Tag Archives: Sasha

A Man Like Sasha…

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Cash has been a bit tight of late; I’m behind on rent, water bills, and credit cards… so I decided to use my money wisely.

I bought tickets to a boat party on the Thames to go and see my friend Robin Thurston tear shit up.

And today’s partner-in-crime was the youthful, but messily-experienced, Mr Aaron Parsons.

Regular readers to my blog will know the score – we get heavy before we even get on the boat. And we get heavier when we get off the boat. The beers, vodkas and narcotics are plentiful, and the train trip flies past… although I’m not sure if it’s down to the ruination, or simply because I can’t take my eyes off of the girl sat across from me. She’s small, hot, and clearly way out of my league, but – in true Jode Style (ie, smashed sideways) I believe I have a chance with her…

Up until the point I try to speak to her and tip vodka all over my leg, resulting in Piss-Pants Jode, and One Gone Hot Girl.

Waterloo, as ever, is our destination, and I’m watching the hot girl disappear into the crowd as Aaron and I figure our plan of attack. We hop onto a tube, all the way to Temple Mead where we head to the local Walkabout pub; complete with rugby fans and football fans watching different games on the surrounding TVs.

Mr Parsons and I decide that we’re going to rate each and every toilet cubicle that we enter to conduct our ‘business’ in for the day; so far the train bogs (spacious, well lit, decent loo seat to rack lines up on) are much better than Walkabout’s loos (cramped but well lit, and a dodgy toilet-roll holder to rack up on). Trust me, if you ‘partake’ then you need to know these things. They have books about the best restaurants in London, and maybe it’s time they had one on which are the best Big Smoke Bogs to do cocaine in.

Aaron, Shorts, and Simon

We meet Robin and some of his friends; Simon, Brendan, and a girl who we dub ‘Shorts’ as we both miss her name… because we were staring at her shorts. Those shorts were shorter than my attention span.

Vodka’s downed, and we cross the road to the small jetty where there are boats moored up. Aaron and I dive into the first boat, and I pop downstairs to use the toilet. It’s tiny, and cramped, and almost impossible to do anything other than piss in (how inconsiderate), but that isn’t what stopped me from ‘anything’.

It was the guy who came and tickled his foot under the doorway.

Now, if you don’t know what ‘cottaging’ is, allow me to break it down for you;

Men enter toilets – man #1 enters cubicle – man #2 waves foot under toilet doorway to attract attention of man#1 – man#1 opens toilet door – man#2 enters cubicle – man#1 enters man#2.

Now, even if I did partake in cock – which I do not – the toilet is way too small to administer a rogering in, and I exit the loo with a ‘too cramped in there, mate’ to the cottaging guy who is stood at the pisser, pissing, while trying to remain nonchalant.

In hindsight I probably should have said; “I’m not gay, mate”.

I go back up to the (poop?) deck and tell Aaron about my mis-encounter.

“Would you recognise him again?” he asked.

“Sure, he was wearing black loafers.”

Off the boat, and we walk the ten feet to the next boat that will be hosting the Electronic Sessions. The boat looks like it’s made of matchsticks, and is called the Golden Flame, but we’re fucked, so fuck it.

We’re on, and first stop are the toilets.

Now this shit looked like Spaghetti Junction; men (obviously, it being the mens) were stood around the small compartment, pinching powder onto each others hands and handing out pills and dabs of MDMA like it was a fucked-up and free sweet shop. I met two Laaaaaaandan guys in here who force-fed me drugs. I tried to fight them off. Honestly.

For the record, all the narcotics we had on the boat were shit. Other than our own. We were on there from 6pm-11.45pm, and the drugs were not much cop at all.

The people, on the other hand, were simply fantastic. Being cooped-up in a boat that resembled The Orca from Jaws was a great way to meet new people. In my slightly hazy state, I didn’t get many names, but I got some great photos. One guy I did meet was Ken Lalobo; the man looked like a younger, better-looking Marcel Desailly, and was an absolute Hug Monster. I don’t recall either of us saying much, but he laughed EVERY time he saw me, and hugged me even more.

I liked Ken. He was a lot of fun.

The music was good, and we cut rugs to whichever DJ was playing above or below, as we waited for my man to step up and spin; enter Robin Thurston – the man who had made all of this possible for Aaron and myself.

Robin spins a mean set, and I say that not just because he’s my friend, but because he spins a mean set. The crowd had been getting up and going for it for a while, and then Robin got behind the decks and everyone stood.

Especially when he drops tunes like this:

And that was Shorts taking a photo of me at the beginning – and this is the photo she took:

Gimp.

Robin Thurston had the crowd on its feet the whole set, and we thanked/congratulated him afterwards. I think Ken hugged him… no… I know Ken hugged him. Ken also hugged me. A lot.

Another reason Aaron was stoked about this boat party was because two of his heroes were playing; Prok and Fitch. He’s seen these guys before, and they were playing downstairs after Robin’s set. The Gods of Scheduling had smiled upon us.

Their set is strong, and you can see just how popular the boys are when everyone are still on their feet as they drop a heavy version of a Jimmy Somerfield song:

If we weren’t on the dancefloors, we’d be in the toilets, and if we weren’t in the toilets we’d be out on deck. We made some good friends that night, and I regret not having gotten some names; but the boat party was a success, even if I felt it did run an hour too long…

It’s time for some Ministry of Sound.

I’ve been here before, after the SW4 festival last year where I saw Sasha; and now I’m returning to the MOS… to see Sasha.

