Bassiani is a club in Tbilisi. Some say it’s the best techno club in the world. It was founded 9 year ago in the empty swimming pool of the city’s soccer stadium. The stadium is a relic of Tbilisi’s Soviet past, a gigantic concrete monument to the once-command economy.
Today is the season closing of Bassiani. It’s the biggest party in Georgia. All week, every Georgian I’ve met has encouraged me to go to this party. Bassiani closes over the summer because most Georgians leave during August and return in September. Therefore, for seven weeks, the Bassiani main room will be closed, only leaving the smaller room open once a week. The party starts on Friday at midnight and continues for 24 hours. I have been advised to arrive in the morning, to beat the rush and see the three Georgian DJs all playing together at midday on Saturday. On Friday, I go to sleep early to prepare my body for the day ahead.
The sun shines through my blindfold. I’m covered in sweat. I run my hand over my eyes to wake myself up. I check my phone. 6:32 AM. Earlier than I hoped. I get up and go to the bathroom, stepping over my clothes and the spare coins that are scattered around the room. I enter the bathroom and step into the shower. I let the warm water flow over my head. I run my hand over the small sprouts of hair that grew overnight. I stay in the shower for a while, reflecting on my week in Tbilisi, thinking about the job applications I didn’t send, missing my friends in New York, and imagining the day ahead. I step out of the shower, transforming the bathroom into a makeshift swimming pool. I brush my teeth with my old electric toothbrush. I dab my head with shaving cream and gently glide my razor over the stubble. I usually do this with music playing, but given what the day has in store, I do it in silence.
I look fresh and well-rested; the bags under my eyes are the smallest they’ve been all week. Last night, I went to dinner with family friends, two girls aged 14 and 19. They’re sweet and, for all intents and purposes, are my cousins. We went to a high-end Georgian restaurant where we enjoyed a classic Georgian feast, filled with bread, cheese, bean cakes, soup dumplings, and barbecued meat. However, unlike most Georgian feasts, I was the adult here, and I decided not to drink. For the first time in a week, I hadn’t woken up hungover.
I finish shaving and put on my clothes. I select a white tank top, my black Carhartt cargo pants, and my old New Balances with a hole by the left pinky toe. Draped on my shirt are a pair of construction worker sunglasses. I need to appear like a raver, not intimidating. I have to fit in at the club. I can’t risk being rejected like last week. I know Americans are generally welcomed here, I know they aim to filter out the Russians and the homophobes, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m entering a space where I don’t entirely belong, that I’m a guest and might not gain access to this sacred place.
I only take the essentials: my ID, credit card, earplugs, keys, cigarettes, and lighter. I don’t smoke, but everyone else does; having a cigarette or a lighter is the easiest way to make friends in Tbilisi. I glance outside from my balcony. It’s 7:02. The weather is perfect. The sun is dutifully rising over the mountains, with the clouds providing shade to the new, modern buildings. Unlike most days, there’s no traffic on the roads, bestowing an eerie silence on the area, a silence I know will not persist for long.
I order a Bolt, the Georgian equivalent of Uber. An old car with Russian plates pulls up, driven by a man who looks even older. I climb into the vehicle. The driver seems Russian, so I greet him in his language; he responds in kind, and we don’t exchange another word. The car, which is nearly falling apart, begins its journey toward the stadium. The roads are completely empty, and we glide along the smooth asphalt. There’s no music playing in the car, and we sit in silence. The city is beautiful at this time of day, utterly deserted. I’m unsure what to expect from the day. I visited Bassiani once before, three years ago, but had to leave early because my friends got too drunk, and it fell to me to get them home. I’m more experienced now. I was a DJ in NYC for a year, attending shows in almost every club, playing at strange warehouses filled with even stranger crowds. I’ve been to Berlin, London, Madrid, experiencing the best clubs they have to offer. As we drive, I ponder what could happen today: will it live up to my expectations? Do I even have any expectations? I’m not sure, but the sound of the car floating on the road is somewhat unsettling knowing what I will be exposed to soon.
We arrive at the stadium. I thank the driver and get out. There’s a stream of people, zombies dressed in all black, leaving the stadium. Drained and ragged, they look like they’ve been dancing for years rather than hours. Holes in their shoes, mouths franticly chewing gum, and dozens of thousands yard stares. I approach the entrance. There are three points of entry, each one a potential point of denial.
