Class of '88

by Wayne Anthony

  ‘Right, I want everyone out of this building in ten minutes. It’s time to go home. All you lot in this area, move along. There’s nothing happening here tonight,’ said the officer.

  I grabbed a mate’s baseball cap to disguise myself and pushed one of the doors open. Keith opened the other side. 3,000 people stood facing the hundred or so officers. The chief looked shocked, but went on to say we only had eight minutes left. After what had happened at the past few events, I decided it was time for action. I wrapped a scarf around my face and jumped on to the table we were using to take the entry fee. The security circled my position and they were ringed by other punters.

  ‘Listen up, everyone, the police are going to stop this party. It’s a legal venue and they’re still trying to stop it. It’s up to us, we’re the only ones that can stop this from happening,’ I shouted.

  The crowd went mad, screaming, jeering and yelling.

  ‘Oi! You get down from there right now or you’re nicked,’ said the chief.

  I turned to the punters, working them into a frenzy. They started shouting ‘Aceeed, Aceeed, Aceeed!’ This roar of defiance filled the night air as the police surged forward. I did a swan dive straight on to the arms of the people in front of me, who passed me above their heads until I reached a safe spot where I was let down. The crowd, really enjoying themselves, started clapping. The police held their ground but couldn’t be heard over the noise. It was a stand-off: a hundred Dibble on one side; 3,000 party animals on the other.

  We all quietened down to total silence and just stared at the riot squad. The snow was tumbling down on their cold, wet uniforms and the chief seemed to be analysing the situation. I think they actually thought that, because we were screaming ‘Aceeed!’, we must all be tripping. In their eyes, this might pose a potential threat to their safety if they made any attempt to stop the party. We didn’t want anyone to start fighting, because eventually we would lose and the entire dance-party movement would also lose.

  It was a no-win situation. We knew we’d lose out if a riot ensued, but the police also didn’t fancy it – they were on the frontline and heavily outnumbered. They were also freezing their bollocks off! The chief decided to call it a night and let the party continue, and left us to it. Within minutes everything had returned to normal, or at least as normal as our parties ever got.

  It was my turn to count the money, so I took a girl with me to keep me company and got up on the walkway, looking over the dance arena, which was jammed with people. She was leaning on the rail, watching the punters go mad, and had a sexy outfit on, which I found hard to resist. I lifted her skirt and began caressing her curves. Anyone who looked up could clearly see what we were doing. I glanced at the crowd below and saw a group of geezers pointing up. She pushed me away, declaring it was her boyfriend who had spotted us. I looked down to see him and his pals heading for the staircase that led up to the walkway. I knew they wouldn’t get past my security standing guard. If they did, it meant we needed a new team. She went down to reason with him, saying she had him under the thumb, and I didn’t see her again. For the rest of the night, I continued sorting the money out.

  Eventually we brought it down the staircase to ground level and one of my mates walked up and told me everyone had been able to see clearly that I was counting money. The candle and torch light made the sheet practically see-through. We cautiously made our way through the crowd. The DJ was shouting ‘Genesis ’89!’ and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up each time he said it. The entrance was fully opened for people to walk freely in and out. When we got out front I noticed some punters arriving with Biology VIP tags on their jackets. They told me the gig was completely packed and, apart from a few disturbances because the fight wasn’t screened, it was a great night. But I must hold my hands up and say I was glad it didn’t go exactly as planned. Cheeky gits, doing a party on the same night as ours!

  We told the security to wait at the venue while we went to the safe house to split the money and return with their cut. When we got there, we shared out the wonga and chopped out some trench lines. Within ten minutes all these cars were pulling up outside the house. The entire security team came banging the door down. They said that because we took a while they thought we might be in trouble.

  After they had been invited in and given their share of the profits, the team went home, leaving us to snort ourselves to sleep. Overall, the party was pukka. It was a smaller venue than the one across the road, but at least we were still consistent: the only dance-party organisation to stage a big event week in, week out. If one of our parties was stopped people weren’t too disheartened, they knew we’d have another one next week or the week after that. Hundreds of people would call our business lines every day to check whether it was all go the following weekend.

  SECURITY TAKEOVER

  The fact that we headed the hit list maintained by the police Pay Party Unit meant that most of our gigs were being stopped by now. We faced full riot squads backed by every available officer for miles around. Police intelligence grew stronger and more accurate. With all the police appeals to the public to ‘shop a promoter’ on their hotlines, outsiders might have viewed the whole warehouse party concept as sinister. The reality was completely different. The aggression was just a front to scare the law away. Nevertheless, we and other innocent people were treated as terrorists or big-time gangsters.

  All it took was one phone call to fuck us up. It became a profitable business to plan an event on the same night as ours. On the scheduled night, promoters would keep their fingers crossed and hope we’d get shut down. It usually happened within the first few hours of us setting foot on warehouse property. The police had spies and grasses everywhere. Promoters became national public enemy number one, and a vast network of no-lifers helped to crack the tightly knit dance-party organisations.