One of the very first CDs I ever bought was one of the Global Underground series where he mixed in San Francisco. Ever since then I’ve followed his music, his albums, his mixes, and he was the primary reason I went to SW4 last year. He and Alan Fitzpatrick are, without a doubt, my two favourite DJs right now.

So, when Robin invited me to the boat party, and then added that Sasha was playing the MOS afterwards, it was a done deal.

I wrote about winning the lottery a while back, but I could adjust what I’m going to spend my shitloads on: I wouldn’t give up writing, but I would throw myself at it. I would follow all my favourite DJs around the world, enjoying the new cities and truckloads of drugs, and I would write and review the lot. I would be the modern day Hunter S Thompson, and I would be better at it. And I wouldn’t care if no one read it as I would be filthy fucking rich anyway. Peasants.

Sickeningly, both my phone battery and my camera battery die a death the moment we get there. I’m gutted. Devastated. But thank god for YouTube. This is MonsieurB‘s video of the entire set, squashed down into 12 glorious minutes:

The set is AMAZING, and I mean AMAZING. I’ve heard Sasha a thousand times over the last, what… twenty years…? But this set was harder… darker. It thrived, and the packed room danced all night long.

I think he played for six hours, but it probably was shorter; drugs have that effect on me, and the pills we scored in there were as glorious as they usually are in London. They certainly shit on the ones we had on the boat.

The night progressed; the music enthralled us all, the mix hard and dynamic, and people constantly cheered and clapped. I was fully immersed and loving. Every. Second.

Outside on a brief cigarette break, a guy comes up to me, and we indulge in one of my more memorable/surreal conversation:

“Hey, you’re from the isle of Wight, aren’t you?”

“Er… yes.”

“You know Tommy Harding don’t you?”

“Er… yes.”

“Do you want some pills?”

“Er…yes.”

Aaron and I hit the dance floor again, but neither of us are really feeling it as Sasha winds his set down. The pill-power is fading and we’re both flagging, so we leave.

I have no fucking idea how we reached Waterloo station, but I do recall both of us being absolutely off of our faces. We stand outside for a cigarette and remain standing there loooooong after having smoked them. I simply stare at the floor that moves and pulsates, while Aaron stares at an array of diggers across the road.

“Do…” he said, a little nervously. “Do you see those diggers fighting each other?”

“It’s time to go home, Aaron,” I say, and off we stumble, into the horizon.

And on that horizon we got caught racking up drugs on the train table by an old couple, who must have alerted the guards, who came and looked in through the window just before we reached Portsmouth.

Luckily we’d done the lot.

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Bedlam at Bedrock

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Let’s start by you pressing play on this. Y’know, for a little background ambience as you read on:

**************************************************************************

It was April 5th, my son’s 5th birthday, and I’d spent all morning with him opening presents and spoiling him rotten. Then came the evening, and a party.

Although this was no party for my son, this was an event that Erik Bruce and I went and got completely destroyed at the XOYO club in London. And what a night it was… I’d just dropped my boy, Bam, home, and was sat around at my place getting impatient and waiting for Erik to come pick me up.

However, impatience and I don’t get on at all, so I did what I do best – I got on it. Beer and bag flowed, and by the time Erik arrived I was practically dancing around my front room to one of Erik’s own mixes (as linked above, and which you should be listening to now!)

Erik Bruce and Scott Andrews

Erik Bruce and Scott Andrews

We hit the train to Waterloo, getting more and more tanked, and talking to Erik about music is like talking to me about being an idiot – it’s something we’re both experts on. I could grill the man over music and mixes for hours, and his knowledge of all things musical is something to behold. By the time we get to Waterloo, Scott Andrews - an ‘old’ friend from my days in Norwich – is already in the (infamous from lots of my other blogs) Wellesley pub.

Beers and talk flow, and again I’m being baffled by the musical knowledge of my peers. Still, the company is good, and Scott is a very articulate and passionate talker when it comes to music; and combined with Erik’s vast knowledge I’m drowning in a sea of musical bliss. And beer.

It’s time to go, and I suddenly realise that drinking/etc for the last six hours has left me three sheets to the wind, so I allow the guys to take point and follow them in a style akin to a slalom skier; desperately trying to keep his zig-zagging as organised as possible.

We get to a restaurant (I forget it’s name) where we sit down to eat. I say ‘eat’, but I’m rattling like an illegal doctor’s prescription-pill box, so I order a vodka. Yeah, that will sober me up. Erik and Scott order food. Scott eats. Erik looks at his food, and then looks at me with a face that asks; ‘What the fuck was I thinking?’ The moment is made even more poignant when a waitress picks up a rolled-up £5 by Erik’s foot and waves it under his nose (ironically).

“Is this yours, sir?” she asks him.

“BWHAHAHAHAHAAA!” says I.

After the comedy show we set off on foot to hit Motion at the Roadtrip bar, headlined by DJ Sasha Le Monnier.

My Asian Twin. Apparently.

My Asian Twin. Apparently.

Now, this is where shit gets hazy for Jode. I remember drinking more with Scott and Erik, before Robin Thurston (another fine DJ) turned up. We had some photos taken, and I was then accosted by a bald Asian man, who proclaimed himself to be my ethnic twin.

It was all good fun, and we met several more people in here who we would then bump into while in XOYO. The place is pretty big, and the state that Erik and I are in (full of Mandy-liscious goodness and beanos) means we’re straight on the dance floor, and busting out shapes like we’re Diversity on crack. Actually, the state I’m in involves me stumbling around a lot with Erik constantly nudging me this way and that, trying to keep me upright and out of other people’s way… but at least I’m having fun.