I get to the front of the line. The man before me is a giant. At 6'5" tall and nearly double my width, he asks for my ID in Georgian and tells me to look up at the camera above him. This is the first level of face control, the toughest one to get through. The camera isn’t real, and he’s not speaking to anyone via the mic on his shoulder. He’s merely observing how I respond to his request, buying him a few extra seconds to decide whether I should be allowed into the club. He nods at me, signalling that I’m permitted in.
A second man approaches me; I’ve seen him before at a different nightclub in Tbilisi, TES. He’s shorter, completely bald, covered in tattoos, and dressed entirely in black. He asks, “You know no cameras, no photos?” I respond affirmatively. He doesn’t put a sticker on my phone as I expected. I detest cameras in clubs. I believe they’ve ruined most of NYC nightlife. A camera is the quickest way to spoil a night for everyone in the room. When you’re aware that someone could be filming, you can’t let go of the social constraints you carry throughout the day. Because everyone is now a solo documentarian, we live in a new panopticon where every decision is permanent and recorded, where nothing out of line can be said or done.
Having cameras in a nightclub is a problem in New York and Berlin because it makes parties less fun, but it serves a completely different purpose in Georgia. Georgia is a small, conservative, family-based country. Tbilisi, its capital, is populated by about one million people, roughly the same population as San Jose. Everyone seems to know everything about everyone else. The social graph in this city is tight-knit; no one is more than a single phone call away. Couple this with the fact that Georgia is an extremely divided country—with an older, more conservative, anti-LGBT faction standing in stark contrast to a younger, more tolerant European-leaning population—and conflict is inevitable. The door policy in Tbilisi is not just about maintaining good “vibes,” as it might be in the west but about ensuring safety. The level of homophobia in the country is palpable, and the influence of Russian agents and funding exacerbating the situation through Facebook propaganda doesn’t help. Just recently, the Tbilisi Pride parade was marred by a violent gang attack. So, as I pass through door control, it feels more like entering a sanctuary than a club.
The final check is for weapons. I’m patted down lightly to ensure I’m not carrying guns or knives; because I’m American, the search isn’t as thorough as it might be for others. Once stamped, I finally enter the courtyard of the club. It’s 7:44 a.m., and the sun is fully out, shining down on the adjacent soccer stadium. I see a sea of people smoking, chatting, and lounging on the concrete outside. The crowd is diverse: young and old, those in tattered shirts and others in polos, some looking nearly lifeless as the blood drains from their cheeks and their eyes roll back in their heads, and fresh-faced newcomers like me. I don’t see anyone I recognise, so I head downstairs to the club entrance.
Avoiding the people smoking on the stairs, I descend. Veering left, I head toward the main room—the one I visited three years ago, before COVID-19, before graduation, before my breakup, before I made the decision to move to Georgia. I contemplate how much I’ve changed, while this place has remained largely the same. There are no windows down here; it’s the darkest room I’ve ever set foot in. The darkness is jarring, gnawing at your core; all you can make out are the flickers of lighters and the whites of people’s eyes, like ghosts floating down a hallway.. I begin to walk towards the music.
I follow the flow of ravers towards the main room. The music is getting louder. I don’t hear any kick drums, just waves of pads and slight high hats. The darkness breaks as I see the few but harsh lights of the main room. The space is enormous, the dance floor, a former swimming pool, fits almost 1,500 people, and it’s completely full at 8am. It must be a musical interlude because it’s soft and ambient and the tension of the room fills up. Everyone on the floor is swaying back and forth. The people on the walkway above look down at us below. I make my way into the middle of the dance floor as the pace of the music starts to pick up. The sea of bodies starts to go into high tide as the percussion starts to get louder. Then suddenly, as if an atomic bomb was detonated in the club, the next song comes on, and everyone goes into a frenzy. I feel the kick drum punch through my stomach as the lights start to strobe red. Everyone starts moving their bodies as if they are possessed. I feel my chest move back and forth with the groove. My feet move without my control, and as quickly as I entered, I am completely engulfed in the crowd. I have no agency and I am just one of the many specks of dust in this whirlwind of movement and music.
