The Summer of Love 1990 has begun.
And so once again we will witness the rebirth of warehouse fever.
In a very large secret location somewhere in London.
We promise you a night filled with excitement, adventure and, above all, somewhere to dance all night long, surrounded by thousands of people with the same intention.
Genesis and FR promotions present The Warehouse Experience.
In the house exclusively for your entertainment will be Coolhand Flex, Kenny Ken, DJ Hype, DJ Flirt, DJ Rap, The Rhythm Doctor, Mickey Finn, plus special guests.
Visuals consist of a full lighting rig, special effects and lots more.
Entry is just five pounds.
All meeting points will be given out on Saturday night. The main convoys will leave the points at 12 sharp.
Keep tuned to this station for meeting points and more information as it comes.
Genesis and FR promotions present The Warehouse Experience. Saturday night – be there.
After all the let-downs of parties being stopped, we decided to charge a five quid entry fee. We wanted to do it for free but we had to cover costs and it was a small price to pay for such a big event: ticket prices for some gigs were as high as £25. Our names were up front, which meant we could be arrested and charged for promoting the event, so we were taking a major risk. We gave ourselves two weeks to promote it and thrashed the bollocks out of the airplay, with three different commercials playing until the night before the event.
We sent our people to the meeting points and Foxy went to the meet at a club called the Shenola in Hackney. At 9 p.m. when the meets were announced, he was sitting quietly in his motor waiting for the revellers to begin arriving. We sent some workers to the warehouse: it was their job to break in and prepare the venue. At 9.15 I was telephoned by my sound guy, who was held up because some undercover police officers were plotted up by his van outside his house. He tried to throw the police by driving off in the wrong direction but they still followed him. It was too risky for him to take a chance and drive to the gaff, so we decided not to use his equipment.
I got on the phone, trying to sort out another system in time for the 10 p.m. start. I finally tracked down an old reggae sound system and crew and instructed them to meet my boys at the venue. Foxy called me to say there were a couple of thousand party animals at the meet and he was starting to panic. I said he should send some of the people, but not all of them, and I would meet them at the warehouse. When I got there, about 500 people were standing outside in the street. They were talking to a group of policemen and someone told me that one officer had said we should go ahead and have the party.
Right at that moment, one of the sound boys came outside and said he’d left some speaker connections at home. When the officer heard this, he said, ‘Right, that’s it. There’s no party here tonight.’ Two riot vans pulled up and a squad of police jumped out. They blocked the way to the venue and stood facing us. Everyone was gearing up to have it with them. A girl tried to break through the police line and was grabbed, punched and hit with truncheons before being chucked into a van. About twenty people ran forward and steamed the Old Bill. The coppers were going mad, hitting anything that moved.
The fighting stopped for a moment and a breakaway group of about 50 people headed off round the back way. They were running down the quiet road towards the building when three vans pulled up in front of and behind them. A small battle took place but no one was arrested. It was as if we were being taught a lesson by way of a good beating. But that was it – the party was stopped. There was no way I was willing to continue trying to get in, even though I knew that if Foxy sent over the rest of the people we might have succeeded. The police were not playing around that night and I didn’t want to risk a full-scale riot. We’d suffered yet another heavy defeat.
PART THREE
Pills and Bullshit
DANCE WITH THE DEVIL
Like everybody, I have many bizarre memories of the Acid House days and they’re not all bound up in Genesis and organising my own parties. Sometimes me and my mates had the very best times when we were giving it loads at other people’s events and freed from the crazy and exhausting pressures of staging the parties and having to look out for Old Bill ourselves.
I quite often went clubbing with a load of mates to an old barn in South Ockendon, Rainham. This was a great little venue that only a few people knew about. The barn had been transformed into an ultraviolet dance arena that held around 500 people. We would always be tripping off our nut, going wild to Acid House music and lost in a sea of smiley-face T-shirts.
One night a load of us went there and one of our mates, Andrew, brought along a friend of his, Paul. The guy had never been to a dance party before, or taken class-A substances, but he had heard about the tricks that Keith and I used to get up to and was advised to stay well away from us.
Amazingly, Andrew gave his own pal his first trip. I told him he must be mad. To give someone a tab and send them into a small UV-lit shed is not a good idea. The fella stood 6 foot 4 inches, so he was a big lump. We were all dancing while he stood there observing what was happening. Within one hour of dropping the strawberry tab, Paul suddenly bolted for the exit. When he reached the security-manned door he started screaming and everyone moved out of the way. Andrew went after him, leaving us lot to get on with it.
