I’d met up with Marek on Friday night in need of a floatation device to help me from drowning in the proverbial sea of despair over shitty jobs, shifty men and shifting fortunes. It was the first week back at work, I was down to my last £20, and beautiful boy had skipped town.
After work, I first met my good pal Ollie at the Earth, Moon & Stars for a pint of Westons. He told me that his journalist girlfriend was pregnant and he was moving to Copenhagen. His blue eyes flashed as he told me this news and I felt vicariously giddy for him. He was in too good of a mood to share my woes – I needed a friend who could understand the winter of my discotheque, someone who was possibly more bad-humoured than me: Marek! If I could get him to stop whining, maybe then could I tell someone how truly and utterly crap life was.
Two pints and goodbyes to Ollie, I wandered over the Brighton train station hump to Shakespeare’s Head, where a wave ushered me to the back table where Marek sat with his work mates. I plonked myself on a stool next to a man who looked eerily identical to an ex-boyfriend and I accused him of being a jammy programmer. He promised he wasn’t. I told Marek about the hardness of life and he agreed, then he said, “I think I fancy some Chinese.” No, he didn’t say that, but hiding my pint glass of Magners under my coat (why do I do these things?), we walked out of the pub, down the hill into town in search of food.
Like a murder suspect returning to the scene of the crime, I led us towards the Basketmakers. Marek insisted that I listen to some REALLY BAD music from his Ipod as we walked. We cut a fine figure doing a u-turn in and out of the Basketmakers listening to Beyonce. Can you say too cool for school? I didn’t think so.
We cruised up Sydney Street, down Kensingston, until we came up to the red neon lights of the Komedia. The Gourmet Burger restaurant. This place was good. I’d been here with KW during the episode where I was his freelance stylist for a day.
It was over Czech beers and a child-sized lamb cheeseburger (mine) and a Hawaiian burger (Marek’s) that we settled on the topic of NYE and why Marek wrote an ass-kissing tribute to Fat Boy Slim on the Fusion site. I spent NYE at the Slackers Convention at Concorde 2, which I noticed with some bitterness didn’t get a mention in BF’s “This Week” listing. Something was clearly amiss with the site, as Slackers not only sold out weeks before the night but they put on the blindingly good Keiretsu for those punters who thought breaks and electro were “so last year”. I fancied the look of Tiefschwarz at Ocean Room, which is where I assumed Marek had been (he wasn’t). If Slackers hadn’t been on, I would have been torn between that and partying with the Positive crew at the Lo Lounge. Isn’t NYE all about music you love and friends reunited? Por que no?
Concorde 2 was the safest bet to see 2007 in. I worked on the door til midnight, where I was able to check out everyone’s costumes – from your friendly neighborhood Transformer to the more slightly sinister Snow White, everyone made a stunning effort. The Slackers boys lorded it on the decks in their matching “Clockwork Orange” droogs costumes (fake eyelashes and eyeliner on boys is a hot look for this year, for sure!). I stopped in at Audio at 6am for a look in, but sadly didn’t stay – food was my number one objective.
From the pictures I saw on DSI, other nights looked either really fun or really crap: Pussycat Club (no-go, no way, my version of hell), Ocean Club (stylish), Positive (good clean fun), Audio (cute).
Then there were the after parties. I only went to one: the filthy, and utterly Brighton classic, Bust a Box, this time held at Pressure Point. I spent the first half hour sitting on the armchair with Jamie, laughing like a lunatic at all the sleep-deprived people mashed up on K. However, the music was so good I couldn’t bare to sit down any longer and I joined the rest of the crowd, who were mostly dancing. All around me zombies, 80s ski wear, gorillas, epileptics and Vanilla Ice. If you’d been there, you’d know what I’m talking about. Hot hot music too.
And then we get to the subject of the “Official” Fat Boy Slim After Party. I love how on the DSI site, it says held “@ a secret location near Brighton”! Was it really a secret? Or maybe this was the “official” one and not the one open to 20,000 members of the public? Who can say for sure? All I can honestly say is that you couldn’t pay me to go down to see his “sell-out” show. First, I went to the last beach gig and it was an apocalyptic nightmare, with piss lakes on the pavement and people shitting in the sea (which I was standing in!). Second, I don’t actually own a single Fat Boy Slim record/t-shirt/track/tracksuit, nor am I a big fan of his music. Sorry ! But it all points to the reason why I wouldn’t and didn’t go see his show.
I wonder why half of Brighton went. Here are my theories as to why he’s so damned popular:
- His picture is featured in the Argus EVERY DAY (I’m not joking either)
- People actually own one of his albums
- His picture is featured in every other newspaper and magazine in this city (Insight, New Currents, etc)
- He’s someone who’s made it and still lives in Brighton (I wonder if Nick Cave would draw in similar crowds?)
- His wife is famous and is featured in the Argus sometimes
- Dance music is cool
- People are Albion supporters and so is he
- He plays really really good music
- Did I mention that a picture of Fat Boy Slim appears in the Argus EVERY DAY?
I won’t and don’t need to labor the point that Fat Boy Slim is everywhere in Brighton, and in many respects, he has come to represent all aspects of Brighton culture: people, music, celebrity status, money. But can and should he be representative of Brighton? Is he? No, I don’t think so. He is many things: a white famous male DJ with a penchant for the populist touch. The local boy “made good”. Mareketing tool for the Argus to appeal to the middling masses. Brighton, with its widening pockets of multiple deprivation, its growing (and vibrant) immigrant communities, its long tradition of merry pranksters, and its chic boho intellectual circles, fails to be so narrowly and easily personified.
Similarly its music cannot be summed up with his one-size-fits-all style of DJing. Why BF decided to cover this trite (and tripe) free concert is beyond me. BF is supposed to be the last bastion of good taste, the purveyor of all music worth writing about. It’s not, however, and should not be about promoting mainstream music, which is what I contend FBS is. Free party my arse. If you like his music so be it. I don’t, so I wasn’t there. I was in the warmth and comfort of the Basketmakers at four o’clock when I witnessed a group of drunk musicians clinkety-clank spoons as they performed the ceremonial Burning of the Witch: all five FBS tickets were burned to a chary crisp as they all chanted “die witch die”.
Enough. Who needs more vile and vitriolic rage in this “crazy mixed up world”? It’s 2007, a new year, for fuck’s sake. Here’s to another shi
