Check out the ring-side shots of my ma on the table below. This is how we roll during the festive season. Gin and pool. Basically, the acid never lies.
Here's a selection of shots from the 09 thus far. We played a New Year's eve party at 93 Feet East in the members bar for a sharp suited evening called Jack to the Future. We killed it big style.
Since then it's been a case of rubbing those pennies hoping they'll get it on and produce lots of little pennies which will grow up big and strong and become pounds.
Aww - xmas house
Mum on the table - Pure acid
A quiet night in with the Tiga podcast
Incidentally every fucker in the universe is compiling top tips for the 09 - they’re citing a wave of keyboard waving sirens as the antidote to the past year of guitar wielding Gratton catalogue-esque numpties clogging up one’s lobes. Fuck them they don’t know anything. Here’s a proper slice of aural hype from an original madam with a little help from some lads. Grace Jones vs Aeroplane. Get on it mothers…
Bugged Out!’s been my favourite club night for a while - the vibe is debauched, the written hype dished out with all the subtlety of a gnarly hammer plus the guests are always uber-hot. Them tales about the ressies getting more or as fucked up as punters are hype too and always get me going, especially when calamity strikes and they throw caution and money to the wind all in the hope of the party being pushed over the edge.
Check out their tales here. The one about original ressie Rob Bright falling off the stage at Sankeys cos he was too pissed, breaking his conk, straightening it in the bogs and goin’ straight back out to the dance floor is class…
On a Thursday eve in December we’d decided to hit up Bugged Out! before it leaves its current home at The End. The now strangely asexual weirdo leftfield visionary Tiga was the big player in question. I love this guy - from his mindaltering bad ass records to the hallucinogenic verbalisations of his press sheets for his label Turbo and hard, acidic deejay sets.
Perhaps the best ting is he could have been a Scissor Sisters-esque mega bucks pop star but instead opted to blaze the crop and produce techno records with so much bottom end they make yer ball sack quake. Recently he’s become even weirder. Take a dip in his pod casts or check his latest work The Worm and Mind Dimension - Slabs of freaky genius which will make you fret.
Venturing to the End was frothy- It’s tucked around a back street in West London and is closing pretty soon. Lo the vibe was heavy for a Thursday night.
Tiga’s set was an exercise in both restraint and being extremely banging. Dropping The Worm, (his second released collaboration with Zombie Nation as ZZT), Duke Dumont’s techtonic rehash of Late of the Pier’s Bathroom Gurgle, plus a slice of Aphex’s Window Licker, the place was lapping it up like a bunch of wonky hounds. He also dropped this as his set closer, a suitably hypnotic aural ambush which knocked my brain into rave town. It’s Cari Lekebusch and the Jesper Dahlback overhaul of Shaded out on Tiga’s own Turbo imprint. Check it…
The evening was full of hi-jinks. Despite the £4.50 price tag surrounding the Kronenburg, we managed to maintain all night. Until the next morning in fact. We were having so much fun we informed a fellow bus passenger, who was unlucky enough to stumble into the aftermath, that the four of us were artists living together in a commune who took it in turns to have our wicked way with the one lady of our group - or ‘Lucy’ as Jeff was dubbed. Sinster and sick…
The fun was so intense that I completely neglected to remember I was due at Ministry of Sound to take part in a DJ masterclass featuring the likes of Danny Rampling, Ray Keith and Jazzy M as tutors on the morro. I woke at 12.30 with the kick off time of 1pm giving me the full on fear. No time for a shower I was forced to sprint across London town and mumble through the ‘masterclass’ wild of eye and stupid of face. I left having learnt a lot about the way Ministry of Sound works, clutching a bottle of their own brand vodka and a copy of Anthems II. Make no bones, the compilation is ace. Yer can make yer own minds up about how worthwhile spending £300 on a day with Mr Rampling would be… Check it here…
No photos of this sadly but this was the first bit of djing we put together since moving down to the smoke last November. The flyer is put together by that genuii Cecil Something. A fairly random Thursday night with a fairly random collection of old Sheffeel faces gliding across the wheels.
The Victoria is a cool boozer on the inside, intimidating madman’s nuthouse on the front in the E3 zone. About 30 people showed up, which was pretty encouraging considering every other time we’ve been in there it’s just us, Alfie (the perma-stoned looking owner) and pricey looking taxidermy. We played records until midnight, drank six pints, had builders try and turn us off and then fucked off. It was a lark and one we’re hoping to repeat soon…
The tune of the night and one I’m feeling is particularly hype right now is this mad bootleg - Grandmaster Flash italo mad mash up. Italians do it better? Possibly but I think this Datashat fella's from Stoke Newington...
Stella and bass. Two of my favourite tings and a vibe that the November Rough Disko was practically dripping in. The Squire of Gothos were the guests, a pair of South Yorkshire gents in love with bassline, boozers and squat parties and are into it, 185%. Check their 'Ravelord' EP on Electro Stimulation Records - it’s daft, brilliant and banging in equal measure.
The Squire even brought their own crew to the bashment, a flock of mad scally kids in love with the groinal riddims of DJ Funk and DJ Assault as well as their well warped Sheffeel take on booty-slapping electronic bass. As Jude pointed out, these are the kids that hang around parties we’re too old, too boring and too bland to hear about afterwards, never mind get an invite to.
When it was the Squire’s turn to flick the switch at the heart of our little rave, they revved the vibe up summat rotten. One fellow bellowing into a mike, the other in a Danger Mouse costume twatting out primal bassline booty shakers.
Throw in a crate of wife beater, 60 other pissheads and the party vibe was lubed up good and proper. You can imagine the chaos and the stagger we had on the way home. It took me over a week to get better following this. Proper alcohol poisoning vibes. The quality of the photos is a direct indication of the sort of shapes that we were saying. Big Up the fucking Squire!