A couple of hours passed and we were sweating, so we went outside for some air. We walked over to where our cars were parked and heard muffled screaming. As we got closer to the cars, we noticed someone going mad and trying to get out of our friend’s Peugeot. We saw that it was big Paul; he dived on to the ground, got up and glared at us, then said we should go away because we were making his buzz come back. He turned around, hopped over a fence and shot off through a field. Andrew went after him and we went back inside and got on with some serious dancing. We visited the barn four Saturdays on the trot, then one Saturday we turned up to find that the shed had burnt to the ground. So that was the end of that.
THE DUNGEONS 1989
Hypnosis were the original promoters to use this venue back in late 1988 and early 1989. Licensed buildings were a blessing back then and, although this was a dingy, claustrophobic venue, most of the original people who attended Acid parties have been at least once to The Dungeons, situated in Leabridge Road, east London, below a pub formerly used by Hell’s Angels.
Promoters used the building midweek, after club nights in the West End. Punters who didn’t want to go home whilst still high on the effects of Ecstasy could release their remaining energy here. Linden C and his crew had transformed this maze of arch-shaped tunnels into a great dance space where the sound-and-lighting system blasted you to another planet. The tunnels were covered with UV backdrops and the abstract murals looked 3D when you stared at them, especially if you were buzzing. The Dungeons was packed to the max each week, before finally dying out in the face of competition from mega-sized events.
I was upstairs there one night and some of my mates were completely off it. One of them, Lloyd, had only recently started dropping Es. The pub overlooked a forecourt where tables and chairs made a perfect chill-out area and a place to cool down from the raging furnace of the heat inside.
Without warning, Lloyd suddenly launched himself through an open window. It was only a ten-foot drop, but fuck! He did a butterfly dive towards unsuspecting clubbers down below, and screams rang out as we rushed down the fire escape to check he wasn’t seriously injured.
Fortunately, his eleven-stone frame had landed on a table. It had been full of drinks in plastic cups, and fluid was everywhere. Lloyd jumped up immediately, before the security guards (flanked by us) escorted him off the property. Reasoning with the guards didn’t deter them from banning him from the gaff indefinitely. Lloyd’s only souvenirs of the incident were a lump on the head and a slight case of amnesia.
ENERGY
I first met the Energy promoters outside a warehouse in Hackney on a Saturd
ay night. Along with Linden C, we gained entrance to the huge warehouse, which could have held eight to ten thousand people. The electricity was in full working order so we called in the equipment crews and began setting the gear up.
We were carrying a huge speaker to the upper floor, which held another few thousand, when a middle-aged geezer with a German shepherd dog appeared from nowhere. He didn’t say a word as he slipped past us and out of the main door, and we continued work without giving the incident another thought. However, within half an hour a single policeman came walking up the staircase and told us that the police had been called by the owner and we had no right to be on his property. It seemed that firms in the area had started hiring night watchmen to stop anyone from putting on parties. We tried to offer the policeman a bribe to turn a blind eye and even offered to clean up the building when we’d finished but he wasn’t having it.
Soon afterwards, the Energy boys joined up with Anton le Pirate, who had designed and created a fantasy film set at the Westway film studios in Shepherds Bush. This was one of the best parties I’ve ever been to. Each huge dance arena had its own theme. I remember standing in the main room, where a massive Roman temple had been erected as a centrepiece. Lasers bounced around the arena and created an awe-inspiring spectacle. Anton stood on top of the set, dancing and giving it loads. I can imagine how he felt – this party was the bollocks.
The Cali I had dropped earlier was starting to take effect, and the music levels seemed to be growing louder and louder. I felt as if the music was controlling my every move, and spasms shook my body as the rushes went from the tips of my toes to the tips of my fingers. The music seeped into my brain cells and my mind. Submerged in music, I danced to the song of freedom. My hands were in the air, my eyes closed, and my body jerked for joy. When I stopped for a moment, laser beams were piercing the top of the studio as huge strobe lights intensified in the background. I looked around the arena and connected with the energy projected by thousands of people. It seemed as if we were all on exactly the same level.
