When we return, my wine is waiting and the Slovakian bassist, also called Stefan, is perched at our tiny table. I compliment him on the show, and he beams. It turns out that the pianist is his son, Alan, a graduate of Vienna’s music university. I watch them when they start back up and the audience resumes its head-banging. They appear to be checking in lovingly with each other, mid-jam. It’s beautiful to watch, and so we do, long past my bedtime.
Yet we’re not ready for the night to end. Back along the canal, the skyline is taking on a modern, faintly industrial look. Stefan points to a beautiful, cylindrical blue tower topped with a golden globe. It’s actually an incinerator. Surely a gorgeous industrial-waste facility is only possible in Vienna. Behind it, the Gürtel highway snakes out to a cluster of live venues. Should we hail a cab?
Not necessary. In the incinerator’s foreground sits one of Vienna’s most fabled dance clubs, Das Werk. “Biggest DJs in Europe,” Stefan rhapsodises. “Most kick-ass sound system in Vienna.” And before I know it, we’re there, sailing past the bouncers to peer over the mezzanine at the heads, arms and feet jutting through the dry ice.
“We can sleep tomorrow!” I shout in his ear, skipping down to dive into the throng.
The next night, though, is another musical vortex; another parade of cool trainers; another ear-ringing walk back to my hotel. After it all, I’m about to collapse into bed when I hear throbbing pop music from the bistro on the hotel’s top floor. I can’t resist tiptoeing up the marble staircase to investigate. The revellers appear to be in costume: platinum wigs, cowboy hats and… trench coats? I flag down one of the guests.
“It’s a flasher party!” he shouts, leading a parade of revellers dressed in Burberry knock-offs — with not much underneath, I can attest — up to the roof terrace.
There’s no way I’m not going to follow. Sleep can wait.
Published in the Jul/Aug 2022 issue of National Geographic Traveller (UK)
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