Stoke Newington isn't the first place which springs to mind when contemplating psyche-house and slo-mo disco. You'd be forgiven for thinking that these strains of cosmic electronics would more likely be found orbiting the earth somewhere near Mars than tethered to the dancefloor of a basement in NW16. But A Love From Outer Space, the monthly club night lorded over by Lord Sabre Andrew Weatherall and his chum Sean Johnston, does the interplanetary hardwork so you don't have to. These elder statesmen of dance have been roaming through galaxies of cosmic house for time - they've plucked out throbbers from among the stars, then stashed them away in a dungeon out of sight but not out of mind - Thing is this bevy of electronic beauties are only allowed to roam free once a month in the basement of the Drop up in Stokey. So you need to act with due diligence if your ears are gonna catch a glimpse of them. Held on a Thursday eve, it's one strictly for the heads who don't care about tomorrow - or at least can get away with spending the day moping on Facebook or 'working from home'.
We journeyed up to Stoke Newington to see what all the fuss was about for the June session - having been on the pints straight from work, sustenance came in the form of sausage and chips - which is about as cosmic as it gets. When we landed at the Drop, greasey of face and mind, Weatherall was outside toking on a cig wearing prime cuts from the 'man of the sea' side to his wardrobe. There was no way of speaking to him without coming across as a fawning fan boy but I took solace in the fact he has a very small pair of feet. He may have produced Primal Scram's rave opus Screamdelica, is one of the best techno djs and producers in the land and taken so many drugs that he can't remember five years of his life during the early noughties but he seemingly owns a pair of feet last seen on a 13 year-old boy.
Once we'd stopped gasping over the size of his teeny hooves, we waded into the small dungeon. The Drop may be miniature in size but is massive in vibes and the two were laying some seriously tough digi-business. Every tune landed with a massive punching clout - it meant the tunes and the lager coursing through our veins ensured that whatever drops of 'cool' we'd saved outside were utterly lost - The two of us were whooping and dancing like loons right down at the front getting sweaty with the mixed up crowd of tourists, students and gnarled elderly gurners. The walk home was spennt banging on about what a fucking pair of genie-i these two are. The next day was spent eating stodge and attempting not to do anything too stupid at work...
Massive scenes...
Check my Resident Advisor review - I didn't send them any images of the sustenance...
Our pilot - nice tats
Having it
Pre-party late evening nosh up
Post-rave morning nosh up
