GENESIS SUNSET: HEDONISM
Hedonism was set to be our seventh event in a matter of weeks and Genesis was now infamous throughout the country. No other promoters would even think about staging an event on the same night as we did. Most people who came to our events had never experienced anything quite like this before. Once they entered this world they became instantly hooked. There was nowhere on the planet that could compare to what was taking place in London.
A lost generation had found its direction and secured a place in cult history. Punks, mods, rockers, hippies, skinheads, rude boys, Hell’s Angels, soul boys, teds, casuals and now, in 1989, the Acid House phenomenon. Popping pills has been a part of most cults since day one: back in the Sixties people dropped uppers and downers like there was a world shortage. Blues, Dexys, Valium, Black Bombers and Mogadons were just a few examples of the tablets that were taken back then. However, these pills didn’t draw anyone together or break down any barriers between different cultures.
Then the LSD factor came into play and the Western world went psychedelic. The hippies were very much in line with our Acid House dream except that they didn’t unite all races under one roof. It was too soon after the oppression of the Fifties and the masses just weren’t ready for it. The hippie movement was a peaceful fun-loving cult who loved and respected all life and their fellow man. I can 100% relate to this, except we didn’t have the option of free love like they did back then. The Aids factor came into play in the Eighties and left the next generation with no alternative but to seek pleasure and enjoyment elsewhere.
Yet Ecstasy united black, white, yellow and brown people as one. At any big dance party there was an across-the-board mixture of races holding hands and giving out total love and respect for one another. Ecstasy is an upper and was completely different to any other drug. The hysteria whipped up by people going to dance parties caused a massive surge of positive energy. The E generation became the We generation. We were making history, boldly going where no man had gone before.
1988 was a new dawn. Gone were the days when our parents could confidently claim that nothing could ever beat the Sixties. We still salute the artists from that era, The Beatles, The Stones, Hendrix and T Rex, but for us the men of power were Todd Terry, Larry Heard, Frankie Knuckles, Derrick May, Lil Louis Vega, Steve Hurley, Jamie Principle, Robert Owens, Jesse Saunders and Marshall Jefferson.
The hardest aspect of staging a huge event was finding the right venue. Sometimes we’d ‘gain entrance’ to four or five buildings before making our decision. Our hunting grounds were mainly industrial estates in east and north London. Our enthusiasm could sometimes lead to us being careless, which could easily have had dire consequences. There were times when we found ourselves hiding out in warehouses while police squads searched the area for us. It only needed one person to spot us jumping over the fence and call the Old Bill and we could be in serious trouble. The very last thing we wanted to do was get nicked for breaking into an empty warehouse.
The partnership between us and Tony was working out, so instead of heading our separate ways we decided to throw a series of extravaganzas in various warehouses around London. If we could have found a suitable legal location we’d have offered the landlords a mint and Keith’s bird too(!), but finding such a gaff was nigh on impossible. Landlords were scared shitless by politicians and the threat of imprisonment, or at the very least a hefty fine.
Virtually every day we’d hit the road in search of warehouses, driving through industrial estates by day and promoting our events by night. We located a venue just off the A406 that was on two floors, and after a quick butcher’s through the window we decided to crash it. Arranging the meeting point for this party would be easy because the North Circular is a major route to the M25, which meant most people wouldn’t have to drive through town; people driving in convoy through the city would attract police interest.
As a rule, we never broke into the building before the night of the gig because a peek through the window is a good enough inspection and will provide you with the information needed to know if the gaff is suitable. Derelict warehouses were avoided for safety reasons as the police would never let the party go ahead if the gaff had loads of broken windows or rubble piled up outside.
The ideal solution was a disused building available for leasing. It didn’t even matter if the electricity wasn’t working: our sparky was a magician. Sometimes he’d even wire our sound and lighting systems to a street lamp, which had the capability to run every piece of equipment we needed.
We’d be giving out flyers outside clubs almost every night: the sheer buzz of our achievements kept the harsh, Antarctic conditions at bay. Enter the Dragon, Future, Camden Palace and Loud Noise were on our flyer distribution list. On three nights a week Heaven and the Soundshaft presented special club nights that were the focal point of the whole dance-party movement and were the longest running successful club nights in the whole of England. Once word got out from this circle that a particular party was in the brew, everybody waited in a state of excitement for the night of the gig.
Our next selected warehouse was on an industrial estate and surrounded by other storage warehouses. We wouldn’t use a factory building, because most of them had old industrial machinery bolted to the floor. Around 5 p.m. on the evening of the event, under the cover of winter darkness, we slowly drove on to the estate. We knew exactly where all the night-watchman offices were because we’d cased the area during the week. Our pre-planned route took us around a labyrinth of buildings to avoid being seen, until we reached the loading-dock entrance to our chosen venue. We jumped out of the motor, armed with steel bolt cutters, and clasped the padlock that was holding the metal doors together. One movement of the arm rendered the lock useless and we drove the car inside.
We shone three torch beams to light up the huge interior. Keith started to look for the fuse box while we ran to the other end of the long building. There were around 100 cardboard boxes, approximately two feet by one foot in size, piled up on the floor. We ripped one of them open to see what was inside. It was full of brand-new leather handbags, roughly twenty to a carton.
