Robert Zimmerman aka Bob Dylan rules in in my somewhat eclectic music collection, ahead of John Lee Hooker and Led Zeppelin, or Mozart or Rachmaninov for that matter. Over the years I’ve found that Dylan’s songs provide a brilliant vocabulary to express or describe almost any emotion or situation. But even genius has its limits, and sometimes the exceptions are the classic “Wtf” moments worth writing about. Such as a night at Pacha, the hottest club in the party capital of the world – Ibiza. In this instance, Dylan’s poetry was swept aside and replaced by this completely inane rant from the dance hit Loca People:
When I went to Spain and I saw people party I told to myself
What the fuck!?
All day, all night. All day, all night.
La gente esta muy loca
What the fuck!?

The Pacha in Ibiza is apparently the ultimate Mecca for clubbers, and on Thursday nights David Guetta, the Caliph of master blasters, holds court. Guetta’s party label is F*** Me, I’m Famous and he won’t let you forget it. A giant neon sign at the entrance, T-shirts worn by the bouncers and go-go girls, masks worn by a few and psychedelic phallic objects wielded by many all combine to make sure this slogan is drilled into your brain. For good measure, there’s a F*** Me, I’m Famous Lounge at the airport too; I bought the CD and my wife bought the T-shirt. Not that being famous is a prerequisite for copulation in Ibiza. A scantily clad nymph offered herself to me for a spot alongside us in the prized “VIP Prive” section. The toilets – unisex of course – were as much of a highlight as the dance floor. While people zealously protected their position in the queue, ardent couples desiring immediate release were applauded into the stalls. A lesbian couple got the loudest cheer of all. I joined in enthusiastically (the cheering, I mean) while wondering at the acrobatic improvisation that might be required of these lovely ladies in the tiny cubicles.

The combination of the hottest DJ on the planet with the most celebrated dance club in the world was as explosive as you might expect. David was on top of his game, and his talent for engaging his audience with remixes of popular hits combined with pounding house music was the perfect formula for the mother of all parties. Topless burlesque dancers with perfectly sculpted bodies performed delightfully diverting S&M pantomimes; this was the 21st century equivalent of a Romanesque orgy. Dance floors are generally on the fringe of my comfort zone, but at Pacha I had to be dragged away at 5:30 in the morning.

Club Amnesia the following night was apparently equally crazy but unfortunately nobody seems to remember any details.

In my view, which is probably worth very little in this context, Ibiza has the edge as far as global “pure play” party destinations go (and btw a very special thanks to my buddy “Swami Al” for a truly spectacular weekend). St Tropez is increasingly all about the size of your boat. Goa tries hard, but as with so many things in India the abysmal infrastructure is a tragic and fatal flaw. Miami’s South Beach might be the only rival, but Ibiza surpasses it for sheer 24/7 madness; at 5:00 am people are still lining up to get into the hot spots. La gente esta muy loca.

Late in the evening, Dylan made a comeback. A debauched young lady gyrated in front of us for her partner’s benefit, using a pink fluorescent lollipop as a prop. Even as my jaw scraped the floor, she was engulfed by a gust generated by one of the smoke machines adjoining the dance floor. Blowin’ in the Wind. Bobby Dylan still rules.