Magnus Asberg, Simon Atkinson, Liz Edwards, Rochester , DJ Mee, DJ Kooki, DJ Shreddie
Those guys. You have to love them.
In typical Fusion style, the night started with the best of intentions. “A few pre-club drinks, maybe?” What was I thinking?
My night kicked off well before 7pm, with the discovery that I’d been locked out of my house. 1.23pm. Two big plastic bags full of groceries, 12 rolls of toilet paper, and I’m standing outside my house on the verge of tears. I’d only woken up an hour earlier, finding myself clutching a phone, still wearing my red suede coat and lying in an unknown living room. “Where the hell am I?” was my first thought. Memory clicked in. Barnie’s living room. I never left. I phoned my friends at 7 in the morning. And I was holding the evidence. Shit.
After several cups of coffee, profuse apologies for not managing my way home, and a coke laced with generous capfuls of vodka to kick off the edge of an impending hangover, I caught the bus home. Slumped and crumpled, I slouched in my seat, looking in a very sorry state, even for a Saturday.
I was in the process of feeling sorry for myself when Marek phoned just as I passed Waterstones. “Where are you?” he asked.
“I’m on the bus and I’ve just noticed the state of my coat. It’s covered in black shit. It looks like I’ve been rolling around in the gutter.”
“Were you?” he asked, slightly intrigued.
“No.”
Marek wanted advice on hairdressers, but I told him my people were probably already booked up. “It’s Saturday,” I pointed out.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “Do you think if I phoned up like every hairdressers, I could find a place to get haircut today?”
“No,” I said, re-examining my sleeve. Why did I leave it on the floor of Ocean Rooms? “My coat is ruined.”
“What if I call round to different places?”
“Marek, I said no.”
“I really need to get my hair cut.”
“My coat. Marek – my hair looks like a rat’s nest, I’m still wearing my makeup from last night, my trousers are dirty, and I’m wearing some scarf thing for a top…god, was is this? Do you understanding what I look like?”
Marek muttered some condolences, then mumbled something about Princess Superstar. I wasn’t getting the sympathy vote. Oh well.
“I phoned you last night,” I informed him.
“Really? I don’t remember that.”
“Yeah. At about 4. I asked if I could borrow your guns and you kept asking me what I put up my nose.”
“Really? I answered the phone?”
“Yeah. You seemed to be awake when I was talking to you. Why do you answer the phone if you’re asleep?”
“I don’t know – it might be important. I might have won the lottery.”
Nice one.
“Phone your hairdresser and you might be booked for next week if you’re lucky.” Marek promises to phone me back.
Meanwhile, I’ve been to the fashion walkway that is the Hove Station Tescos, looking charming, bought stuff, then trudged home. To find yourself barred from your own nightclub is never nice but Marek saves the day by phoning me a taxi. I wait alongside Old Shoreham being a little too Jewish Princess-like even for my taste.
Food, wine. I remember having an extended phone conversation with Eliot but I’m not sure what about. I remember making Marek put on every good record from his collection. I remember Marek disappearing to have a shower. I remember discussing the Usher dance routine to “Caught Up” with KW on the phone.
Then sleep washes over me and the next thing I see is Marek and Eliot standing at the foot of the bed trying to wake me up. “Get up, you cunt,” says Mikesh, Marek’s cat. So I do.
Eliot’s got an ipod! It’s like x-mas all over again. We walk up the chilly Neville Avenue up the emporium of good taste, the Mecca of all pubs, the Grenadier. I offer to get the first round, but the barmaid refuses to call out “Oi, you cunts, come get your drinks” to Eliot and Marek. She brings them over instead. The Grenadier is quality with an ipod. Eliot chooses tuns while I listen and observe the silent film of Marek and Eliot talking nonsense. “Try it,” I say to Marek, handing over the headphones.
We leave.
The boys order Chinese takeaway, then we taxi it down to the Concorde.
Greg waves us past. The Positive party was well underway, with sizeable crowds getting down in both the bar and the main room. Having control of the Fusion camera for the night meant I was a little less preoccupied with the music, but I did manage to get kicked off the stage (once) and I kept jumping up on the crowd barrier to urge party people down below (whywhywhy?) on. Confirmation: people were FEELING IT. My job done, I found Marek and Eliot down front doing a lot of chin-stroking, looking like New Jersey gangsters. Overhead: “You know, that dj’s not bad…” We stayed in the main room for 2 cycles, then went to check out the vibe of the bar. “Liking it…”
The thing that makes a good night out is always the personal, which inevitably makes club reviews like this myopc, slightly fractured and slightly skewed, and I’m not referring to the levels of booze and drugs consumed. I have no complaints about going with Marek and Eliot that night – they are Brighton ’s IT boys, after all – but part of me feels sad not to have all the usual suspects down that night. My personal Top 10 list of favorite people. Daz, Positive’s front man, and his girlfriend Angie were still travelling the world. Son was there of course. But, not Darren, KW, Martin or the rest of my breakdance crew. No Dickie and the rest of the Colchie massive. No Kesh, no Alex, no Nina, Will or Jammie. Sigh. Your absence was noted and missed sorely. Where were you all?
Still, that small tear aside, it was good to go down and toast the Positive crew in proper style. Okay, sans champagne, but it was a rum n coke night for me and you can’t sniff at that. I won’t give you the complete history of who Positive are, but I’ve always been grateful for and never less than impressed by their free parties over the years. The ones that stick in my head are less specific dates and more a random jumble of memories, which is what going out is all about anyways:
Black rock…summer…the mansion party…watching the sun come up…falling in love…losing all the friends I arrived with…then running into other ones…sharing beer with the Indonesian posse…the warehouse party where the dj threw down Kool & the Gang’s (www.koolandthegang.com) “Celebration” and Talking Head’s “Same As It Ever Was” almost in the same breathe…
(Note re above: I’m not talking bootlegs, but if you ain’t got enough life in your love, go play – see below.)
And the inevitable afterword: “Come on, let’s hustle,” says Marek.
“Oh god, please, not here,” I cry.
“Not the dance, you fool. Taxi – now!”
I pissed M&E plus the taxi driver off by having extended convo with Greg, then we step on it to the boy’s fave watering hole, only to find the place over-run by townies-from-hell and management desperate to get rid. “Let us in,” we implore. “I can’t,” the bar man pleads. Being the decent folk that we are, we taxi it back to Hove , where Marek feeds us the strangest alcohol I’ve ever tasted. “What are you people feeding me?” I bellow. “I said I wanted booze.”
“It is,” Marek says. I’m being nice. Drink it.”
Eliot holds up his shot glass and gives me a conspiratorial nod. I swear the stuff makes me pass out.
Apparently a fire was lit and it was all a cosy end to the evening but don’t ask me. I clearly wasn’t there.
What’s Your Favorite Bootleg?
Hot: “Galvanise” ( cry.on.my.console’s galvatron remix feat. Katie Enlow)
http://www.chemicalbrothersremixed.com/main.html
A bit silly: “Happy Behavior” (bjork/mary J Blige)
http://www.gohomeproductions.co.uk/pop/ghp_happy_behaviour.mp3
…aw, fuck it – you kids know where the good music is!
Bass x
Concorde2
http://www.concorde2.co.uk/
Madeira Shelter Hall,
Madeira Drive
Brighton
BN2 1EN
Telephone: 01273 697888
Booking office: 01273 673311
Fax: 01273 696157
Words: Amy the Film Maker
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