One giant step for the Arctic Monkeys

From kagoule wearing teens to Hollywood dwelling cosmonauts, there are few bands who’ve morphed in the same way as Sheffield’s Arctic Monkeys.

There are also few who we’ve grown with, who’ve soundtracked so many moments, where we can mistily of eye claim to have been there at the beginning (we were – for a bit – but so was everyone else in Sheffield – so it’s no bigs - well it is a little bit to us).

Now they’re grown hair on their faces and developed a taste for Led Zeppelin-esque fashion but they’re still great. Latest album, Tranquillity Base Hotel and Casino, initially divided but has subsequently conquered with its out-there collection of immaculately tailored songs, shifting more vinyl copies than anything else for years and is their most complete work to date.

Like their new wardrobes, it’s some distance from those initial teenage rushes of Fake Tales of San Francisco. You can’t help thinking that if you’d shown the young Alex Turner a picture of his adult self and the style tips he’s been taking, he would have snorted with derision. He might have also snorted if you’d said they’d been playing the Royal Albert Hall but the other Thursday we were among the lucky few thousand to pack into the venue for their first gig back on UK soil.

Organised at the lastish minute for War Child, this charity affair was two hours of new stuff and old stuff led by frontman Alex Turner. While the crowd was made up of lads in shades and Oasis style do's still lusting for the past, the band sounded like they'd gone into the future, and didn't let the pressure drop under the towering roof of the iconic venue. The new material, initially obtuse and difficult to crack, is now up there with their best and have given them a platform to achieve lift off in any direction they want. Boom! We left sweaty and pissed which is the best way to enjoy anything... Phew. One of the best gigs we'd ever been to? You'd better believe it...

Save this last dance for Kabal

For anyone who has vaguely followed our vibes on here you'll have seen plenty of mentions to Sheffield club night Kabal. 

We've followed this shadowy nocturnal venture and the exploits of resident DJs Pipes, Winston and Toddla for years so it was with a slight tear in the eye that we journeyed up for the final, 50th hurrah earlier in March. 

Kabal had given us some of the best, funniest and fiercest evenings. The first time we checked a DJ set from Toddla was at the Ebeneezer Chapel up in Walkley, a building of student flats but, cos it used to be a church, had an altar where the decks lay. He played Syclops' Mom, the video broke and we freaked... 

We've been to boxing rings in Sheffield's city centre, former morgues and railway arches all in the pursuit of the bleep and the bass offered by the night, always starting late and going on even later. We rang in a Kabal new year at said arch, but had to leave shortly before two having imbibed all the merch. Instead we opted to spend the rest of the evening sitting on a mate's radiator jibbering total baloney until the sun came up listening to Katy B's On a Mission on repeat. 

Even with the 49th event, we had a total blast. At the Night Kitchen, a sprawling labyrinth studio set up, we spent the day in the Peak District foraging for magic mushrooms before heading to the evening for midnight. We were staying at an Air BnB with strict instructions from our curator, Nathan, to be out by midday. We obviously ended up dancing until beyond the finish, staying up until 8 with only a few snatched hours of kip before Nath arrived to turf us out on his hoverboard. Turns out he'd been at the rave too the rotter. We spent the rest of the afternoon collapsing over a fry up in Bungalows and Bears before crawling back to London as pathetic little shells. 

If there's one thing I won't thank the night for, it's been the character-building journeys back to London. One mega bus trip was so paranoia fuelled, thanks in part to a lady sitting next to us, noisily eating crisps, that I had to depart at Golders Green and spend the next two hours walking back to Hackney. Got in to bed at midnight sharp just in time to grab six sweaty hours of sleep before going into work the next day and crying on the toilet. That is the vibe. 

The final night was a classic in terms of us turning up wrecked and spending the preceding hours until dawn getting even more wrecked. My memories are slim (That meal at the top is the one memory I got on my phone) and I probably shouldn't have had the six pints, the biftas and the rest before going. At the same time, memories of all the nights are slight and that's the way I like it. 

Sheffield will be worse off without Kabal but it's always top form for promoters to kill something when it's still at its height. Not outstaying your welcome and leaving dancers wanting more is a dignified way of bowing out. So props to main organiser Raif and co. It's been emotional. 

Stay close... 

72 hours in South Yorks

Returning to South Yorks is always jokes but our recent jaunt up the backbone of the country to Sheffield was a total stonker. Our journey was made to take part in the 49th and penultimate ever night of Kabal but while the night itself was total class, the rest of our frolics were equally as vibes-filled. 