Suddenly, the nudging and guiding stops, and I’m at risk of losing myself in a sea of strangers. In the mess I’m in, this would not be good. I realise that I need to maintain a maximum distance of two metres away from Erik, simply to ensure my safe return home to Mama Ruth. However, I hadn’t counted on Nick Muir turning up – John Digweed‘s partner in Bedrock. He stole Erik from me like candy from a drug-induced baby, and the two of them were locked deep in conversation with Scotty. I did what I do best. I staggered, made an idiot of myself, and took pictures.

Nick Muir in a Bruce-Andrews sandwich. Photo courtesy of 'dogshit in the dark iPhone cameras'.

Nick Muir in a Bruce-Andrews sandwich. Photo courtesy of 'dogshit in the dark iPhone cameras'.

Releasing Nick Muir from his grasps, Erik and I started cutting some rug again. The night flies by; I vaguely remember meeting a guy called George Barnes (very friendly, and turns out we have a common friend in Brighton of all places!), and then I was introduced to Claire Yarranton and her boyfriend/husband/partner/I-forget-which – who also turn out to have multiple friends with myself and Erik. I’m introducing you to all the above people as I have a feeling they’ll all be turning up in future blogs; especially as we all seem destined for the Ministry Of Sound on May 26th for Sasha. If you fancy it yourselves, then simply let me know. It will be biblical.

Digweed keeps rolling, and the sounds are phenomenal; bringing me down from my cloud but keeping me euphoric. He plays until time, the last three tracks he plays batter us with his unique sound… and we love him for it; soaking up the beats and the vibes as the room of people bop and dance as one.

This is the shit that I live for. Some people think that I go to these events to pull women, and rubbish like that. If I wanted to, I could pick up my phone, call some girl up, and do it without all the hassle and fun of a night out in London.

Guys like me… people like us, we look at our calendars and count the days until the next musical event is on that we can plan our lives around. I/we might be smashed, but even in our states the music moves us, flows through us. Cliches or not, it’s true.

We live for the music.

Scott, Idiot, Erik, and Robin.

Scott, Idiot, Erik, and Robin.

I can honestly say that I spend most of my waking day listening to music. I was once a massive film buff – a movie nerd – but now, as a writer, it’s no longer films that play on in the background of my life. It’s always music. Mostly mixes.

But I digress. The music finishes, the lights go on, and Erik has since informed me that we stood in line for the cloakroom for three-quarters of an hour. I remember hardly anything, except for Claire talking to me. About something. I think.

Goodbyes all round, and apologies to Robin, who I have been really horrible to. I think I did it in jest, and he’s still speaking to me. Plus he’s invited me to a boat party on the Thames before the aforementioned Sasha gig next month, so I figure he’s forgiven me. Or he’s gonna push me off the fucking boat. Either way, it will be another good story to tell.

Erik then makes me walk for miles and miles and miles. We try hailing a cab, but they are all busy. Erik has since informed me that the Bedrock forums told him that no taxis turned up for a very, very long time.

So we were right to walk. However, I stub my toe, walking in a straight line (!) as we march, and it hurts like hell. Erik tells me to man up, and I limp on. I’ll post a picture of the toe that led to epic Facebook statuses at the end of this blog.

We hit Waterloo again, thanking whoever it is watching over us (Saint Marx, Patron Lord of Drug Fiends?) that the train is almost in. Now this is where I pretty much lose my mind. We fall asleep in our seats, before I roll off, laying in the middle of the floor on the 8am train during rush hour. I was completely unconscious, and Lord Marx knows how many people must have stepped over me. Or avoided our carriage completely.

In the end a woman conductor wakes me and makes me move. So I skip the seats again and lie against the wall. On the heater. And burn myself. Erik wakes me in Portsmouth, and as we leave the train, asks me if maybe I should put my other trainer back on.

I’d taken it off because of my bad toe.

Wanna see it?

And try on a little mix from Scott Andrews while you’re surfing the net afterwards. I was going to throw a Robin Thurston mix in, but it looks like he’ll be the main feature of the forthcoming Sasha blog, so I’ll get him to make me a special mix just for that one!

Fear and Loathing in Los London

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WARNING: MAY CONTAIN ALCOHOL, DRUGS, AND FUCKED-UP GURNING FACES.

It all started with this track:

And it all ended with us being unconscious on a broken down train.

In August this year, DJC-Kay and I went to the SW4 Festival so that I could finally get to see my favourite DJ, Sasha. We came, we saw, we conquered. I got home and listened to some of Sasha’s mixes and came across the Kalkbrenner remix of the track I’ve linked above. I fell in love with it, found a Kalkbrenner Essential Mix and decided there and then that I needed to check this guy out.

A quick google search revealed he would be playing at the Koko club in Camden, London, so I bought some tickets and then asked if anyone in the wonderful land of Facebook wanted to accompany me.

Step forward Stretch and Becki Beavis! My bitches for the day.

November 13th arrived, and we hit the boat to the mainland at 8.47, and I was on the vodka and pharmaceuticals by 8.48, and in Portsmouth boat terminal at 9.15 topping up our coke bottles with vodka. I know how to treat my ladies.

Our train rolled into Waterloo just after 11am, and we were due to meet Stretch’s sister – Kerry Heverin – at Victoria Station.

But first I had to take care of something. You may  remember in past blogs that I could never remember the name of the pub that you have to go downstairs to, based in Waterloo station. Well, now I know.

The Wellesley. I made Stretch and Becki come in there for a drink with me just to find out its name! And – as we walked in – a guy came running up the stairs, bumped into us, shouted “DRINK!” and then  promptly walked himself down a dead end.

He was easily one of the least weird people we’d meet this weekend.