There is no time in Bassiani, it could be 7am or 5pm, there is no way to tell. I feel as if I am Georgian, dancing with everyone, as one collective body. People in NYC and Berlin dance for recreation, people in Georgia dance to escape. They dance to escape the economy and $800 average monthly wage. They dance to escape their parents, as almost all young people can’t afford to live on their own. They dance to escape the conservative nature of the country and intense homophobia. They dance to escape the Russian invasion of their country and the possibility of Russian liberation arriving soon. But on the dance floor, there is no economy, there are no parents, there is no Russian invasion, there is just dance.
I decided to move to Georgia for adventure, to find myself. I feel 21 but I’m 23. I feel COVID took two years away from me. While I’m not lost, I am not found. In crowded NYC subways or in the libraries of Columbia, I felt alone, as if I didn’t fit in and as if I needed more time. But on the floor of Bassiani, with the kick drums cutting through my chest, with the soles of my shoes disintegrating, I feel at home. I don’t need more time, because there is no time, only rhythm. I understand what it means to dance to escape, and I understand what it feels like to be a young Georgian. The only difference is that I can go back to America anytime I want. They cannot.
I exit the dance floor, drenched in sweat and reeking of cigarette smoke. My night is only beginning, so I head to the second dance floor. Located across the club and up the stairs, it’s called Horoom and is a smaller, more intimate venue, accommodating around 150 people. Upon entering, one is enveloped by sound, courtesy of one of the world’s best sound systems - it engulfs you like a warm blanket rather than hammering you like a sledgehammer. The room is densely packed, the biggest party of the year is in full swing, and everyone seems to be there. Through the haze of smoke, littered cigarette butts, and weary eyes, I make my way to the second room in Horoom. This room is a chic bar adorned with cozy couches and mesmerising lamps. Contrary to the dance floor in Horoom, which has some light leaking through the shuttered windows, there is no light here at all, causing all sense of time to evaporate. I decide to visit the bathroom.
The party has been going on for 8 hours and the bathroom is crammed with people. Tbilisi can be oppressively hot in the summer and the sun is now shining on this concrete dungeon, essentially baking everyone inside. The club provides some respite with air-conditioning, but the bathrooms act like a steam room. Waiting for a stall to open, I start to sweat profusely. I joke about the sauna-like conditions to a group of Georgians next to me, saying we are in the Bassiani banya - they laugh, wiping sweat from their brows.
A metal door swings open and four people emerge from a stall, their pupils the size of quarters. I claim the now vacant stall. Upon entering, I realise this might be the most disgusting place I’ve encountered. The toilet is nearly broken and simultaneously overflowing, and the temperature inside is scorching. I conduct my business and exit as quickly as possible.
Feeling too sober to process this scene, I decide I need a drink. At the bar, I order a chacha red bull. Chacha, the national distilled beverage similar to vodka but often stronger, seems appropriate at 8:30 a.m., which might as well be 11 p.m. The bartender pours what may be the strongest drink I’ve ever seen. The lighter house music playing in this section of the club has me swaying, and I notice a few patrons dancing in a designated space, lost in their own worlds, oblivious to anything beyond the music.
With drink in hand, I make my way outside, carefully manoeuvring through the sea of people. The morning sun hits my eyes like a wrecking ball, and it’s only then that I grasp the sheer absurdity of it all. Spotting a friend from Paris who’s vacationing in Tbilisi, I greet him in French. When I ask how long he’s been at the party, he tells me since 4 a.m. His fatigue is evident, he’s drenched in sweat. We exit the club and hang out in the adjacent concrete parking lot. Re-entry is allowed, so we can return whenever we want. There, I also see Miriam, a young Georgian woman I met at another club earlier in the week. She’s decked out in fur boots and a Y2K mesh top.
As the outside temperature soars, we sit and hydrate. Being the only American, I’m also the only one not smoking. Mariam introduces me to her friends, ringing off their names in rapid succession. I share that I just graduated and am set to be a math teacher in Tbilisi for a year. They seem impressed and pleased that some local students will have a ‘cool’ teacher.
One man particularly stands out. He’s broad and has nearly orange hair - he has an American look to him. After introducing myself, it becomes clear from his accent that he’s Georgian. Covered in tattoos and possessing a grip like a vise, he stares me down. When I ask how long the party will continue, he informs me the Georgian DJs will come on at midday and play for as long as they can - another 8 to 10 hours. When I ask if he’ll be here until the end, he shoots me a look and says, “Of course.”