We could easily sell these bags for a few grand, but this was a drop in the ocean. Our problem was where to put them. We shone our torches to see what was around us and saw, in the left-hand corner, a staircase that went up to a large square alcove. Perfect to fit the boxes into.
KP found the electricity source and switched it on, saving us having to call out WD and waste precious time. We unloaded the backdrops from the motor then blacked out the windows on the ground level, which took an hour. The building could hold two to three thousand on each floor, and was clean and didn’t need tidying up.
We ran out of backdrops so the windows upstairs had to be spray-painted to stop the morning light spoiling our special effects. Telephoning the equipment crew, we instructed them to drive to the warehouse loading-dock. Within five minutes, two sets of headlights approached the entrance, which we quickly opened, and once they were inside the gates were padlocked with locks and chains. Nobody was allowed to leave the building until all the work was completed.
We fixed the projectors to the walls along with strobe arc lines, smoke machines and fan lights. The sound system had 5k upstairs and 5k downstairs, with two different rigs and DJ consoles with double decks, all supplied by a guy called Hans who had loads of equipment and access to as much as we could possibly use.
The reception area was perfect to use as an entrance to the party, and the warehouse office was turned into a command centre. I’d become accustomed to our makeshift HQs but it still gave me a buzz to stand in this room. The mobile phones and walkie-talkies on the table were our lifeline to the rest of the country and thousands of prospective punters. This bunker and nerve centre of our whole operation kept us two steps ahead of law enforcement and informers.
The phones soon sprang to life with a constant flow of callers who were itching for any information regarding a meeting poin
t or the plot in general. We had loads of money bags, binliners and clipboards, together with accounts balance sheets, which we ticked off as we made each payment to staff or for equipment hired.
Our meeting point was around five miles from the venue and had to be big enough for us not to disturb the traffic flow in the area. Sometimes we had no choice but to use selected landmarks on main roads. This point wasn’t the best of meets, but was a well-known building. Our parties were always due to start at the same time each week and invariably an hour before opening we’d get a phone call from a punter telling us there were 2,000 people at the point.
Luckily for us, by now we could transform every venue we entered at lightning speed. Within hours we were just adding the finishing touches. One of our staff arrived at the meeting point just as five police vans pulled up, and telephoned me on a direct private line to let me know what was occurring. I told him to send the party people down.
A flick of a switch brought our creation to life, and the high-tech dance arena looked like a vision of the future. I felt an incredible rush, and goose pimples did a Mexican wave across my body and over my scalp. Life was fantastic! We were 22 years old, with bundles of cash, loads of personality, untold women, and infamous throughout the club scene. In a material sense, life couldn’t be better. We were only young, and had earned the respect of the whole entertainment industry, from club owners to concert promoters.
Hundreds of cars were screeching to a halt and parking outside the warehouse. Security quickly got as many people inside as was humanly possible. Our meeting-point man telephoned to say that Dibble was following the convoy, so I waited in anticipation and worked out what bullshit story to spin them this time.
A punter told me that the police had blocked the whole entrance road to the industrial estate, and I told Tony I’d handle this one alone. I took with me my telephone, a walkie-talkie, a moody guest list, a clipboard and a snide lease. The police had already blocked both slip roads off the A406. I couldn’t see a flat-cap so I approached the nearest plodder.
‘What on Earth do you think you’re doing?’ I asked.
‘Are you in charge of all this, then?’ Dibble replied.
‘My name is Michael Mifsud and I’m George Michael’s personal manager. I strongly suggest that you move your vehicles, or else I’ll be forced to telephone my lawyer.’
‘Look, just calm down. I don’t want to have to arrest you on public disorder charges,’ he said.
‘Arrest me? Do you think I’m stupid? I have every right to be on this property and have the written permission of the owner. If you cannot authorise the dispersing of this roadblock, you had better bring me someone that can. And please let me inform you that every minute you waste in contacting whoever you need to speak to will be added to an account of events, structured by myself and handed to our legal department.’
With this warning, I gave him the snide lease. The copper glanced at it, then walked over to his colleagues and conferred with them. I got on the walkie-talkie and told them to send some workers up to the main road to direct the cars to another part of the estate, two minutes up the road. Punters could park there and walk to the venue. Dibble returned to me and said he couldn’t do anything until the chief of police arrived. In retaliation, I asked whether he realised he wasn’t dealing with a bunch of amateurs and that his job was on the line. For good measure, I also noted his name and number.
Scores of people were turning up on foot by now and so I directed them to the warehouse. The police didn’t stop anyone from walking past their cars. They were only interested in blocking cars from entering the estate. Then the clouds opened up and dropped a ton of water on our heads, which, in addition to a freezing-cold wind, made life most unpleasant as I stood there in my shirt and tie.
Every party we threw, we had a walkie-talkie code word that would indicate that something secret was about to be said. This party’s code was ‘What time are the limos arriving?’ On hearing this, I walked away from Dibble and replied ‘All clear.’ Only when I repeated this code would the person on the other end of the walkie-talkie give me the important message.