We landed on the Friday lunchtime after a very beige, scran-filled train ride. We mooched around the city centre before meeting our Air BnB host, the laconic and possibly stoned Nathan. He was a very unenthusiastic individual who turned up on Sunday morning to kick us out on a hoverboard. None of us had had much sleep so we took it in turns to try and mount/fall off his board while baiting him for not raving as hard as we had at Kabal the previous night (we found him lurking in the shadows of the club). 

Our first evening in South Yorks involved drinking pints at normal prices (fuck you London) and eating some poncy sushi before heading home for a bluetooth speaker boogie in the kitchen. 

Saturday was more jokes, consisting of a trip to the countryside to search for magic mushrooms. Turns out the hills above Sheffield are stuffed with millions of different strains of the wee blighters but only a handful have the hallucinogenic properties we were after. As a result, our afternoon was spent staring at the ground looking for the type of 'fun guys' which possess a 'nipple'and 'bruise blue'. After finding about 12 we retired to a local boozer where a medieval re-enactment event was taking place. Serious. Weird vibes a plenty. 

Kabal itself was a winner - the Night Kitchen is a sprawling network of studios and rooms with vibes going on across every area. Downstairs was amazing, featuring throbbing electronics from the likes of Dino Thompson and Scott Monkz while up stairs was full of aural darkness, bass and jungle. Serocee brought the dancehall noise before Toddla delivered a load of hype among the jingles. It was Pipes and Winston Hazel who saw us through to the close with maximum beggaring on our part. We went home for a few more morning cans, then hit the hay briefly before getting up and spitting ourselves out into the nearest boozer. Here were the scenes of some great unraveling until it was home time. Well done Sheffield - that was a winner...   

Woody's classic

The king of gelato house

Yummo

Foraging

The hills, the hills, the hills... 

Fields and that

Ken Kesey has found one! 

The best thing to ever happen ever in the history of the world ever

Chaos crew in full effect

Arctic Monkeys @Earl's Court

Arctic Monkeys have come a long way in 2013. And an even further distance from when we used to watch them play to their school mates in the basements of pubs in Sheffield. Now they're proper, LA- dwelling rock stars who sell out venues as big as Earl's Court, headline Glastonbury of a Friday evening and have celebrity ex-girlfriends.

Their October shows in London were hot tickets fo' sure with even work collagues offering quivering dollops of dosh for a way in. But we stood firm and ensured we were down in south west London at a suitable time. Arena gigs these days open their doors at the horrifically early hour of 6.30pm so there's not a moment for din dins - just get on the pints and cigs asap as soon as you're oot the office. The crowd was predictably blokey so by the time the Monkeys came on and started pummelling their way through Do I Wanna Know? the floors were drowning in piss. Our feet were covered in piss. Men were pissing everywhere and anywhere. Never was their so much piss.

While the piss stacked up, the Monkeys sounded lean, fit, sexy and mean. Recent triumph AM sounds as if front dude Alex Turner has finally got his mojo back after a run of slightly less colourful efforts. This record is top conkers - it struts and wiggles in tight jeans with the shiny quiff which now adorns his bonce. But the whole band sound tough and wirey (drummer Helders looks like one mean, thick-necked mother) and they fired through the best bits of their new album and back catalogue with a fine mixture of aural style and muscle. By the time they wound the show up in a shower of confetti, it's been a masterclass in big gig gymnastics. Hats off to the Monkeysssss...

Temple of Coke

With a New Year comes new danger and there aren't many functioning bands out there more dangerous than Temple of Coke - these Sheffield dudes could rival the Arctic Monkeys for internet hype, tunes and pure, visceral pop sense. Well maybe not, but they've got some serious vibe going on. Scroll down to check their latest video, a take on the classic Pure Shores by nineties girl group All Saints. The lads have been invited down to perform at the latest trendy Dalston night spot Birthdays this weekend so it's a good time to get to know 'em... Listen to main man Big Al on their flexxx...

Who are Temple of Coke?

Temple of Coke are: Big Al: Vox, guitars, synths, bass, stylist. Tich: drums, vokills, cowbell. Producer. Archer: Guitars, keys, triangles, high-pitched shrieking.

How did you come together to make such beautiful music?

We have been friends for a number of years and have played in all kinds of groups together, including a band which did a cover of key parts from U2's Rattle and Hum live album.

The cover version of Pure Shores is destined to be a huge YouTube smash - were you on drugs when you filmed the video?

We were trying to be on drugs. If you watch the video carefully, you can see Tich is struggling to find a lighter to spark up his zubbie. That is probably the longest Tich has gone without blazing for the last five years. I had to get straight out of bed that morning with a bad hangover and get in a car to Cleethorpes. It's safe to say we all felt like shit that day.