I decide to make my way back into the club. I show my wrist stamp and re-enter. There are somehow even more people in the opening area. The air is 50% cigarette smoke at this point. It dawns on me that this is a real Georgian club. Unlike in NYC/Berlin/London, which all are international club scenes that draw people from all over the world, today at Bassiani is almost entirely Georgian. This club serves as a space for them, for Georgians of all different backgrounds, united by the unrelenting sound of techno. I go inside the main room. The music is even harder than before. I am again taken control of by the bass. I release all autonomy, and lose myself to dance.
I look around and remember how this felt three years ago and how much I know now. So much of techno around the world is fake. It’s a charade to make people seem like they are at the edge of culture, but they are in the centre of it. Most New York parties are rave Disneylands, acting as the punks the rebels but being safe for everyone involved, and you can’t blame anyone in the NYC scene for this. Life is good in America and Germany. We have problems with our government, economy, and crime, but on the whole life is good. We don’t have to worry about invasion, zero growth, and corruption. We are lucky and privileged, thus our parties reflect that. Here in Bassiani, it is different, we are at the end, the global periphery of music. Things here are real. The dancers are real, they dance to escape. The camera policy is real, to prevent violence. The industrial Soviet nature of the club is real because we are in Georgia, reeling from the effects of Communism. Everything here is real.
It’s the 9th season of Bassiani, almost a decade of revolutionary raves. The club’s existence is by no means guaranteed. In 2018, after a string of overdose deaths, the police raided the club with hundreds of armed men. This was shocking for everyone in the country and prompted the so-called rave revolution in which over 100,000 people protested with an outdoor rave outside the parliament building.
While the music gets harder, and dancers get more feral, I think about this generation of ravers. I think about the 18-year-olds who just started going out, to the 30-year-olds in the twilight of their dancing careers, but looking around I see people of all ages. Unlike NYC, Tbilisi is not as youth-obsessed, music is enjoyed by a certain but incredibly diverse part of the population. I continue to dance, becoming more and more free. As my feet move, I enter a meditative state, I think about what my friend from college said to me, “New York has given you this brain rot, you need to snap out of it”. As I dance more and more and feel ever more free, I can’t help but to agree with him. Every place has its own logic, and New York is built on money, sex, and power, where the ideal combination is a maximum of all three. Since returning to New York from Columbia, I’ve become obsessed with my job, my appearance, and my future to a point in which I have completely lost the present moment. But on the dance floor, there is no future, there is no past, just a smokey-dark room with the best techno in the world blaring from the speakers. As another bead of sweat breaks on my face, I realise that I’m happy. For the first time in a long time, I am happy. I am happy that I decided to come to Georgia, I am happy that I’m dancing, I am happy that I am free. I continue to dance.
I take a break from dancing and head to the courtyard. I see a Danish guy that I had met at another bar on Thursday. He’s skinny with bleach-blond hair, covered in thin tattoos that make him look like he’s just been struck by lightning. I offer him a cigarette and we chat. We talk about how good the club is, what life is like in our respective countries, and how much we love Georgia. He tells me he’s working at a school and never went to college, and how it’s very possible to make a decent wage in Denmark without a degree. I can’t help but think about how different his life is from mine. In my upper-middle-class New York Jewish upbringing, I could never imagine not going to college. In fact, going to the best college was my life’s mission for almost 8 years to a point where I almost went crazy. As he continues to talk, I think about how much more diverse this courtyard is than Columbia, how similar yet different everyone here is, and how lucky I am to experience this at this moment.
I walk down to the entrance again, making my way to Horoom. The stairs are filled with smoking Georgians. I weave my way through, careful to avoid stepping on people’s fingers. I hear a lot of the Georgian language. I was exposed to Georgian through my childhood babysitter and her family. It’s so different from anything else on earth, with the guttural “Tsks” and “twrs”. It sounds like a verbal dance for which I know none of the moves. I go back inside the pitch-dark club to the smaller room.
I enter and the new DJ is playing lighter house music and everyone is overjoyed. It is euphoric. It’s 10:40 and it feels like time stands still. The energy is unparalleled; I have never experienced such euphoric moments. People are hanging from the supporting beams, dancing on the speakers, hugging, and kissing each other. I feel part of something, yet apart from everything. A song I don’t recognise plays, the lyrics just repeat with a steady house beat, “You are what you are, and I am what I am,” over and over again. I meet some Georgians briefly and we all start dancing together in an outburst of pure energy and love as if there are no wars, no conflicts, no inflation—just the beat.
