Nothing good ever happens after 6 AM. Daft Punk looked at the postparty snapshot through rose-tinted glasses when they said “We are up all night to get lucky”. In reality, we are up all night to turn up for that thing we have an ill-fated and intensely lustful relationship with – the afterparty.
We have all fallen victim to the croaky voice inside our heads telling us that the night is still young – even though the DJ dropped his last tune and the club threw in the ‘lights on’ card. There is nothing left to do but raise our hand when a shenanigan from the smoking area asks “Afterparty, anyone?”.
A couple of hours later, you are in a dilapidated apartment, feeling like that 7 AM shop trip for canned beers happened ages ago. Sleep deprivation is so bred-in-the-bone that you’ve been hearing your body desperately asking for nutrients in the past 10 minutes.
The only thing sporadically descending over that repetitive Boiler Room mix is an obnoxious snorting sound. In this narcotized mise en scène, one thing is for sure – none of this should practically, legally, or theoretically be happening.
Due to the precarity of this post-night-out ecosystem, you will ask yourself a) how the hell you got there, b) what is going on, and c) who are these keta-couched, balloon-sucking, semi-paralyzed lost souls in front of you.
While we aren’t mentally prepared to uncover the mysteries hovering over the first two points, here is a rundown of the most prominent personas you will encounter at the afterparty.
It all starts with a reticent voice uttering, “Wait, wait; you have to listen to this tune, man.” Your mouth dries and your eyes get wobbly when you see this wanna-be DJ tap on a YouTube video boasting a kooky artist name and 600 views. Nothing good ever comes out of this deleterious combination.
When the main party curtain falls, a music aficionado always perceives the sacred afterparty as the perfect setting to live his 15 minutes of fame. In a “pick me girl” attempt, the unwanted DJ will monopolize the sound system – AKA the JBL speaker – while pitching his music mix concept to a deeply confused audience.
What kicks off as a seemingly curated playlist of industrial techno labels will hastily shift into a chaotic psychedelic-dubstep-acid-house track selection. At the end of the traumatic set, you will understand why some people don’t deserve the AUX.
Easily the most patronizing, sinister, and exhilarating presence in the room, this notable afterparty character is always up to something. Going on a journey to meet up with the candy man, vegging out key-holed in the grottiest corner of the apartment, planting the seeds of mindless, beautiful destruction in the minds of the others – you name it.
He might seem like a prototypical junkie, but he is much more than that. He is a visionary – an entrepreneur, if you will – whose only mission is to shoot the afterparty into the stratosphere. His business model consists of snorting anything that could feasibly go up a human nose and bringing everybody down the rabbit hole with him.
To top it off, it seems like he attended the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A pure Slytherin, his staple Patronus makes industrial amounts of ket, coke, and a weird yellow powder from the tobacco-encrusted living room table disappear like magic.
When you finally leave, he is still going on the gear, dancing in what looks like a summoning demons ritual. His face has now been replaced with a shapeless mass of shuddering muscles. This one is living proof that some people’s party stamina lasts from 3 to 5 working days.
A somewhat controversial figure in the afterparty autonomy, the newcomer is easy to catch sight of. He is your average partygoer who said yes to the post-night out bender in an act of self-destructive rebellion.
Whenever someone asks him for a key or banknote, this seemingly harmless soul looks miffed by how everyone at the afters is so straightforward about wanting to rob him and break into his house.
Despite his obvious reluctance to cohabit with a bunch of people who munch their gums off like it’s their religion, he carries on pacing around the drug-fuelled frenzy. Coming off the first half pill he ever stomached, this rookie is willing to experiment with whatever the afterparty has in store.
He innocuously giggles when someone says the dealer is on the way. Poor soul, he has no clue how barbaric coming down symptoms can get.
An afterparty gang is not fully wrapped up without its keta-couched character. Having consumed way too much ketamine for his own good but not enough to savor the afterparty’s bitter-sweet taste, the keta-couched is nothing more but an absent-minded pleb.
Characterized by always having ketamine in the depth of their jeans’ pockets, this seasoned veteran is your one-way ticket to a K hole. Whatever you tell him, you will receive a piteous shrug in response. Not because he is part of the antisocial club, but because his motor skills can’t go further than that.
Judging by its full-on burrito mode, the keta-couched wants to be anywhere but at that pitiful post-night-out gathering. While staring blankly at his afterparty companions, he pictures himself tucked in his sweet-smelling bed.
That goal is not that hard to achieve – he just needs to abandon his beloved afters couch and leave. But his drug of choice is horse tranquilizer, so there is no way that will be physically happening.
Typically the anchor of a group with drug problems and poor decision-making skills, the mom is the caring soul who prematurely cleans up the empty beer cans instead of having fun.
“Would you like some of this dusty bottle of no-name vodka?”, “Do you need to go to the bathroom?” and “Want another line?”. Those are the questions she will casually throw in her grumbling about how the keta-couched should put his baggie away.
The token mom is permanently checking up on everybody, giving extra attention to the first-timer while trying to snatch the unwanted DJ’s phone. This dope head version of the house party host ensures the afterparty ecosystem won’t be perturbed by a vomiting session or someone accidentally tripping balls on LSD.