The slinky armature of Stano’s upper body – arms sprouting from the ribcage and going back in, popping back out, now akimbo, stretched, and he dips his finger into the dim orange, asking “Eye wah -na know what turh-ns you on” – is gloved in black leather and this is his jacket.
Stano’s Lewis Hamilton haircut – so short, he claps and the shot sound caroms off his smooth temple and into the dim orange where they fire back, he claps, they clap, the corps of crowd concerto, wanna know what turns you on – is a part of his egg oval head-face, and he cracks open a smile to reveal the yolk of his stage confidence, that utter mic control.
You have to move up, from Wabera Street level, climb the stairs to the first floor, pay your hundred shillings and walk into Stano’s dim orange cave.
I am having my beer and I am at the back tonight because they have moved the stage from the center, where it was last month, to the other end of Club SounDD where nicotine dreams waft in and out of the fumers corner. There are many here, it’s a Star Wars bar. The bottom of my jeans is torn. This young lady in front of me has the head of an elephant, her plaits are long and when she turns to see me they drop down from her head to her nose to her knees, and that’s her elephant trunk. To my right is the long drunkards bench and there is this guy who has a face and a faceless and legs all rubberbandy and wobbly around the straight-up of his barstool and he’s dating his five bottles of Miss and Mrs Tusker.