  I received a visit from someone I knew years ago, now part of a well-known London firm, who told me his associates wanted to meet us. He had also been told to tell me that, if we didn’t come to the meet, both Keith and I would have our throats cut. The meeting place was a derelict warehouse on an industrial estate, and I knew it would be yet more nutters trying to muscle in on our security. Luckily, we knew someone who knew another fella who had been around the circuit for many years and was on a first-name basis with all the faces.

  He came to the warehouse with us. The door was open so we walked straight in. There were about twenty geezers standing in an open space, dressed in jeans, leather jackets, army greens and tracksuits. Several sports bags lay on the floor. This was getting a bit much – it seemed as if everyone wanted a piece of the action. If we hadn’t turned up at the meet, they’d have come and caused havoc at our parties. This was the best way of dealing with it, away and out of sight from the punters. The firm immediately recognised our minder and the mood changed from aggressive to passive. He told them we worked for him and that he paid all the bills. They were unhappy about it but they had to accept his word.

  Later that night, I told Anderson and the rest of our security what had happened and where the firm was from. However, the truth was that our security team were beginning to lose interest by now, because every week seemed to end on the same note. The rival firm knew we used ex-army boys from out of town and thought we, as Londoners, should give local teams the work. The soldiers of fortune were agitated at the thought of organised firms showing interest in our affairs. A week later my minder told me that one of the top firms wanted to meet with us and the security. The meet was in the same warehouse as our first encounter. 25 security members came with us, carrying all kinds of concealed weapons.

  I didn’t even want to go, but I knew our minder wouldn’t walk us into a potentially threatening environment. Even so, you don’t get much higher than the level these boys were on. If we didn’t show up, they’d come looking for us, and that would be a lot worse. We entered the cold, dimly lit building. Standing in the main room was a group of roughly 30 geezers. The mood was ver
y tense and everyone was squaring up ready to go to war. I thought it best I said something.

  ‘I know how this looks but we haven’t come here for trouble. You told us to bring these guys with us.’

  ‘This is how it is,’ said one of the geezers. ‘We’ve got no quarrel with you three.’ He pointed to us. ‘Our argument is with your bumpkin-wankers brigade.’

  On that, everyone pulled their tools out, from iron bars and baseball bats to CS gas, knives and guns.

  ‘No, hold on a second, what is it you want?’ I asked.

  ‘If you think we’re gonna let these fucking farmers waltz into town and take money out of our pockets, you better think again.

  Now you’ve got two choices, you pricks. You can walk out that door or fucking crawl.’

  ‘Everybody relax,’ said Anderson. ‘We’re all grown-up people. Let’s think about what’s at stake. In the past seven weeks we haven’t earned a penny. We’ve lost money. If this scenario had happened six months ago, it would have been a different story. But if you want to take your chances with the parties and the lads, we’re not gonna argue. We’ve had enough, it’s not worth fighting for. We’re gonna back out of the warehouse and out of your lives. The consequences are too high for so little money.’

  ‘You do what you fucking like, mate,’ the London head guy said.

  ‘If we ever see you again you know what’s gonna happen, do you understand? You bunch of fucking dicks.’

  The London firm were all screaming and shouting obscenities as Anderson’s team left the warehouse. Soon after that night I was told our mob had left the country on another of their crazy missions. We were back to square one, in urgent need of a strong team. We negotiated a deal with the London firm, who continued to look after us from that day.

  On the whole, the security teams played a small role in the arrangement and promotion of our events. Their real purpose was to safeguard the money. But the aggro had caused us untold grief, and I had to admit that at this stage our parties were beginning to get us down spiritually and financially.

  We were nearing the end of our five-month run of successful gigs and we didn’t really stand a chance of staging a massive event. Dibble was well on top, and it was hard for us to see a way forwards.

  GENESIS 1989: THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK

  We discovered a great venue in east London. It was pukka and would hold 10,000 people. We knew it was a gamble, because the police demolition men were at their peak and hardly any parties in London were going ahead. The only way it was going to happen was if you weren’t spotted before opening time, or if you had a few hundred bods prepared to stand their ground. However, we set our date.

  The venue’s ceiling reached 60 feet at the highest point, which meant we could fit in some fairground rides. Because we hadn’t organised an event for a while and most of our last run of gigs had been stopped, the only way we could get everyone’s confidence back was to go all out and promote the gig through all channels available to achieve maximum exposure. If we attracted a huge crowd from the off, there was less chance of being stopped.

  We wanted to rekindle the Genesis vibe and gear everyone up to make certain the party went ahead. It was planned to be our most spectacular event. We printed three different flyers in batches of 5,000. The first flyer had our logo and the title in green, printed on a black backdrop with a flash of lightning slashing across the night sky. In theory it looked the nuts, but the finished product was cacao.

  We printed new membership and VIP cards as well as identification tags for staff, DJs, security and ourselves. This way everyone knew who was who, which meant no arguments. If you didn’t have a tag, you weren’t one of the team. My sisters, Teena and Nichola, laminated the cards one by one. There were 10,000 members, 500 VIPs and loads of other staff tags. We booked everything well in advance and knew exactly what was available to us on the night. The entry tickets were very important: these were your bread and butter. If you printed cheap tickets, they’d be easily forged.