What's 'Doing It' all about?

I think they keyword is 'it'. I like doing 'it' with fit birds. Tich likes to blaze 'it' and Archer's favourite Stephen King book is 'It'.

There's an album on the way - are there any themes to the record? Where did you make it?

We record ourselves at Bok Studios - big up Bongo Burt who 'runs' the place. I saw him start on someone at a party the other night, fall down the stairs and split his head open. It was live! The only themes are the twin fears of running out of kingsize rizzlas and getting abducted by sexy aliens who do experiments on our reproductive organs.

Who do you cite as influences/contemporaries?

Haircut 100, The Style Council, Flowered Up, U2.

You're playing Birthdays on Saturday - what should the trendies of Dalston expect? Are they ready?

On Saturday night when we play Birthdays, the front row can expect to be covered in man seed.

Have you ever been inside a Temple of Coke?

Nope, never been inside in any kind of temple but I have been inside a Darth Maul and costume and it felt wonderful!

Temple of Coke play Birthdays in Dalston this Saturday (12 January)... Check out Pure Shores below...see you there...

The Boiler Room - Sheffield sonics in ya grill

If you're into your bass and bleeps, then you must have heard of the Boiler Room. It's an online stream of DJs playing sets in club-like locations from across the globe with a gargantuan surrounding hype. Why? Well, the line ups are beamed in from the bleeding edge of what's new and left in contemporary dance. The whole endeavour is seen as a barometer of taste by trendies looking to keep abreast of what's going down in future garage town. 

Is it an exciting idea? Do we need to watch DJs playing sets to a camera while some dude intones monotously over the top on a mike? Or is technology and the like getting too big for its digital boots? Love it or loathe it, the Boiler Room vibe has caught on like some sort of computerised fire. Shows are now broadcast from all over the fucking shop. Whether you like it or not, the future is here to stay. Get with the programme gramps.

Those in 'the know' can get invites to attend these bashes in person - and luckily, through our lingering connections with South Yorks, we managed to get on the guestlist to the Sheffield takeover of the affair for the Agitated album launch party. Even better was the actual location, which was just round the corner from our gaff.  We'd tried and failed to attend a session with Jackmaster and Diplo back in the '011. Somehow we'd been fed incorrect intel regarding the venue and ended up banging on the wrong club door for half an hour. Thankfully, a Wetherspoon's wasn't too far away so we spent the eve outside the pub bitching about how shit it probably would have been anyway.

This time round we got the correct venue and were firmly installed inside around the time the broadcast started. Weird as it is watching the thing, it's even weirder standing around at half 8 on a Thursday evening, stone cold sober attempting to get into the bassline the Sheffield contingent brought to the fray. You're all too aware of the watching camera and the internet audience consuming the sets at home.

But, as ever, following a handful of lubricating Red Stripes, we managed to lock the vibe right down - the room where the sets are performed is small enough to throw a handful of cats around in. But even hotter with more added bass - Thankfully, Sheffield crew was on rare form. We had the pleasure of witnessing classy sets from the likes of Pipes, DJ Q, Toddla (ably backed by Shola Ama and Serocee), Walter Ego and last but by no means least, the Forgemasters.

The whole thing was a sweaty, sweaty vibe - Walter Ego looked suitably young. Pipes looked suitably dapper while DJ Q didn't even pause to remove his hoodie or Nike back pack - that's how bass men roll. Toddla played a mish mash of new material and upfront re-rubs before the Forgemasters put down a solid line of housey bleep to take us home. It was a sweaty, electronic embrace of an odd kind of future. Do we really like it? Do we really need it?

Check out Toddla's set here and make up your own mind...

Walter Ego in da mix

Lights, camera, sweat

Forgemasters inside the place

Tramlines ... we are leaving ... Marines!

For one weekend in the midst of summer 2012 it felt like Sheffield was the centre of the good shit. Things have changed. I ain't been a resident of the city for nigh on three years but remember the regular weekend feeling of frustration at not being able to catch a hype musical buzz in a reliable location. This wasn't the total downer it may initially seem - the lack of owt up our collective street meant that when the hype did land, it was all the better and more special for it. We had some big, big evenings. But sometimes had to seek high and low for the nights that whet our collective whistle. Then, when the trickle dried up, we set up our own. 

Many would argue that this is part of the beauty of South Yorks. If you can't find what you're looking for, then get off your arse and do it yourself. But, for the weekend of the Sheffield's Tramlines festival, it felt, for perhaps the first time and in the best possible way, that there was too much to do. 

