Saturday, 17 October 2009
Warp20 - Sheffield wins...
When I reached 20 years old I had a right old knees up to celebrate hitting a right manly age. I wore a bobble hat with the word ‘cunt’ emblazoned on the front, popped a purple gary beamed in from Ibiza, drank Stella and smoked a big old bift - and this was at 5pm. Warp Records showed they had a bit more class and a little more restraint by not bolting down the sauce too early and peaking too soon. I hasten to add that I peaked and kept on peaking for time when I hit the big 2-0. But Sheffield’s Warp did throw a classy series of events over the course of the weekend.
I endured the 4.5 hour coach journey up on Friday night and, after accidentally dropping a loud trump on said route, landed at midnight into what seemed like Vietnam without the guns, blood and a lorry load more twats. West Street was running amok following the derby match between the city’s two footballing clans. Blood on the streets…
There were many highlights to the 48 hours I was in Sheff - Friday was a classic Sheffield party. So secret, it was half empty the whole ting was a bit of a damp squib of an eve. Maurice Fulton rinsed out the disco with a scowl on his chops while Chris Duckenfield banged out them tough tech house vibes he’s so renowned for. We remained out drinking until 6 before staggering off up Abbeydale for a first turn on the sofa.
Saturday had plenty of big looks going on. Domestic fry up, coffee at Bragazzi’s, cruising up Division Street in a Morris Minor made out of moss listening to Amerie’s One Thing at 13 on the volume dial. It was perhaps the strongest look I’ve ever thrown. The Warp shop was amazing purely for the chaos and the inexplicably large phallus sitting in a glass cabinet by the counter. Nearby boozer Bungalows and Bears also proved to show immense strength, particularly for one of my compadres attempting to rip my rotting finger nail off while slouching at the bar. Cue blood, cue plasters, cue manly talk about dubstep and one of our collective pronouncing how he ‘really wanted to stick his cock in something’. He was the man behind the hotdog stall at Warp20 ladies. The moment is past but I hope you ladies didn’t opt for extra mustard.
The pre-bashiness was at a respectable homestead near Highgate library. We psyched ourselves for an evening of ‘Intelligent Dance Music’ by listening to Robert Palmer’s Some Guys Have All the Luck. It was a great way to warm up to stepping inside the digital mirkin made out of the Magna Centre. After checking videos project across a screen on Park Hill (arriving just in time for the showing of Windowlicker was particularly hype) we tried to hop on the coaches that were shepherding old ravers out towards Attercliffe. Despite the near fight to hop onto a bus, and a deeply pissed off driver we made it to the cavernous digital hanger that is Magna via half a bottle of very cheap white rum. Full of projections and dry looking pizza the vibe was inherently large before we’d even heard a drop of music fall.
Entering the main arena is something I’d put close to heaven for an unashamedly nerdy electronic geek like myself. A big fuck off rave in what looked like an aircraft hanger bouncing with bleepy acid rave. Nightmares on Wax were surprisingly non-reggae-lite shite (sounds like a sauce) and deeply digital - a pleasant surprise.
Personally I think Squarepusher is, has been and always will be a bass loving twat. His riffing and keyboard spazzing (which he freely admitted to making up on the spot - the winging it charlatan bastard) was a fly in our pissed up ointment. He can take his orange parka and fuck off. We opted for red bull, beers in plastic bottles and talk of breast milk lattes (or at least their fucking whereabouts).
After getting distinctly jazzy with it, we reentered the womb of the party to hear Weatherall bushwhacking the place with Frankie Knuckles, a tache and a box of bleep classics. Watching him lay down a mix was like gazing upon a retired military man playing Risk with impeccable precision. I can’t decide whether it’s cos he’s ancient, totally out of his mind or concentrating so hard he’s forgotten momentarily where he is. An old fashioned bastard with great facial hair, impeccable taste in music and a drug habit the size of a small nation. What a man. Someone to look up to for sure. A role model for us all.
Winston Hazel did it for the last hour and hardy 200 or so nutters left - I don’t know what a single tune he played was but fuck me everyone was amazing. I even donned a pair of goggles the beat was so strong. Lean, stripey jumper on and records in mouth, Sheffield’s own man proved he’s fucking got it in spades.
Breast latte, perfect worst nightmare, cider for breakfast. I was vibing off this for time. It’s amazing to see Sheffield get is so right. For once. Next stop Berlin? See you in the Panorama Bar. Roll on the next 20 years…
In the heart of the rave
Searching for a rizla. And a breast milk latte.
Eating out IDM styles
Shouting at the driver
Aphex face mask
A massive cock