- It's always struck me as ironic that one of Berlin's lesser-known clubbing spots, OHM, should neighbour Tresor, a venue so central to the city's techno tourist trade. In fact, were it not for the subtle banner by the entrance, you'd hardly know OHM existed. Everything about the 200-capacity club, from the heavy doors you enter through to the lack of bouncers guarding them, feels raw and understated.
DJ Morgiana, tasked with opening at Blackest Ever Black's latest label party, was in full swing as I yanked open the final door. I entered to a barrage of glitchy sounds, as she pieced together a hybrid performance using three decks and a homemade Theremin, which she played with light refracted through crystals. Leftfield and thought-provoking, her set chimed with the label's unconventional tastes.
Hops, a regular at OHM, went next. Wielding a hefty stack of vinyl, his bass-heavy blend rumbled the white-tiled walls, while the crowd—some of whom were still wearing jackets—nodded along in time, shooting the odd stern look across the floor. The atmosphere was tense, heightened by the red glow of the lights. For a moment it felt like being holed up in a backroom rave in East London circa-2004.
The dance floor was packed by the time enigmatic UK artist John T. Gast began playing. He built on the ominous vibe with an experimental live set crammed with chunky basslines and obscure IDM sampling. His erratic tempo changes worked well in OHM's claustrophobic surroundings. While he played, his headlamp beamed out into the crowd, like a searchlight in a mine.
Timedance boss Batu closed with a four-hour set that felt more measured compared to the quick-fire nature of the preceding performances. I took up a spot at the room's rear, right by the wall of chest-rattling subwoofers. Asusu's "Velez," with its rifling percussion, prompted a solitary gunfinger to rise above the throng. At around 6 AM, in a move that showed Batu's versatility, he mixed in Larry Heard's classic "The Sun Can't Compare." So engrossing were the track's lullaby vocals and muted acid hooks that I barely noticed that the club was emptying—not that it mattered to the few who remained, transfixed.