Victoria Station was our next destination where we finally met Kerry. We were half-cut, she was like a hungover, hyperactive Leprechaun, and Bex and I stood back and let them jump up and down and shriek in their Northern Oirish accents. I think only dogs could hear them.

The Shakespeare was the nearest pub to where we stood, so, by default, was where we headed. Finding a table, the four of us sat around allowing Kerry and I to get acquainted. I say ‘acquainted’, but she spent most of the time saying things like; “Jody Jody Jody… you are really bald, aren’t ye?”. It also took her under two hours of meeting me to call me a ‘cunt’.

I decided to escape for a cigarette, and slipped outside. Where Kerry found me and continued her incessant talk AT me. I was saved by a drunken old man staggering down the road, who came straight up to us and introduced himself as “Harry Kewell Fuckwit-Cuntington.”

Seriously.

This is when I discovered Kerry and I have the same sense of humour… as we both invited him in for a drink with us.

Harry Kewell Fuckwit-Cuntington

Harry sat down with us, and informed us that he’d just been kicked out from next door. We laughed, and were about to order him a drink when the above average looking barmaid (I was almost fully steaming by now) trotted over and told him he had to leave.

Apparently, when he said he had been ‘kicked out of next door’, he meant he had been kicked out of the NEXT door of this very same pub.

Harry was amusing, and brightened an already funny day up, and as he went to leave, he leant over to kiss Becki… and his teeth fell out of his fucking mouth.

It didn’t end there. i had to escort him to the door, and then hold his hand as he took an almighty jump from the step outside to the pavement below.

It must have been a jump of all two inches high.

With Harry gone, we stood outside mourning his departure, fags in hand… when suddenly a

Goldie.

man all in gold turned up and cheered us up. Kerry talked at him a lot, we had photos taken with him, and then he left quickly. I’d like to think his name was Goldie…

Next stop is Kings Cross, where we hadn’t booked ourselves a hotel. This is where I made my first schoolboy error. I’d forgot my fucking bank cards. I was wedged up with notes, but the Travelodge only took cards… via online booking… and tried as I might I could not get the girl on reception to take my damn money.

Luckily Kerry had her card. I gave her the cash, and – after a stupidly long time of trying to use the two computers in reception – Kerry finally booked the room over the receptionists phone. Yes, it was as much arse ache as it sounded.

We dumped our gear, and hit the vodka bottles we just bought, boozing it up in true pikey style to get ready for Koko and Kalkbrenner. The receptionist ordered us a taxi (the first useful thing she’d done) and just before it arrived we bombed the MDMA that we’d stashed with us.

I don’t do a lot of MD, only on special occasions, and this was the second time this year; the first being SW4. Becki was nervous about it, as she apparently becomes a ‘complete nuisance’, but Stretch was easy about it, and I was just out for a good fucking time.

And not many people can do it better than me, if I do say so myself.

The queue for Koko wasn’t too bad, and the stream of people actually ended right at the door to a pub. We decided to join the queue by sitting inside for a drink. Vodkas all round, and Kerry stated that she had to wait for her friend… Darren, I think his name was… but I knew that any second the MDMA would rip me a new one, so I said that I had to get in Koko before they had to peel me off the ceiling of the pub.

Becki came with me as we left our Irish friends awaiting Darren, and our ‘adventures’ continued in the queue outside. As we stood in the quickly moving queue, a ‘propa Landan geeza’ leaned over the railing next to me and started spewing swear words at such a rate that even I struggled to figure out what he was saying.

Suddenly I realised that he was spitting venom at the couple behind me, and once he’d finished berating them and left, I had to ask them what the hell had happened. They told us that the ‘geeza’ had offered them tickets while they were already stood in the queue. The guy – who was German – said no, and ‘geeza’ blew up.

Although thinking about it, the other guy was German. Maybe that was enough cause for abuse.

Inside, we grab our drinks as a female DJ plays tunes that already has the several hundred

Kalkbrenner and Grigoriu

in there bouncing happily is playing some big, Euro tunes. We join in, and then turn around to find the German guy and his girlfriend dancing along with us. The German guy informs us that the lady DJ is Paul Kalkbrenner’s girlfriend, Simina Grigoriu, the Romanian Bombshell.

We chat and dance, and I ask German Guy whereabouts in Germany he’s from. He tells me a place name that sounds like Luftwaffe, but obviously isn’t, before I turn to his pretty little blonde girlfriend and say slowly to her:

“AND WHERE ARE YOU FROM?”

Her reply?

“Leicester.”

Leicester Girl, German Guy, and Isle of Wight Idiot.

Meanwhile, back in the pub next door… and the MDMA has gripped hold of Stretch tightly by her throat. And then released it. What happened next wasn’t pleasant.

Although me to tell it to you as her sister Kerry told it to me. While reading this, speak it aloud, and in a Northern Irish accent. It will help colour the situation.

“So then, Jo-dee, lemme tell ye wa’ happen’d. There was oi, sittin’ there all pretty loike, when Stretch ‘ere suddenly started makin’ faces loike a choo-choo train. ‘Er cheeks kept blowin’ out and oi suddenly realised that she was gonna boke! [*translation: boke means to vomit] Oi was a little fookin’ worried, Jod-ee, bu’ Stretch managed to get ‘erself to de bathroom. Unfortunately, she barged into me on ‘er way, and oi dropped me fookin’ phone, and smashed de fooker!”