While I am dancing, I start speaking with some Americans who live in Berlin. I tell them that I moved to Tbilisi and they say how awesome it is. I feel validated in my decision to be here. The Americans are tall, with black hair, the man looks like an actor or a football player. He buys me a gin Red Bull, a play on the awful but effective vodka Red Bull. The bartender pours another drink that is insanely strong, and then I see the bright orange liquid hitting the side of the glass. The American and I chat for a bit about how raw everything here feels, about how people are dancing like it is the end of the world. We dance a little more, and feel the bottoms of our sneakers disintegrate a little more. I finish my drink, chew the ice cubes, and go outside.
I make my way downstairs from Horoom, dodging the bodies that are on the stairs. I emerge into the light of the day. It’s only 10:32 and it feels like 2 am inside. I go to the chilling area where everyone is smoking. I rest on a wall as I feel vibrations from the bass on my back. A Georgian girl, small and thin, piercings lining her ears and face, tattoos lining her arms and chest, asks me for a cigarette. I hand her one and start talking. We talk about life in Georgia, how good the party is, how horrible life is, how there are too many Russians in Tbilisi, and how it’s too hot inside. I go on a rant about why Tbilisi is better than NYC for techno, and she interrupts me. She says she’s in an open relationship but her boyfriend is in front of her, drunk and hitting on another girl. She is visibly angry and intervenes. When I was in Georgia three years ago, no one ever spoke to me about an open relationship, it seems that western culture is seeping its way into Georgia, but with some friction. Georgia is a fundamentally conservative and family-based society and relationship structures that work in an atomised and individual-based country like the US or Germany fundamentally do not work here in Georgia. Things are too tight, everyone knows too much, you are never truly alone, just together with different people. It was clear that open relationships don’t work in Georgia.
I feel the Red Bull kick in, and I make my way to the bathrooms in the main building. I turn left and walk inside the entrance completely overflowing with people and step into the bathrooms. It’s so hot, I start sweating immediately. My face begins to melt, and I become light-headed. The bathrooms are huge, with over 12 stalls, all made of reinforced metal. There is no organisation, just a stew of people trying to find a stall. The sound of the doors slamming open and slamming shut sounds like a war. The clangs and booms come from all directions, coupled with the unintelligible Georgian language, I feel like I just arrived in hell. I try to find a toilet. A stall opens and 5 people tumble out. I grab the door and rush in, slamming it accidentally. As the metal clangs, it causes a ringing in my ear. The toilets are vile and the steam is somehow getting more dense. I use the bathroom and leave as soon as I possibly can.
I escape the bathroom and make my way towards the main room. The noise is already deafening. On the overhead section of the main room there is a small dancing floor that was a previous children’s pool. The space doesn’t feel DIY, the space is DIY. This is an old swimming pool, we are in a post-Soviet country, these people aren’t dancing for show, they are dancing for their lives. I go to the main floor for a couple of minutes but the music is too hard, so I go back to Horoom.
I make my way to Horoom, dodging the sea of smoking Georgians. There are even more people now, and every single square meter is filled. I was told because it’s the closing party, it’s the most crowded party of the year. I speak with some friends I met at the other club and I feel more and more Georgian. I sit down, hand out another cigarette, and complain about how hot it is before I head to the dance floor.
As I enter the blankness, I start to hear a remix of Justin Timberlake’s “I’m bringing Sexy Back”, and I am immediately transported to New York where I heard the same remix just a few months ago at a party in Brooklyn. It’s clear that Georgia is in the cultural grips of America and Russia is vying for control. But if you walk on the streets of Tbilisi, you will see McDonald’s, KFC, and Baskin Robbins - America is always seeking new markets. Part of this makes me sad, as if the uniqueness of Georgia is being replaced by the Brooklyn Airbnb base market aesthetic where everything is as un-unique as possible to be sellable to the most people. But another part of me realises that Georgia is not a playground for Western tourists and Georgians live here; they want the things we have in the West. They want KFC not because of American Imperialism but because KFC is cheap and delicious. I start to dance again as the music starts to change. I spot my American friends in the corner and we start to chat again.
