Party animals

After the workday ends, the nightlife begins as city youths head off to the clubs

Publication title: Edmonton Journal

Pages: A1/ FRONT                 

Section: News

Publication date: May 22, 1998

Copyright: Copyright Southam Publications Inc. May 22, 1998

Author: Shawn Ohler, Journal Music Writer

See main story, C1, "Gyrations & Libations."

Every Friday and Saturday night, Khara Sandulac and Shelley Maxfield shed their "corporate" skins -- the retail jobs, the tailored suits, the shift-work drudgery -- and become nightclub divas.

Sandulac, 20, knots her hair in short pigtails, dons blue and white handmade wings or feather boas and lines her pockets with lollipops. She transforms into her club persona and alter ego, Osse D. Brown.

Maxfield, 23, ties multicoloured elastic bands into her hair or shapes it into glow-in-the-dark spikes. Her club name? Raven DeShire.

The women are among thousands of young Edmontonians who make the local bar and nightclub scene an integral part of their lives.

Dozens of city clubs flirt with their fire department-ordered capacities every weekend. As spring blooms into summer, the lineups grow.

"Edmonton has a very cutthroat, competitive club scene," says 20- year-old Gerald Shvartsman, the marketing manager at West Edmonton Mall's KAOS nightclub. "If you want people to choose you, you have to do things to set yourself apart.

"If you don't offer something new, you die."

Sandulac's and Maxfield's favourite nightspot is, in fact, KAOS, the biggest dance club west of Toronto.

Occasionally they'll also check out Whyte Avenue's Rebar or, for shock value, KAOS's countrified neighbour Nashville's Electric Roadhouse.

"Clubbing is big part of who we are. It's a lifestyle thing," says Sandulac, a sociable sort who works at a clothing store in WEM.

"You see me at work and I have a black corporate suit, I have my hair up and I have my glasses on. But you see me on the weekend and I'm a totally different person.

"I'm not Khara anymore, I'm Osse D. Brown."

Sandulac explains the evolution of her club name: "I worked at Esso for a year, so Osse is Esso spelled backwards. I didn't want anyone to know I worked there because I was so embarrassed. D stands for Diva. Brown is because I went from blond to my natural brown hair, thus gaining my brains back."

Maxfield, who also works at a WEM store, chose Raven DeShire because she used to work at Devonshire Cream and because ravens figure prominently in her dreams.

"Ravens are also one of the smartest birds," she points out, smartly.

The pair never used to be like this. They used to dress "like everybody else" and hang out at Bourbon Street's Club Malibu until they got tired of it.

Sandulac says she hated that Malibu's DJ wouldn't play her requests.

"The DJ is our lifeline because we go out to dance. I have to have a good relationship with the DJ or I won't go. He said he'd play what I wanted to hear but he never did."

They say they've found a home at the cavernous KAOS. Staff members waive their cover charges (usually $6) because, as Maxfield says, "they like the fact that we're kind of freaky."

The women dance until the wee hours of the morning, leaving the jammed floor only for bottled water or the rare drink.

Their devotion to dance mirrors a local club trend away from live music. For example, The Rev, the centrepiece of the city's live college-rock scene, opened a sister dance club called Lush in February '97 to take advantage of the shift.

"Kids are more into dance music now, they're more into electronica," says Wayne Jones, the clubs' general manager.

"When you can do a rave on the weekend and do 1,000 people, and do a live band on Friday night and only draw 150, that shows you what people are really interested in now."

Sandulac says pure dance clubs like KAOS also take the emphasis off picking up members of the opposite sex.

"Before we started coming here, it was always about, 'How many guys' numbers can I get tonight?' and 'Who's going to look prettier than me tonight?' It was so depressing, because there was always someone prettier or skinnier," Sandulac says.

"But now, you know what? I don't care. We come to dance and to be seen."

Being seen is pretty much inevitable. Sandulac and Maxfield's creative look makes them stick out like colourful fish in a black- and-white sea of pricey flared pants and tiny T-shirts.

"I dress like this because I know I'm going to get a reaction," Sandulac says.

"I get mad when I don't get attention. I do."

Maxfield looks at her friend and grins knowingly. "She does."