Here, Stretch takes over the story:

“Fook me, oi jus’ about got de toilet door open before I sprayed it everywhere! It were loike water from a high pressure ‘ose! I pasted dat fookin’ toilet. Oi feel sorry for de next person dat went in dere…”

Back inside Koko while Stretch was redecorating the pub, Becki and I were dancing. And dancing badly. The MD had gripped us strong, and our dance moves involved a lot of holding onto each other, bumping into other people, and saying various things like; “Imma

Kalkbrenner's Number One fan in Kalkbrenner t-shirt... and his other hand is cupping my arse. Seriously.

fuuuucked…”; “Where did we park the spaceship?”; “Please call my mum…” and the usual shit.

Luckily, the Europeans around us are more forgiving than our English cunterparts, or they were just as spangled, and they danced along with us. At some point I vaguely recall someone holding me up. It was either the German guy or Jesus, or Paul Kalkbrenner’s Number One Fan, but my memory is understandably sketchy over all this.

After a little while, and the manic, amazing rush had been ridden, and we were fully on our way to Wonderland. Kalkbrenner was on set, the light show enthralled us, and the beat of the music held us and wrapped us in its sounds. All around we could see mobile phones and cameras held aloft as everyone seemed to be filming the opening track of Kalkbrenner’s set – one of my favourite tracks of his, “Des Stabes Reuse“. Below is the video. At around the 6.01minute mark you can hear Miss Beavis utter the words “I am off my fucking trolley” as she then cackles like a mad cat woman. I laugh when I hear it even now.

All above us in the balcony rooms people dance, but I can’t get the light in the place to do a photo justice, but believe me when I tell you that the sight is magnificent when you’re absolutely fucking rendered.

We dance and dance, and then I realise that Stretch and Kerry still haven’t joined us, and – as if by magic… or by copious amounts of drugs – they suddenly appear. This is great for me, as Stretch and I hang off of each other for the next two hours of the set. Poifeck.

We’re all together, even the elusive Darren (who I can’t recall at all, so I’m starting to think

The Three Amigos.

that the girls just made him up so that they could fuck with me), and we’re having one of the best nights ever. Paul Kalkbrenner is a European Demi-god, and every track he puts on and every drop he makes has the crowd yelling and cheering. You have to remember that this DJ is bigger than Lady Gaga all over Europe… guess sometimes those foreigners do have better taste in music.

There isn’t much else to tell about Kalkbrenner and Koko, but we all danced the whole time. Apart from when another ‘geeza’ wobbled up to us and offered us “Anyfink yoo fackin’ waaant yoo caaaants”. I can’t remember what I said but he actually went to the bar for something, so Becki grabbed me and said that we’d better get the fuck out of there.

So we did. And ran downstairs to find Stretch.

Who we found talking to the same fackin geeza.

Koko - not Kalkbrenner night but gives you an idea of what it was like.

Our time at Koko was up, but not until we’d heard and seen Kalkbrenner play another two or three encores. We more than got our monies worth, and the man plays an amazing set. I’ll definitely be back to see him again. I’m just glad we managed to catch him on his Icke Wieder tour to promote his new album.

But our night wasn’t even close to being over. We headed back for the Travel Lodge, sunk some more vodka (this time with added Red Bull), and generally sat around suffering as the MD wore off. We were struggling, but Becki had a word with herself, I manned the fuck up, we all pumped ourselves with more drugs than a branch of Boots carries, and by 1.30am we were back in another taxi on our way to Fabric.

The Hallway to Koko

We queued outside – again, not a long queue – and the three girls were called to a separate doorway by a lady bouncer while I stood behind two guys waiting to go in. The man on the door was thoroughly searching them, and I suddenly realised that the wrap of bag stuffed into the waistband of my boxer shorts probably wasn’t as well hidden as I thought it was.

He searched me. He searched me good. He put his hand around my arse (outside my jeans), and then around my shorts (inside my jeans), before he pulled out my wrap and held it up in front of me. I raised and eyebrow and shrugged, and waited for him to say those words that all clubbers dread…

“I think you better come out the back with me.”

But he didn’t. He threw it on a table next to him (probably for his own consumption later… I kinda hope so, as it was good gear) before he went at it AGAIN around my shorts.

“Man, what else you got in there?” he asked as he stepped back.

I had nothing, and told him so. And to prove my point I said; “Here, look,” and started to take my jeans down.

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” he yelled, and pushed me INTO the club. “Get the fuck outta my sight!”

I was in; drugless, but in. Kerry, Stretch, and Becki all stood at the top of the stairs looking confused, asking me what happened.

“I’ve been violated by a big black man.” I whimpered.

Fabric

Fabric as a club, is pretty good. The layout might be a little confusing, or that might be the MDMA that still rattled around inside me. The people inside – bear in mind that this is the ONLY night I’ve ever been there – were pretty much idiots. Fop-haired young men, dressed like they’ve been kicked out of the audience of Never Mind The Buzzcocks, and girls who looked barely old enough to be in the place.

Plus everywhere we looked there were people wearing silly and strange hats. I flicked my hood up to join in, and three seconds later had the hand of security on my shoulder telling me to take it down. Becki bought with her a hat with ears and long baubles hanging off of it. I wore this for the next three hours and no one said a fucking word.

Kerry. 'Nuff said.

The night went past in a semi-blur. Becki and I were fueling up on double Red Bull vodkas – with shots a lot bigger than back home, but at a cost of £9.50 each – while Stretch and Kerry drank vanilla vodkas and raspberry vodkas.

We hit the dance floor, as per usual, but the throng of people and idiots that were stumbling around were proving to be a problem, and I didn’t fancy fighting my way to the stage where everyone looked like they were having fun. If I had still been in the throes of Mr MDA then I would have.

