CITY OF PRETTY Subterranean Super beats

I am flabbergast at how quickly time is flying, mapped out by the speed at which my column deadline comes around each week. Tirelessly chasing a good time in search of a better story – and with the rub of an eye we are in August. London’s summer is in full swing and city life feels light, and muggy. 

 
The past week is tainted with some sad news – the untimely passing of our favourite Winemouse. Regardless of whether you were a fan or not, Amy Winehouse’s smothering voice was as encapsulating as her melodies were catchy. She was just one year older than me, joining the club of influential musos kicking over their own bucketload of excess at 27. It is rumoured that she died from a dodgy ecstasy pill. It’s quite possible she could have consumed a complimentary sample from the same ‘unaccounted for’ batch that three X-enthusiasts fell into a coma from at Fabric on the weekend.
 
Three stories beneath London’s Smithfield’s meat market, Fabric plays host to 5000 visitors on any given night. With nights like ‘Wet Yourself’, the institute of loud beats encourages a culture of dancefloor hedonism. It’s the sort of club I avoid at any cost. Sweat drenched dickheads throwing shapes on a dance-floor mapped out by laser beams allow my flailing curiosity no room for temptation. When I am invited to watch Nicolas Jaar there on Thursday night, I sacrifice my scepticism only for the sake of your vicarious entertainment, obviously.
 
Bouncers at the pinnacle of their profession funnel us into the club through a wide staircase divided by steel separators. Like cattle we are herded down the rabbit hole. With every step the bass jolts my sternum. I beeline for the bar manned by flashy barmaids in hot pants and trucker caps to throw back my claustrophobia, as the awareness kicks in that we are now 80 meters underground. The club is ram-packed, and smells like farty gasses. By now the bass is so loud that the mass unanimously gyrates to and from the speaker, orchestrated by the heaving beat. When Jaar comes on with his three-piece band, we worm our way to the side of the stage. It’s competitive placement, the feet of ephedrine have no mercy on the sober girl in a crowd this dense.
 
I befriend the tallest guy in the club to be my pillar of solitude in the tumultuous crowd as I anticipate the drop that never comes. I haven’t heard Jaar before and it’s quite a revelation. His music is subdued and bass heavy, melodic and jovial. The crowd, in turn, responds with lively enthusiasm rather than grinding jaws. I manage to throw a few shapes myself before I’m pushed out to the side by a group of 30-something women ogling the tall guy with widened pupils, bringing me back to reality. I fight to the surface in desperate need of a lungful of air, and also to escape the persistent fart smell.
 
There’ll be plenty of fresh air for me to catch as I head to the Big Chill this weekend. The Chemical Brothers open the festival on Friday eve, and I imagine this time around the crowd won’t be so subdued. I’ll need to find myself another guardian angel I think, or some elbow pads at the very least. Oh boy, the things I do for a juicy read…