Thursday, 1 December 2011
November nights offered up a multitude of musical riches - but perhaps the fullest aural money bags were provided by Chic at the Warehouse Project up in Manchester. We were so giddy about witnessing them that we turned down an invitation to stick cat food up our conks at a party the night before. I know. Early(ish) to bed instead of staying up all night talking shite. That’s how seriously we were taking Nile Rodgers and Chic’s showing.
And up early we were - I was prancing round our kitchen listening to Spacer at half nine in the A.M. And reading about Jeff Mills spectacularly blowing out his gig, despite being offered a fat wedge and a limo from Manchester airport to Store Street where the WHP is currently located. Our journey was always all about Chic - so we didn’t give a shit that the wizard had decided to throw a wobbler and not bother showing up.
Despite the early start, we still almost missed the train. Almost. But thankfully, when it pulled off we were ensconced in our seats discussing death and swearing very loudly within ear shot of a young child. The journey was most pleasant. Lagers and big talk. We were even greeted at the platform by our kind host and driven to his gaff where we were treated to a donner meat pizza and a full fridge of lager. This is probably the sort of treatment Mills would have received if he could have been arsed. Mate. You bit your nose off here to spite your face.
When it came to lift off we were already royally rolling - the classic donner meat, bifta, strong lager combo had set our brains at a pretty high. Once inside, it was all about Chic and poppers. Lots and lots of poppers. Losing the lid on the original bottle met we had to buy a second dose while chain sniffing the first batch until there was nothing left other than our red faces and blistered minds. So by the time Chic came on to rapturous applause, we were in the cavernous arch way going totally fucking ape.
Despite their lengthy time in the game, Nile Rodgers and crew showed no signs of age or illness (Rodgers has bee battling cancer for time) and lifted the place off its feet wrapped in a bear hug of bright lights and even brighter disco. We completely lost our shit as they ran through their best bits at break neck speed. Spacer, He’s the greatest dancer, Lost in music, We are family - all performed in a lean, medley style - Johnny Marr even came on at the end in add a touch of Mancunia to Le Freak. It was big.
The eve culminated in retiring to our chum’s gaff to listen to Bon Jovi, watch Platoon and spend the next 12 hours twitching before boarding the train and returning to the smoke. A whistle stop tour of Manc for the a real disco extravaganza. Chic smashed it. Very good times…
You can read my Resident Advisor review of the evening by clicking here - it's gushy as fuck...
Grainy proof that we were there - in body if not in mind...
Ooof - November has been a right vibe. A total vibe. Sleepless Sundays, delicious dining experiences and late, late nights spent listening to grunge and smoking cigs dreaming of the future. It's been a lot, passed in a flash and seen us avoiding bed for entire weekends. Thankfully my camera phone has ably documented some of the key moments and blurs. I've forgotten what the other ones were. It's like the late Tony Wilson once said: "When forced to pick between truth and legend, print the legend." True dat.
Omens with buffalos an' that
It's a quail ting
It's a roast ting
Saturday night in
Celebrating the arrival of a fresh pair of headphones - gangsta
Good night sweet prince
A dock off leak
'hahaha useless fucker'
Night vision Ginsters
Highly desirable artworks in Westfield
It's a pie ting
Mr eggy face in da area
Black pudding crew
Drinking sourz at Factory Floor
It's a hangover ting
A stolen moment at Kiss the Fist
Pre-Factory Floor dinner flex - yagga yagga
Con I carn't
That cat is a fucking cunt
Suck the bones
A delicious rioja on a Sunday
Hello mate - You're fucked now. You really are...