The summer of 2010 has been massive thus far. July has been totally off the chain and it's slowly turning this year into perhaps one of the best ones ever. Ever, ever, ever, ever? Ever.
Start of the month saw us down at Fabric for the Numbers party. Numbers is a mad collection of Glaswegian piss heads, music lovers and DJs. From their sweaty bosom they've spawned the likes of Warp golden boys Hudson Mohawke and Rustie. They've also kept the flame for independent dance burning brightly with a shedload of big raves and parties north of the border.
So on one of the hottest Friday's on record, we got domestically messed up to the eyeballs before heading off into the night. The line up was almost hot as my underarms. Hardhouse Banton and Karizma, Roska were all big players on the bill. They played a right selection of mad tunes.
I can't work out whether Pon de Folay is the worst or the best thing I've ever heard.
The crowd itself was gnarly as you like. My companion described the rave as "200 men and 20 slags", which although arguably could be construed as slightly sexist, was bang on the money. Tottering legs, attitude and nerds in trucker caps abounded. It kinda felt like we were at a branch of Oceania somewhere in the midst of the Black Country.
Midly disappointing were the Numbers DJs themselves. Jackmaster's Sonar set from earlier in the year (which can be streamed over here) is impossibly good, taking in everything from Model 500 to Chaka Khan and Womack and Womack. Yet him back-to-back with Spencer seemed to lack something. Although this French Fries rhythm is a loud and honky beast.
Maybe we were too fucked. Maybe we weren't fucked enough. Anyhoo it resulted in us leaving about half 4 to roam back home across London with our trousers rolled up like a pair of nutters drinking 'beaters and shouting shit. A rare sight for the eyes. Watch out ladies.
The evening culminated in an intense rant ('the thing is, right, Fabric is like on our doorstep yeah. And when we go. It's a bit like being abroad. I'd come from abroad to. Go here. I think. Like. That's the thing. It's like. You don't hear this. Do you. Like anywhere else. Which is why it's amazing. Isn't it? Well isn't it. Yes.'), a wander round the local estate armed with small speakers and beers, then horizontally twitching on the front room floor until it was too hot to do anything other than get up. Restful? No. Funny? Very.
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