Tramlines has been bubbling along since 2009 and this was the first year I'd attended since it was in short trousers - without sounding like too much of a wistful cheese monger, you could taste in the air how much the thing has grown. The whole place was buzzing to fuck with music seemingly bubbling away behind every door. Which makes for a pretty heady vibe ... After the inevitable five hour coach journey up from London (yawnnnnn), our Friday began with a trip to the Harley to check new hype merchants, AlunaGeorge do their electronic r'n'b business to a suitably frothy and sweaty crowd. Then the Box Jams DJs stepped up to deliver a hefty dose of classic electro, house and techno to the slightly confused looking trendies on the dancefloor. 

'Seek and ye shall find' goes the maxim of Sheffield's nomadic club night, Kabal. Its Friday night fixture on the opening night of Tramlines was no exception, with the evening's only pre-match publicity being through its usual word-of-mouth and email whispers. The bash was fairly mind bending - you had to walk through a boxing gym to reach the dancefloor while the music was a jump up mash of garage, jungle and dancehall blasted out at a testicle wobbling volume. We drank and danced until dawn, then opted for another beer and an hour mooch home rather than a cab. Wise moves from old heads... 

Kabal

Saturday started off in a dishevelled fashion at midday - we coated over the cracks with a greasy fry up before heading down to Endcliffe park for a child-friendly afternoon of folk music and real ale, all served up in the sunshine. It sounds delightful and in many ways it was, except for the bamboozling strength of the beers. By the time James Yorkston had shot his musical load, albeit in the most acoustic way possible, it was veering on time for a sit down and a glass of water. However, being hardy, daft and adventurous types, we jettisoned the sensible option in favour of continuing boozing at the massive Signals party at Yellow Arch. We queued for an hour to get in, I bullied some 20 year-olds into giving up their stash, then my memories disperse - the one thing that does stand out is German techno teenager Objekt smashing the place right up...

Sunday was predictably even harder than the previous day - not even combining sausage and salmon in one fried mouthful could dilute the ever increasing rough edge. We had an hour down at the amazing South Yorks event to witness the premiere of Kid Acne's Zebra Face before boarding the bus for the return leg back down to London. Props to everyone who put us up and propped us up. Sheffield - you were amazing... Roll on next year...

Yes mate - you love the sonic science

Box Jams

South Yorks

Lads in da rave

Never Too Much

Sheffield is the place - and if Sheffield is the place, then 'Never Too Much' is THE lo-fi dance night for the more discerning fan of all things raw, hype, disco and electronic. This has been getting me through the post-Bugged Out! Weekender come down. The horror, the horror! Tracklisting under the widget - widgety widgety...



MASAmatix – In Your Eyes (Maurice Fulton Remix)
DJ Mujava – Township Funk (Crazy P Remix)
Moby – The Right Thing ft. Inyang Bassey (Cosmonauts Remix)
Diskjokke – 1987
Kolombo – Waiting For (Michael Mayer Remix)
Discodromo ft. Hard-Ton – Build a House (Tensnake Remix)
The Knife – Heartbeats (Rex the Dog Remix)
Claude Von Stroke – Beware of the Bird
Osborne – Bout Ready to Jak
Home & Garden – In and Out (D’s Nu Vo Vox) it’s a Derrick Carter rmx if that wasn’t obv
Azealia Banks ft. Lazy Jay – 212
CPEN & JT Donaldson – Next to You (Marko Militano Remix)
Connan Mockasin – Faking Jazz Together (Michael Mayer Remix)
Kraak & Smaak ft. Romanthony – Let’s Go Back (Solomun Remix)
James Blake – The Wilhelm Scream (Poindexter Remix)

Where did you get the stuff?

Buses and journeys upon them have been a stain on my blotchy existence for time. Everyone’s got one cross to bear and, apart from a number of aesthetic issues surrounding my face, buses are near if not at the top of the list.

Catching (as opposed to eating) a double-decker as a specky youth would involve spending large slabs of the weekdays journeying to and from school - and subsequently wishing for a fast forward button so this part of life could be escaped a little quicker. Being a total fucking little nerd ensures that if shit is gonna go down on the top deck, then you, your glasses and your crap hair will probably get involved. So bus rides regularly included desperate bids to duck out of the way of biscuits and kebabs while simultaneously attempting to not be set on fire by a fellow ‘yout’ with a can of Lynx, a lighter and a big attitude.