Instead, becki and I joined Stretch and Kerry in a dark corner, where I stomped my feet until the end of the night. At one point the girls wondered off for a cigarette, but I stayed put.

As I stood there, stupid hat bouncing, feet stomping, a man around my age stepped up to me, wiggling his hips.

“Hi,” he said, smiling. “Wanna dance?”

“No thanks,” I smiled back. “I’m not gay.”

“Are you sure?”

“What? If I want to dance or if I’m gay?”

“Either.” he replied and strutted away to the dance floor.

He’s probably lucky, because if I was still ruined I would’ve danced with a lamppost. And probably would’ve tried to fuck it.

While Stretch and I were acosted by a right space cadet of a girl who looked like Lisa Loeb, (of “Stay (I Missed You)” ‘fame’)Kerry spent most of the time talking at a guy who was clearly gay. Well, clearly gay to the rest of us but not our Northern Irish friend. It was his bright pink t-shirt, and the throngs of gay men who came past stroking him and high-fiving him that gave it away.

Eventually, the days antics caught up with us… and by ‘us’, I mean Kerry, but she had been on it the day before, and I was starting to struggle myself, so we headed back to our Lodge in Kings Cross.

It wasn’t long before we were all tucked up in bed… for an hour… before we had to leave our hotel rooms. We went to Camden where we sat in a Spoons, blowing out of our arses, and it wasn’t long before I tapped out.

I needed to get home. I needed to get on that train. Stretch stayed with Kerry in Waterloo, at the Wellesley Pub (I know its name now!) and Becki and I hit the train.

Finally we managed to sit in a comfy seat, feet aching, eyes bloodshot, laughing at everything we had done. Exhaustion overcame us and we slipped our headphones in, music pumping softly into our ears as our heads fell together and we drifted off to sleep…

…before the fucking train then broke down before leaving Waterloo and we had to get off of it.

Shit cunts.

Allow me to leave you with this little gem of myself and Becki, that perfectly captures the essence of our weekend, and probably says more in this picture then I just have in over 3,000 words…

Please don't show my mum this picture.

Interview With DJ C-Kay

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If it wasn’t for the wonders of Twitter, I would never have had the opportunity to meet Cesar Sangwa – aka DJC-kay. Now a London native, C-kay was promoting his latest Smooth DnB mix on Twitter when I took the chance to listen… and I’m glad I did.Our friendship has grown, and now Cesar and I are parts of the International Mix Train Collective, where CK contributed to the last IMTC mix (‘The Drop’ – see my previous blog) as well as continually supplying people with mixes covering a variety of genres. We’ve also visited the SW4 Festival and the Ministry of Sound and shown them both how it’s done!

C-kay’s mixes have appeared so many times on my Vectis Radio show I now call him ‘Our Resident DJ’!

This is his interview.

1/ C-kay – I know very little about you, other than that I have every mix you have given me on my iPod! Tell me more about your upbringing and what/how music has influenced you into the DJ you are today.

I was Born in Switzerland, Bern in 1982. My dad used to DJ in Germany back in the 70s so he used to collect Vinyl Records when I was growing up so as a family we always listened to music. I moved to London in 1991,  but even though I wasn’t born here I definitely see London as my home. I love London, especially the Music & Art that stems from it.

2/ What sort of music did your dad play? And does this mean you’re sat on a large collection of old European vinyl that’s worth a mint?! And have you ever played any of these old treasures in your sets?!

He was a DJ back in 1976 at a Club called Tam Tam for eight months in West Berlin while he was a student. He used to play American Pop music, Soul, Disco and also African High Life. All the vinyls were lost before I was born, but my dad collected music right when I was growing up. I only found out he used to DJ a couple of years ago. I was really surprised when he told me. I actually couldn’t believe it. Its a little bit like fate if you believe in that!

3/ So when exactly did you first take to the decks? When you arrived in London in ’91? And did you start out with drum and bass?

I first started mixing to UK Garage back in 97-98. I think I was hooked to the music from the first time I listened to it. This was when I was in year 10 or 11 in high School. There was a real buzz about Garage at school. A few of the guys in my year were DJ’ing and MC’ing. My older brother and my friend used to throw local Garage events at Edgware Town Football club, North West London. I think my first clubbing experience was to Garage music. It was all about going to a club, no-one cared what you looked or dressed like, or danced like, etc. Just enjoy the music and have fun. That’s what I’m about!

I used to tape record DJ mixes from local pirate stations, Mac Fm & Lush FM. But I think the actual time when I realized wanted to be a DJ was one night in a club called Gas Club just off Leicester Square, London. I was under aged but I was glad the bouncer let me in. To cut a long story short, DJ EZ was on the decks and I was the guy standing behind the DJ Box watching his every move. I think that was probably the first time I ever saw him DJ live and I was totally Moved & Inspired. I knew I wanted to get behind the decks and get that kind of reaction from the crowed he got. He made it look so easy! But it isn’t that easy, its actually very very hard!

I’ve only just started mixing Drum & Bass this year in January. I got a real BIG inspiration to start mixing D&B, so I did it! Back when I first started DJ’ing, it was very expensive to buy Vinyl Records. The only option for me was to choose one genre, which was Garage. I was into Jungle, Drum & Bass and House Music back then too. Fast forward 10 years on and you can now buy Mp3′s for £1.50 max. Now I can mix whatever type of music I want, which is great for me!

