- It was difficult to think of a starting point for this review. Concentrating on anything of late has been rather trying. I haven't been able to shake the crazed look that was in Theo Parrish's eyes. I can still picture him marching behind the decks; like a toy soldier possessed by a groove. My memory of the night is a blur, due in part to my own wretched behaviour. The cheeky devastator I had done hit me like a double-decker bus as I arrived outside the Roadhouse. I felt my eyes sucking themselves into my skull and my brain jolting itself awake.
An apt way to be too, I felt, for a night of such occasion. Cutloose is always a ferociously lively affair, but this was set to be a big one. It sold out weeks ago and I've no doubt that both my friends and colleagues would have happily raped me of my ticket and left me bleeding in the gutter had the opportunity arose. If they'd walked past on the night, then God only knows what they would have unleashed had they seen how wide the smokers outside were smiling and sampled—albeit briefly—the atmosphere escaping from the front doors.
Casting my mind back 18 months ago, I remember Theo Parrish at the Paradise Factory. The main room that night sucked up all of Theo's magic and tossed it to one side like a cheap date. It was a disappointment of massive proportions. However, in a small club like the Roadhouse, with five hours to play with, I knew Parrish would come alive. More than alive, I knew the crazy bastard would rock a place like the Roadhouse to its very foundations. And, as always, I was right.
One friend turned to me at one point and said to "I just don't know what he's going to play next." Neither did I. Neither did anyone. Things started out heavily jazz and soul influenced. The crowd was on the brink of rioting, arms in the air and screaming. Words alone can't do the atmosphere justice. Then at one point an acid track was thundered out of a pitched back cool house number and sweet mother of God, the place went berserk. He then twisted it back to a slow '80s electro number before taking it back to feverish, get up and strut, house music. This is how the night went on. A voyage of discovery…of sorts. Yet everything sounded in place; the constantly changing momentum acted as a driving force and each new track an injection of new found madness on the dance floor.
Without doubt, in the right club—with a deafening sound system to wire his DJR400 mixer up to—Theo Parrish is unstoppable. A rare treat for those that think they've seen everything. A Tenaglia for the modern day underground house and techno world perhaps? More likely though; history will paint—much like the images in my head—a truly unique picture.