Thankfully no matter how much of a fucking geek you are, age seems to act as a protective veil when boarding a bus - You no longer have to suffer the indignities of being frazzled or having a packet of Maryland wrapped round your head. However, due to the unholy trinity of poverty, poor planning skills and expensive train prices coach travelling is still well familiar - any time the Sheffield to London jaunt raises its head, the scenario usually dictates that boarding a bus is the only way to go. The Rude Movements party, which we descended on last weekend, involved such a journey. It might snatch ten hours of your life away but the National Express is so fucking cheap it’s almost disgusting. It is disgusting. You may enjoy all the personal space, comfort and toilet facilities of a battery hen but those bastards cannot be accused of being wallet rapers. So in a way, props. Sort of.

Actually landing in South Yorks on the Friday eve following a five hour bus flex was a big look. The journey itself was as cramped as a cat taking a leak in a thimble but the euphoria of escaping the travelling sweat fest was mega-large. The whole journey neatly encapsulated Keat’s pleasure and pain theme with the emphasis on the latter. But escaping the bus was so large, it ensured that the previous evening’s hangover didn’t do owt to get in the way of an outrageous thirst - Like a pack of beery arrows, we flew straight to the Sheffield Tap (located on the freaking platform at the station) and guzzled down pints until kicking out time - then built the binge an extension up at Sawa where local mashheads the Squires of Gothos were playing a 21st birthday party. They played with their tops off and their big, bad bass hanging out - We felt pensionable at the time but I felt even older when I eventually crawled out of the bed the following day - Turns out mixing ouzo with lager transforms you into a geriatric.

Despite such wounds, Saturday was a blur of business - the captain interviewed bass documenter Shaun Bloodworth in the day time, which involved asking the man a series of quizzles about his photography game while attempting to not scare him away with beery halitosis - Punctuate this activity with five caffeinated brews and it wasn’t until alcoholic drinks started flowing again that the ship of sanity righted itself. Or became even more wonky depending on your point of view. . .

Other than catching up with old muckers and general vibing, Rude Movements was the big draw of Saturday night. Going off down at an old factory on the way to Meadowhall, the location, nocturnal vibe, sonics and intoxication levels all added up to summat proper mindbending. Luke Unabomber and Winston Hazel tore the darkness in two in the back room with bumping house and disco, lakes of reverb and a mike - When the Mancunian dweller played Storm Queen’s Look Right Through it was a real ‘That’s so big I need a catheter’ moment. Hood up, brandy liqueurs, smoking inside, hands in the air, screaming, lairy vibes. You couldn’t help but feel it.

In the other, larger room, it was up to Zed Bias and Toddla T to do the damage, which they did with plenty of aural buffness. ‘Nuff bass and ‘nuff parkin’. Both of them slammed it until way past our bed time which we made it to due, in part, to the power of the balloon. One young gentleman (big up) was kind enough to sell these delicious gassy monsters which kept us baying at the door of the dance until well fucking late. It was a classic Sheffield rave - smiles, darkness, rubble, naughtiness, amazing sounds - but ensured that the return leg of the bus journey was a truly painful experience. It’s fine boarding a coach still pished but the sobering up part is fucking awful. So awful that the only sensible course of action appeared to be to dismount the bus at Golders Green and walk the rest of the way to Hackney. Which, for some guilt-ridden reason is exactly what happened. If there’s anything to take away from the weekend, it’s that South Yorkshire (and those who still reside in its leafy bosom - thanks for having us) is ace. And buses are shit. Next time get the fucking train…



Day-to-day



Post Rude Movements breakfast - not ready (for the bus)



Dad raver



Inside



Winnie...



Pre movements japes



The first offie trip's haul



Straight composting



Environmental flex



Ticket to the rave



Jive talking



Mash up



Disgusting



Just say yes



Fingers'n'chips



Fake benjamins



Cock



Better cock



21st Birfday vibez

It's a Sheffield ting

The weekend just gone found us boarding the National Express coach for a lovely trip to Sheffield. The two days in the field were lovely but the journey up there less so - the stench and the heat was like being smothered in a pissy pillow. But despite the uncomfortable travel arrangements, we went up to catch a slice of Rough Disko party action.

Scratcha DVA and Martin Kemp were the big names on the bill. They both slayed it with plenty of bass bin bothering business, funky and tropicala. Predictably it resulted in another late night somewhere in High Storrs...

The next day involved relatively wholesome activities based around meat, house viewing and beers. Top conkers? Top conkers...



Sean's heart attack in a bap. Google that.



Again some of the tunes were almost too much but were more ghetto than the usual business we expose oursens to in the smoke. Perhaps we're not going to the correct parties...



And this woozey number from Deadboy - big fucking tune...

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



Ready



Sheffield styles...



Aphex face mask



A massive cock