  We issued warnings on pirate radio that members should not purchase tickets from unofficial outlets and should always check their ticket for the official watermark. But people were still attempting to print copies, so our printer went a step further by introducing security holograms made exclusively for him. You could print a message on the ticket that was visible only when held under an ultra-violet light. Ours read ‘The Struggle Continues’.

  We went out on the town with our flying team and hit the clubs with our first batch of flyers. Clubbers were really excited when we gave them out, and couldn’t wait for the gig in four weeks’ time. A couple of days later I received a phone call from one of our ticket agents; he told me that Biology had a gig planned for the same night as ours. We thought they must be doing it on purpose to dig us out. The security wanted to pay them a visit but, at the end of the day, how can you pull someone up for having a gig on the same night as yours? It’s not as if it was around the corner from our venue and there were thousands of people going to parties, so it didn’t really matter.

  All it meant was that we had to take our promotion campaign to a higher level and put in a lot more hard work. We recorded a 40-second radio commercial, using the theme from Chariots of Fire as a backing track. I read the script from the flyer. We got in touch with several pirate radio stations across the capital, who played our commercial every hour, on the hour, every day, for three weeks. The ad was well received and evoked the desired response. Biology also moved up a gear and flooded the market with their flyers. We shared some ticket outlets and agents in central London. We hit the street with our second batch of flyers, which were pastel-coloured and featured our logo between two Roman columns.

  Genesis ’89

  The Empire Strikes Back (Is Definitely On)

  A flash in the pan, it’s just a craze, it won’t last. The tabloid press blasted us as being an evil cult. They tried to ban this style of music from TV and radio stations, they disillusioned the media with lies they read and heard. And so the birth of Acid House music was condemned as being the root of all evil, forcing the fun-loving people of today underground.

  With the government and the media on their side, warehouse after warehouse was and still is stopped whether it is legal or not. During these last two years we have seen the arrival of many other styles of music including House, Balearic, New Beat, Garage and other styles of freestyle music. Many of which have been made by young and very talented musicians of all kinds. To you we salute and to the fun-loving people of this generation we promise to you the struggle will continue, and the fight for the right to have a good time and dance all night long.

  The other side detailed all the ticket outlets and information lines. The heat was on and the challenge was set: Genesis or Biology. I knew we were confident; I wondered how they were feeling. A week before the event, we had sold 2,000 tickets.

  I came out of my house one morning and noticed I was being followed. A blue Rover shadowed my every move. Instead of doing the usual duties, I decided to go out shopping. Two undercover officers walked twenty yards behind me the whole time. In the end I took them to Henry JB’s on King’s Road. I stayed there all day with a few friends and got pissed and sent a few beers over to the cops’ table every now and then. They wouldn’t accept the drinks, but I carried on sending them anyway.

  They followed me every day that week. Our promotional drive stepped up yet another gear and we got 2,000 small green stickers made with our name and titles. These were plastered on anything in sight. They were well made and I still see one or two here and there today. We released our last series of flyers, which had a picture of a statue of Zeus on the front and the same information as the first. The Old Bill followed me everywhere, which meant my activities were limited, and they were also tailing Keith.

  We had to give a team all the flyers and stickers to flood the West End. On the day, a police team of five different cars were on us. We spotted them a mile away because of the way they were driving. I
telephoned our equipment crews to instruct them exactly where to go, and I called our back-up crew to alert them to what was occurring.

  At around 6 p.m. we received a phone call from one of the lighting riggers, who told me that they had all been detained at the station for questioning by the police. Both the lighting and sound crews were being held, and shortly after that we received word that our back-up crew were also being held. Someone must have told the police what companies we usually used.

  I got on the phone and tried to get another crew to accommodate us, even though it was late in the day. I finally tracked down a lighting and sound company, and asked them to meet us outside the venue. Our police shadow had disappeared, so we were free to hit the street. We went straight to the venue to meet the fairground guy with all his equipment. We turned into the deserted industrial street and, as we got closer to the venue, flashing blue lights came into view. Old Bill was outside the warehouse talking to the guy who owned the rides. He didn’t know it was an illegal party, and he must have told them why his trucks were parked in this quiet road.

  We had to drive by and we felt gutted. Our cool, calm, collected manner instantly turned to panic. We were at a loss for ideas. I telephoned the ticket outlets to find out how sales were going against Biology tickets. Every outlet told the same story: we were outselling their tickets ten to one. That day we sold 2,500 tickets in six hours and the total so far was 4,500. This left us with two options: cancel the event, or try to get a deal with the competition.

  At 7 p.m. I called the Biology office and asked to speak to their main man, Jarvis. We didn’t have anything to lose so I told him what had just occurred and asked him if he wanted to do a deal. He was interested, so we went to his office in south London. The offices were crammed with people running around answering the phones and carrying out all the other tasks associated with a big party night. In two words, organised chaos.