitude and swagger, ripping through a GBH cover. Everybody loved Ragnarok. Loud as fuck, no posing, hair flying as they banged their way through the set. And they’d brought their fans with them, bouncing around in the moshpit, waving their beers in the air and playing air-guitar.
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