We start talking about the differences between Berlin and Tbilisi and one thing comes up again and again - drugs. Berlin is a drug den. When I first visited the city, I was shocked by how readily available drugs are. With the right number, you could get drugs faster than you could get food. The drug market is so liquid and so free that Berlin is essentially a narco city, where the entire nightlife industry is propped up by meth, speed, and ketamine. Tbilisi couldn’t be further from this. Georgia has some of the strictest drug laws in the world. In my discussions with people, I have heard of DJs going to prison for 10 years for an empty drug bag, whereas in Berlin you could carry around a kilo of speed and not worry. My new American friends start talking about their experiences with drugs in Berlin and how it’s less fun because everyone is so high all the time. Berlin is a giant blender, feeding off the flesh of young ambitious artists, tearing them up with ungodly amounts of drugs, and spitting them out.
The Americans tell me about their life in Berlin, filled with polyamory, open relationships, drugs, and techno. While they are telling me this, I can’t help but think that the situation in Tbilisi is honestly more enjoyable. While the laws are too strong here, the presence of constraints gives people here freedom, whereas in Berlin, where people are completely free, they are slaves to their own desires The American man gives me a charcoal gum. I check my phone. It’s 12 pm, so the Georgian DJs are on. We get another gin Red Bull and make our way to the main dance floor.
On the main floor of Bassiani, the energy has shifted. I see the three Georgian DJs playing. The crowd is berserk. There is a sea of bodies all connected by country, family, religion, all dancing like possessed jackals. The music is raw dark techno. The bass infects your whole body. It’s groovy but minimal. It’s made to be experienced, not recorded. It’s meant to be danced to, not watched on YouTube later. I think about how this must be what Berlin was like after the wall fell. A new frontier of music, complete freedom, and raw energy. The Americans and I dance for an hour, sweating, burning holes in the soles of our shoes. The lights coupled with the space, all crushed by the sound, teleport you away from reality; you are now not on earth, you have no name, you are one of many, driven by the beat, lost in the ocean of rhythm.
It’s 2 pm. The Americans tell me that they are going to go. We exchange Instagram handles, and we all walk outside. The sun is now at full strength, and every place in the club is like a sauna. The Americans and I hug, and I sit on the couch, resting my feet. I realise that I’m starving, and I haven’t had breakfast. I leave the club and walk towards McDonald’s. I see my French friend sitting on the ground, I try to convince him to come, but he is too strung out, so I go alone. Walking the 10 minutes to McDonald’s in the daylight makes me realise how beautiful this city is. Tbilisi is a mixture of Berlin, Istanbul, Moscow, and Brooklyn. Each building tells a story that I want to learn, but first, I need food or I will collapse. I get to McDonald’s. I’m in my white undershirt and black cargo pants, reeking of smoke and sweat. McDonald’s in Georgia is not cheap, and it’s around the same price as in America; however, the restaurants are much nicer and are treated as a special occasion here. I feel instantly out of place. I feel a part of the country culture, club culture in Tbilisi is so strong because it is out of the norm and develops against or away from traditional Georgian society. In Berlin, Berghain gets tax subsidies, in Tbilisi, Bassiani gets raided. I order a chicken sandwich and water, quickly eat it, and walk back to the club.
The sun is shockingly bright, and I already feel my head getting sunburned. I feel refreshed and revitalised. As I walk, several Georgian men give me strange looks, which is fair because I look like an insane raver going to a club at 3 pm. I reenter the club, the same people are there, all smoking and chatting, just like before. I go to the main stage, the hallway is so dark because of the sun exposure on the walk, I bump into at least a dozen people. It’s like a post-Soviet techno dungeon. I enter the main room, the crowd is thinner, and the techno is softer but still perfect. I start to dance. All of my anxieties, my racing mind, thoughts about the future, about my future, disappear.
My body starts to rebel. I’m 23, not 20 anymore. My contact starts to get loose, hangs on my eyelash, I put it back in like a madman. The pain in my eye makes me go to the chilling area, filled with smoke and Georgians. I think that I might not make it to the end of the party as planned, that this time, I might have to cut out early. The contact fits in my eye and starts to feel better, I buy a water and sit. I see my Danish friends and start chatting again. A group of Georgians starts to talk to us as well, I explain my situation. They are all so happy and tell me to reach out if I need any help in Tbilisi. I feel the love in every conversation, I feel the passion of kindness with everyone I speak to. The water refuels me, and I head back in.
