- Over the past few weeks my life has turned into a long drawn out episode of Peep Show. My chickens will soon be coming home to roost, but before the hammer comes down there's work to be done. If I remember correctly, the whole twisted scene began at 9 AM on the 111 bus from Didsbury to Manchester. It was cold and I was dressed in the same clothes that I'd worn to work the day before. I had but one task: Find a red shirt and black tie for under £10. This, I knew, was key to not looking like a miserable arse at the Kraftwerk-inspired Function Room Christmas party. It was sometime around 6 PM in the men's section of Primark when realisation set in.
Handicapped by a grey t-shirt, I arrived at the side door to the Seven Oaks pub in high spirits. My watch said it was 10 PM but it had said that for more than three days. It was closer to midnight I was sure. The main bar at this point was littered with Function Room patriots wearing the pre-designated fancy dress, while the pub's regulars were taking refuge in the corners, casting a queer look over each unknown face in their much loved drinking establishment. The bar staff looked cautious, did they know something I didn't? Was this whole wretched place one big ambush for any man not in fancy dress? I needed more booze and higher ground.
Photo credit: Kris Adams
Karl Rosco was towering above the decks in the upstairs room (and the only actual "club" room) coolly shifting through an infectious breed of dub techno. His huge frame was casting a shadow against Kraftwerk's Maximum Minimum concert, which was being projected on a screen behind the DJ booth. Sporadic groups of people dressed in red and black were already starting to form on the dance floor. This night was going to be trouble, I could tell.
A little while later, about the time Jim Spratling and his streamlined hair were starting to find their rhythm, the night was creeping towards capacity (a mere 70 people). A crazed girl armed with lipstick was attacking every man in sight, plastering their lips with a thick red coating. She was caught off guard momentarily when Spratling played Larry Heard's "The Sun Can't Compare." Cheers echoed off the walls, and every able body was locked into a groove. Fever had taken the room.
Photo credit: Kris Adams
As Kraftwerk were coming to their third rotation on the big screen, Andro was thundering through his usual spectacle of low frequency raw cuts. He'd caught the mood perfectly, causing a melee on the dance floor of clashing limbs, lipstick, emotions and potatoes. By the time Arnaldo had managed to overthrow him and roll into his signature house sound, the atmosphere was past controllable. People in red shirts and black ties were beginning to form groups of three or four, portraying the early happenings of a strange new autocratic society. But as Arnaldo dropped Blake Baxter's "Our Luv" the room found its unity as thorax after thorax revelled in the repeating vocal.
Mark Turner, red lips pouting, rolled on the momentum that had been built up so impeccably before him. Layering records easily from across the four-four spectrum. The crowd's energy was unrelenting, loud screams and random embraces were occurring without warning. When the bar manager asked for the music to be turned off at the end of the night, I seriously thought he was going to be lynched...and rightly so.