Going Beyond Brixton

The other Saturday was a night where we stuck a toe inside the notion of 'party' in its rawest and rudest form. Thankfully it didn't come out covered in sick or with a fist wrapped round it. Just a little bit more vacant than usual.

Tings kicked off in Brixton at the Bring It night, lorded over by DFA/Horse Meat Disco affiliate Felix Dickinson. His shizzle is top notch business make no mistake. If you like your disco a little bit cosmic, a little bit dubby and deeply whacked out on feminax then this should be right up your alleyway.

Check out his soundcloud mixes on here - and his own website over here. Almost too strong...

The business went down in the seedy environs of Medusa's - a suitably dark lair to ingest toxins and throw your hands up in the air. Smoking inside was frowned upon as we found to our detriment. But pretty much anything else goes. Chatting total bullshit to strangers is encouraged. As is drinking and wandering round with your hood up baying at the massive glitter ball tottering above the dancefloor. Standard. The Idjut Boys joined Dickers on the decks and kept it well dark and druggy on the house business until it was suddenly no longer dark and most of the drugs had gone. Whoops.

At 6ish on a Sunday morning there are obviously places you can go to really gild the lily and take the edge off. If indeed, any edge is left. Beyond at Area is definitely one of said places. If you're in the mood to pop another sudofen, sit on another man's hand and dance with dudes sans tops then this is the place for youse.

This video captures the vibe like the proverbial nail on the head...



After a taxi ride (MPV natch), we queued for over an hour to get in with some Welsh dudes. They'd already been in the queue once but the club night changes over at about 5. So they got kicked out into the real world. Rather than calling a halt to proceedings, they'd opted to take a hammer to it and get back inside. And why not? When a Manc tranny wearing a crown with 'pervert' daubed all over it is in charge of queue, it really isn't time to go home. Is it?

My favourite bit (other than the overpriced pints and sucking on tabs outside in the sunshine) was in the main room. The green lazers were whizz, whazz whooing a la Star Wars and the sweat was coming off the gents dancing next to us so thickly you could almost eat it. To top it off a massive black dude in white hot pants and a blonde wig was dry humping the air on the stage to a very hard, house soundtrack. I have never seen the like.

Plus the walk home at ten am past up Whitehall and past Downing Street boosted the number of tourist attractions I've clocked in the smoke by approximately ten. The ying and the yang.

12 X 12. Again

I done a little review of the 12x12 night we murked ourselves at the other week.

It was an evening of both high amusement and total bullshit in equal measure. It also made me feel an inverted smugness about not being an employee of the music industry.

Here's what I had to say - snooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...

Lady Chann chit chat

I've been on the interview haul this week for the Stool Pigeon inkie magarzeene.

It's involved walking to Elephant and Castle and Islington due to being too skint to afford public transport, then chin wagging with Hot Chip-affiliated house boys the 2 Bears and dancehall queen Lady Chann.

Her ladyship was bothered/perturbed enough to tweet about the 'experience'.



I think this is called pulling the wool over someone's eyes. Readeh.

Wordy wordy wordy

Here's a couple of reviews I churned out last week for FACT

Tanlines and Four Tet's new rewiring by Floating Points get the treatment. Both worth a punt. Check the latter here and the former here

The less said...

... about Sunday night the better. What happens in the London Fields, stays in the London Fields. However, the music on display was too strong. Wham were a highlight. Getting to bed past 2 was not. Hey ho...

Hanging with the real life Arthur Baker

Thursday night saw us down at the Scala for Red Bull's penultimate party - 12 X 12 - an evening full of dance music heavyweights taking their best tune and stretching it out for 12 minutes. Why? Who knows but we, like nearly everyone else who rocked up, were there on a freebie. Who cares why.

Although the night itself had all the vibe of a corporate Christmas lunch, we made our own fun by getting pissed, smoking doobs and hanging with the 'celebs'. Jazzie B, Arthur Baker, A Guy Called Gerald, Shy FX and a fake Andy Williams were all papped. We hobnobbed with other members of the glitterati, aka totally fucked PR people and Observer journos too shitted to even speak.

We even asked Gerald how much Red Bull was paying him to tarnish his legacy of acid house in such a manner. My one regret (apart from not getting in until gone 3am. Again) was never having a chance to ask Heaven 17's Martyn Ware what the fuck he was thinking in providing the gakked up crowd with a karoake take on Temptation. I think we could have been watching an old man breakdown. I guess he could argue he was overseeing the breakdown of 'youth culture' in thrall to an energy drink.

Whatevs - the turn up for the books was hearing him not maim Heaven 17's Let Me Go. Such. A. Big. Tune.






Andy Williams vs the Dominator



Heaven 17's Martyn Ware committing a crime



Vibing in the VIP area



Shy FX vs the Dominator

The Cosmic King reaches a milestone

Last weekend was another large one. Almost too large for the brain and body to take. After embarrassing myself on Friday, Saturday was the Cosmic King's birthday. Following a breakfast involving a hearty, artery sludgifying black pudding scotch egg, it was time to continue playing up to parody. We took a trip down Old Compton Street to search out the original strength formula room odouriser, then burrowed our heads in boxes of 12 inches. We found this monster for 20p.






Beautifully packaged words



Pouring over the FT's obituaries



The evening was a suitable celebration befitting of the Cosmic one's 30th. Embarrassing images of the past coupled with a strong cake, delicious beers, solvent abuse and outlandish dancing. We even ended up at a house party with a PA in the front room and a floor buckling number of people dancing to the best Modular releases from 2006. Too strong.



Eyeing up the goods



Down the hatch



The Cosmic King goes mutant



Vogue



Bashy denim vibes