Thanks to the inspiration I got, I’m now a now also a D&B DJ. This is great for me because I now Love Drum & Bass! :)

4/ As a big, big fan of your drum and bass mixes I’m shocked to find you only started making them a few months ago! I think it’s safe to say you’ve definitely taken to the genre like a duck to water! So, we have to thank DJ EZ for being your ‘mentor’ of sorts (as well as your father), but what other DJs do you feel influence your work? Which were the garage DJs and who are the DnB DJs that inspire you?

I think especially in Garage music, there was only one DJ! That was DJ EZ. If you know how complex and hard it is to mix,  and then if you heard him play Live, it blew me away. I don’t think anybody that I’ve heard Live came close. I think What I wanted to do is try & get to his level. I didn’t worry about any other DJs, I just wanted to find my own style and take on the biggest DJ out there in the world. Whoever that may be!

5/ That’s definitely a big question to ask; who IS the biggest DJ in the world right now? Do you consider guys like David Guetta to be DJs? Or is he too commercial, or more of a producer?

I would say David Guetta is probably the biggest DJ.  As in the most famous. Maybe even Deadmau5. But that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re the best behind the decks. I’m sure there’s a DJ/DJette out there sweating blood and tears, tearing out a club somewhere in the world. Would love to find them and hear them play!

I think to be a great DJ you also have to be a great producer. It comes with the job. It also helps you understand the psychology of music and shows through your mixes!

6/ At the recent SW4 Festival we managed to talk a great deal about music, but which DJs impressed you most while we were there?

One of the DJs I really wanted to see and was one of the first DJs on was Swedish DJ Ida Engberg . I’ve been following her for a couple of years now and she’s a great DJ and also a great producers. But we kinda spent too much in in the pub in Waterloo and missed her set. But an hour after we got in SW4, I had to switch off as a DJ and listen to the music and enjoy it! Magnetic Man was a great set! Loved it!!!!!

7/ Agreed! And we certainly bounced around to Sasha as well as Pendulum right at the end! Ok, final question… where do you see/wish to see yourself as a DJ in 5 years time…?

That’s a tough question… I’d love to see myself DJing all over the world. I’d love to DJ in Ibiza, WMC Miami, Japan, South America to New York! I’d also love to get back to producing music. So by that time my productions would be up to scratch & I would be making the music that I want to make.

But at the end of the day its only music… a wife, a couple of kids, cats & dogs running around the house to share my dream with me! :)

Thank’s C-Kay! I think we’ll end this interview with your latest mix: Smooth Drum and Bass Grooves Part 10!

Smooth DnB Part 10

South West 4 and the Ministry of Sound Messiness

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I’ve done a lot of exciting things this year, but the build-up to the 2011 South West 4 Festival had got me excited for weeks beforehand. And it didn’t disappoint.

[Disclaimer - this blog is full of swearing, sweat and drug-references. Do not read on if this offends you... actually... if this offends you then you wouldn't read any of my fucking blogs.]

C-Kay and I.

I left the island on the 8.47 catamaran from Ryde Pier after my lovely mum dropped me down there. The train from Portsmouth departed almost straight away and I spent most of the journey Tweeting or messaging my friend, DJC-Kay – a guy who’d supplied me with many, many mixes for my radio show. As thanks, I bought him a ticket for the Sunday of SW4.

Waterloo is where I meet him (ironically passing Clapham Junction which is where SW4 is nearby) and we enter Somerfield to buy some whiskey, where the 29 year old C-Kay gets asked for ID!

No one asked me all fucking weekend.

Quickly into a pub (I forget it’s name, but a mad man with carrier bags sits behind me shouting ‘I’m from Peckham!’ constantly) and we down a couple of drinks before a quick smoke, and then we’re on the tube and heading toward our destination.

We chat the whole way, swapping our favourite tracks while I dig into C-Kay’s past to try and figure out what makes him tick musically (an interview with him will follow in the next few weeks) and we swig whiskey and coke on the train like a couple of alcoholics. Life is good.

We hit Clapham Common and find the festival surrounded by metal fences, huge boardings, and big, burly security guards. These guards would become the bane of my weekend.

I get stopped and searched, and as soon as I pull out my spare boxer shorts adorned in bio-hazard symbols (seriously) the man laughs and sends me through. So, lesson learnt – flash your pants and you’re good to go… something I’ll try to adhere to for the rest of my life.

‘Inside’ the festival we see all the usual Indy Cindy girls and shirtless guys with straw hats and cans of beer, but you can tell there is a string of hardcore dance fans milling around – the kind of guys I grew up with as our musical influences were moulded by guys like Colin Dale, Sasha, DJ SS, John Digweed, et al.

Around us are various big top tents housing different kinds of music. There are the Last FM Arena, We Love Arena, Drumcode Arena and, of course, the main stage. C-Kay and I flit from tent to tent, grabbing vodkas in between, we try and figure out which tent is playing the best music when we come across a crowd that is jumping, beer that is flying, and inflatables that are being smashed into the air by revellers.

The reason – Alan Fitzpatrick. His beats were big and the tent was rocking. This is what we came for.

Alan Fitzpatrick waaaaay in the background behind the decks.

I apologise for being completely unable to tell you which tent and which DJ we saw afterwards, but we bumped into some guys who were throwing Mandy around (those that know will understand the reference) and pretty soon I was more mashed than a pot full of potatoes. Strangely… well, I say strangely, but wherever I go I’m asked if I have any drugs. It’s happened on the high street of my home town, it’s happened to me in other countries. You won’t believe how many fucking times it happened at SW4.

It actually got worse. C-Kay and I were stood on our own in the middle of a mud-patch, in the rain, having a real heart to heart when a small Turkish security guard stepped up and asked C-Kay if I was ‘serving up’ to him! What made it even worse was that I thought he said ‘seven up’… which confused shit even more. This bugged me for ages, as apparently a white guy and a black guy can’t be seen talking together in the middle of a field without it involving drugs. In fairness, I was completely space cadet, but what the fuck?