I was told that there were already 2,000 people in the warehouse. I asked for an umbrella and some charlie to be brought out to me. The A406 was by now almost at a standstill in both directions and police sirens broke the silence of the night. I knew that all those reinforcements were coming to us and butterflies flapped inside my ribcage. Four police vans and three cars came speeding around the bend and stopped by the other vehicles. Eight or nine uniforms jumped out of each van and plenty more out of the motors. In the middle of them all was a flat-cap, the big chief, the guvna, numero uno, top of the heap, the don, him upstairs, da boss, king of the beasts.
Flanked by a sea of blue, the top man walked straight up to me. I took a deep breath, put on my best posh voice and firmly shook his hand. Another officer handed him the lease and suddenly I was completely surrounded by around 40 policemen who were all glaring aggressively right at me. Now, I’d dealt with groups of ten officers before and handled that perfectly, but this was different. Very different.
‘My officers have informed me of what was said to them earlier,’ he said, ‘and I have to say that I’m not entirely happy with what’s going on here.’
‘No, no, no! Please let me inform you, sir, that I am George Michael’s personal manager. This private party is in celebration of a new single and video that will be released next month. We have giant video screens erected that will exclusively show the new video to members of the entertainment industry.’
‘Yes, but do you have any proof of your status?’ he asked. ‘Why should I take this claim at face value?’
‘I am a very busy man, sir. If you choose not to believe me, then it is down to you to prove that I’m an imposter. I have 3,000 especially invited guests from the music industry to contend with. There are ten major stars inside right now, including George Michael and Elton John. If you, alone, would care to accompany me and meet them, I’m sure they’d have a lot to say to you. Bearing in mind that you are obstructing his personal guests and causing them discomfort, George isn’t exactly going to be very happy.’
I presented the chief with the moody guest list, which was the same one we’d used on several occasions. It contained about 200 celebrity names, with some of them crossed off as if they’d already arrived.
‘The point is, officer, your roadblock is turning our most important guests away. All of this area here is reserved for their limos. Now, can you please disperse your blockade and let us do our job as smoothly as possible, without any hiccoughs or law suits? We’ll be out of your hair before you know it.’
The chief stood in thought for a moment, then said, ‘OK, fine. I am satisfied this is a private event. In future, if you plan on organising anything like this in my area again, you must arrange it with my station beforehand. Do we understand one another?’
‘Loud and clear, sir. Now, do you mind moving these cars?’
The inspector instructed his men to open the blockade and they jumped back into their vehicles and drove off, leaving six policemen behind. The cars immediately came pouring in and began parking everywhere. Although it was raining, our guests were all smiling and saying ‘Hello’ to me. Many of them had seen me with policemen on previous occasions and knew that what I was doing was essential for the continuation of the party. They’d be on their best behaviour when walking past the law.
One of the policemen asked me if I would like him to direct the traffic and help the people parking. Ha! I said I’d be grateful for any help he could give me. Then he asked me what other celebrities would be arriving that night. I asked him if he liked Mandy Smith and his eyes and mouth pinged open. I said she would be arriving within the next couple of hours, and he asked if he could get her autograph. I told him I’d do better than that: I’d introduce him to her. Of course she wasn’t coming, but at least it kept him buzzing for a few hours!
I’d told so many lies tha
t night that I thought it would be best if I stayed outside with the police. The charlie got me paranoid and I began to think that if I let somebody else man this area, they might blow my cover. The E I’d taken was also complicating matters! But I didn’t mind being there: I was having quite a good laugh with Dibble. Old Bill were OK and didn’t give a toss about our party. If it were down to them, they’d be out catching real crooks.
Suddenly a voice crackled over the walkie-talkie, saying the emergency code words: ‘Have the limos arrived yet?’
‘All clear.’
‘Listen, we’ve got a slight problem. You’d better come over straight away,’ said Dick, one of our security men.
‘No, I can’t leave my position. What’s up?’
‘I’ll come and talk to you in person. I’ll be with you in a second.’
Dick stood about 6 feet tall by 4 feet wide. He’d been a hired mercenary who had fought in most of the covert and revolutionary wars spanning the previous ten years and the stories he could tell would frighten the living daylights out of you. This guy was a trained killer who had worked for some very influential people. I reckon Dick could kill a person in a hundred different ways using only one finger. He used to do that move that Spock from Star Trek does to render an undesirable unconscious. He’d done it to some people at Leaside Road when we’d had some trouble with a few drunks who didn’t understand the concept of dance parties.
These geezers had thought the loved-up punters were poofs or something, so they’d gone all out to start a fight. Rather than kicking their heads in and throwing them out on the street, which usually happens in pubs and clubs, our security team ran up to them and gently touched their shoulder area. They simply fell in a heap on the floor. The security guys then chucked the stunned bodies over their shoulders and took them around the comer. They came to minutes later, sitting down leaning against a wall, suffering from shock. They never came back to the party, though, and after an experience like that neither would I, mate. Yet our door policy wasn’t about bashing people up: that went against everything we believed in.
Class of '88 Page 6