As I enter the main room again, it is complete anarchy. It feels as if the club might collapse. Somehow the people are dancing harder, their feet moving with ever more passion, arms flailing as if there are no conventions, just freedom. I’m shocked about how good the music is and again get possessed by the beats. Sometimes, I don’t understand why I like techno, or why does anyone like techno music, but on the floor of Bassiani, I understand. I get it.
I’m now covered in sweat once again. I leave the floor. I go back up to the chilling area, give another cigarette away, and I hear English across the bench. I go up and ask where the two people are from, the young woman says Germany and the man says Georgia. It’s the girl’s first time in Tbilisi and she’s doing a solo trip here. I find out she also goes to Sciences Po and that we have some mutual friends. It’s funny how small the world can be. The three of us start walking around the club. He gives us a tour of the tunnels and concrete catacombs. So many people just lying in the dark, the club seems endless, and we talk about techno, our countries, and Sciences Po.
We get the whole tour and we talk about how much we love Georgia; the man is clearly happy about how much we love his country. We continue touring the club. It seems endless, a sea of concrete, smoke, and sweat. There is a tension between the girl and the man. It’s clear that the man wants to hook up with the girl, but she’s clearly not interested. I act as a kind of independent witness and a third wheel. No matter the place, human nature and desire remains roughly the same.
The German girl and I enter the crowd and start dancing. The music is at its most intense, the energy is somehow even more electric. I’m not sure if my body can physically take it. We lose ourselves to the beats. Her flight is tomorrow morning out of Kutaisi, and she has to leave the club in 1 hour. We leave the dance floor and drink some water out of the sink in the bathroom.
On our way there, we run into some friends she made on the plane. The friends are Georgians and the reunion is cute. We start chatting and give them a cigarette. I start to explain the small amount of Georgian history I know, acting like a high school teacher. They are amazed I know anything at all. It’s easy to be a self-taught expert for a country that hardly anyone knows. We talk about my teaching and the Georgians are happy that my students will get a cool, young teacher, rather than the old, cruel teachers they had. We talk about Georgia, they tell us, it’s too poor to be in Europe, it’s not ready, there is too much corruption, too much poverty. All the Georgians I have spoken to rattle the same thing, a quiet song of love and desperation, of hope but a strong dose of pessimism.
We hug, they give me their Instagram, and the German girl and I return to the dance floor. As we enter, it’s 6pm. The air is thick and even smokier than before. There’s enough energy on the floor to be lethal. It’s unspeakable, it’s inhuman, it’s feral. Never before in any club has there been such carnal dancing. This is hell, this is heaven, this is nowhere at all. We dance for an hour, and I remind her of her flight. Reluctantly, she acknowledges that she has to leave. We both exit the main floor. At the entrance of the club, we hug, exchange social media accounts, and I promise to visit her in Paris as she promises to return to Tbilisi. We hug once more and say goodbye.
It’s 7:30. I’m exhausted; my phone is about to die. My shoes are splitting at the seams. I forgot my charger and didn’t realise there were outlets available. I approach someone with a charger and ask to borrow it. They decline. I take that as my sign from God to wrap up the night.
I summon a car via Bolt and head for the exit. I thank the doormen and leave Bassiani. Turning around, I take one last look at the giant concrete structure, feeling a mix of amazement, terror, love, and nostalgia. I head for the road.
As I enter the car, I survey the city; it’s quiet on a Saturday evening as the sun is setting. There’s a beautiful stillness, with far fewer cars than usual. I observe all the people on the street, dressed normally, oblivious to the party taking place just a few meters away.
Bassiani is not just a club, it’s a moment. The party is political in Tbilisi. As you dance, you make history. Whether that history will be seen as Georgia’s future or a misstep in its past, only time will tell. I reflect on all the time I’ve spent in clubs, perhaps all the time I’ve wasted, and I consider how this time was different, how this time meant something. As I doze off in the car, I think about how I’m a guest experiencing Georgia, about how I can leave at any time, about how almost everyone else can’t. I recognise how lucky, how privileged I am. I can’t be certain about what lessons I learned on closing night, but I’m sure that, looking back in 5 or 10 years’ time, this will be a piece of history much larger than myself.