Back to the music and pretty soon we’re both bouncing around inside different tents, holding each other up, getting muddy and covered in vodka while talking complete bollocks to everyone around us.

It’s a great day. One of the best I’ve had in ages… but it only gets better.

Myself, Dan Formosa and Alastair. Alastair's hat was like a homing beacon for me all day!

But not before C-Kay pulls his Mr Elusiveness’ act. He goes to the loo, I wait outside the toilets… I’m still stood there 20 minutes later. I find him eventually, but this all happens again a couple of hours later. Now, I don’t know what the hell he gets up to, but after I’ve found him we head for the We Love tent to check out the main reason I came to SW4 – Sasha. He’s as good live as I imagined, and soon the pair of us are bouncing, and holding each other up like a pair of alcoholics at a free wine tasting party.

After we’ve seen God for a good long while we head to the main stage where we settle in for a Magnetic Man and Pendulum finale. Neither disappoint and the singalong with Magnetic Man is one of my SW4 highlights.

I first saw Pendulum when they were starting out in a shitty little club on the Isle of Wight called The Balcony. Oh, how they’ve come a long, long way since then…

Before Pendulum start a small group of Aussies and Brits rush up to C-Kay like he’s a long lost friend before asking me if I was his ‘friend that had disappeared’! It turns out C-Kay met these guys while looking for me while I was looking for him!

We stick with Alastair, Dan, Leticia, and Andy and we’re all bouncing like idiots as Pendulum take off. We’re all in a mess, and loving every minute…

Until C-Kay pulls off the mother of all vanishing acts. We lose him completely. I’ve got his wallet and his phone and Andy and I scour the grounds to try and find him, but it’s like… well, it’s like trying to find a black guy in London.

I start to fret, wondering what’s happened to my friend when the Festival finishes and the guys explain to me that I’ve got very little hope of finding C-Kay and that he’ll probably meet us at the Ministry of Sound, as luckily I gave him that ticket and he (hopefully) still had it on him.

“Ok, that’ll work,” I say. “Let’s hit the MOS.”

C-Kay in the blue shirt, Dan Formosa with the shit-eating grin.

“Er… it doesn’t open for another three hours…” Andy tells me.

Shit.

By a massive stroke of luck the gang inform me that their flat is in Clapham and that I’m more than welcome to stay with them until the MOS opens… as they’re all going as well!

So, Jode’s now sat in a strange flat in London with people he doesn’t know, having lost his friend in the middle of Clapham Common, flaked out on a sofa with a bunch of people as monky-ed as himself. Standard night for me, then.

We hit the MOS just after midnight after a taxi ride where the taxi driver doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’s up to. That’s the second numbnut taxi driver I’ve encountered today… and I thought they all just worked for us back home!

I get searched on the door of the MOS. Twice. And they take my arthritis tablets off me. Oh, and flashing my underwear doesn’t work at all this time. But, we’re in, and we’re dancing after having paid £9 for a vodka and lemonade, but, when in London…

Richie Hawtin – aka ‘Techno God’ – is the star of tonight’s show, but the DJ before him tears it up as well… although I am shit and can’t remember if it’s Marc Houle, Barem, Ambivalent… or all three! Did anyone else who went know?

Before we start throwing shapes at the start of an epic 6 hour dance-a-thon for myself and

Me and Daniel Formosa

Dan, we hit the other room to check out the music… and Dan finds C-Kay cutting some rug by the entrance! Lots of hugging and wiping of relieved brows later and the gang is back together!

But not for long…

Andy is bounced by the bouncers for having a chat with Mandy, and Leticia goes with him as he can’t get himself back in, which leave Dan, C-Kay and I stood outside, smoking, watching them leave.

“Well, we didn’t get kicked out…” Dan says in his Aussie lint and we head back inside.

The place is bouncing and Richie Hawtin is showing us how it’s done. We dance, and C-Kay tells us he’s going to go and get us some drinks.

We don’t see the Elusive C-Kay for another FOUR HOURS. This time we only briefly search, as he now has previous, and we know he’ll show up.

Dan and I don’t stop dancing until 6am. Well, I don’t. Dan stops intermittently to shove his tongue down some girls throat who’s been hanging off of him since we arrived. The boy is smooth, and his accent seems to win everyone over. The bloody convict.

The lights are about to go up, and Dan ‘C-Kay Finder Extraordinaire’ Formosa finds our mysterious buddy again. We leave, jump in a taxi, hit Leticia and Andy’s flat and spend the next couple of hours talking about C-Kay’s mixes, scouring dance videos on YouTube, and generally getting more spannered.

Alas, soon it’s time for me to leave, and with hugs and handshakes all around, C-Kay and I grab another cab back to Waterloo where we both embrace and say goodbye. It’s been emotional, stressful, brilliant, funny, and more than anything – spectacular. We agree to meet up next year with our new friends… but next year we’ll know what to expect.

But I’m not sure SW4 will be ready for our new Super Group – The SW4 Gang. I’ve already got people on the island saying they want to come following my Facebook statuses and messages.

And to Dan, Andy, Alastair and Leticia – C-Kay and I will see you next year for our yearly meet. I got a feeling it’s gonna be even messier next time around…

Oh, and when my mum picked me up off of the boat (that I narrowly caught after having fallen asleep on the train) she told me off for the fucking state I was in. And then banned me from drinking at my sisters’ forthcoming wedding.

Yeah. Right.