When a special part of a record came through the mix, everyone responded. The DJ was right there with us every step of the way and took us on a journey through the archives of House music. There were people standing with their arms raised, hypnotised by the lasers overhead, singing, ‘This is, This is, This is, This is, This is, This is the real life.’ I’ll remember that party for many years to come. Fucking awesome!
CLAPHAM COMMON
Another superb event took place on Clapham Common. There had been rumours of a spontaneous party, and we joined the convoy and went in search of space. We reached the Common and found nothing happening. Most cars didn’t bother to stop, and just drove off into the sunrise. However, because it was a beautiful morning we decided to chill out for a while on the grass. Before long, a thousand hardcore party animals had converged on the Common and started dancing to car stereos and ghettoblasters.
The following week, some party enthusiasts tried to drive vans equipped with sound systems and speakers on to the green but police were quick to stop and escort vehicles out of the area. During this cat-and-mouse game some clubbers smuggled a smaller system on to the Common, but unfortunately the generator supplying the power was louder than the music. The police returned and found around 200 people huddled around the weak sound source. Somebody started throwing bottles at the law and they just turned around and left us to get on with it.
DANCE ’89
On one occasion, Dance ’89 organised a huge party in memory of the Marchioness disaster on the River Thames. This much-publicised event encountered a number of problems with the police force and the environmental health department. The police discovered where the warehouse was, and completely sealed it off within a security blanket. Nobody could get near the gaff.
An alarm was sent out, and a substitute aircraft hangar was found at sunrise on the morning of the party. The venue details were relayed through the phone lines and a game of hide-and-seek began. It was 7 a.m. when we reached the site and found a 3,000-strong queue of people stretching around the runway in front of the hangar.
None of the original promoters were on site as the staff hurried to get the systems operational. An articulated truck full of speakers ripped into song as the needle hit the first record. Before long, 10,000 people were dancing, clapping and singing in the full glare of the burning sun. Two wooden sheds, one 30 feet high and the other about half the size, made great platforms.
One of my mates, Troy, was giving it some on the highest stage while fifteen others danced on the smaller structure. Its roof looked fit to collapse under the weight, so I made them get down before somebody got hurt. Twenty minutes later, a totally square middle-aged couple approached me and said I had been pointed out as the promoter. They turned out to be the extremely angry owners, who started shouting at me. I said the party had nothing to do with me and walked away from them.
Around five o’clock I left the site and stepped straight into a war zone. Four cars were engulfed in flames and panic-stricken clubbers ran around like headless chickens as other drivers tried to move their cars out of harm’s reach. There was no water for miles and, with not a fire engine in sight, cars were left to burn. Black smoke corrupted blue skies. People were dancing around the fires. To the townsfolk it must have resembled devil worship, which would only confirm the lurid claims that were currently being made in the press. Apparently the fire had started with a discarded cigarette on dry grassland.
I left the hangar at around 6.30 p.m., went home and crashed for the night. I’d only just got to sleep when my phone rang and it was KP, who was lost and ringing from a call box somewhere near the party. He’d pulled a bird at the hangar and disappeared, only to return later and find that everyone had gone home.
I couldn’t even remember where the party was as we’d found our way by following traffic. I had a vague idea of the location but it would take a while before I found a call box in the middle of nowhere. Armed with the minimum of coordinates, I set out in search of my pal and his chick. An hour after locating the hangar I came across the couple, huddled together like a pair of freezing kids.
ENERGY – DOCKLANDS ARENA
Energy staged two huge events at the Docklands Arena and I went to both of them. The sound-and-lighting production were great, but the gigs lacked Energy’s usual vibe. They were more like conventions for Sharons and Trevors who’d come along to discover what all the hype of 1989 was about, and an army of police officers patrolled the arena for dealers and users.
I went to the second Docklands party with my mate Darren and his girlfriend Alice. We had complimentary tickets, so didn’t have to stand in the thousand-strong queue to get in. When I saw how many people were outside, I thought it was going to be a good day. Licensing conditions meant they could only run from noon to 8 p.m., which was a real bummer but a good start to legalising such events. I only had a pill and a lump of puff hidden in my Calvin Kleins, and Darren had an eighth of charlie. We got past the reception where about a hundred security men searched people and bags, and entered the arena, which was only a quarter full. I reached into my trousers to retrieve the substances and there was a minor commotion before some geezers in baseball caps came out of nowhere and grabbed hold of us. They were Old Bill.
I was lifted up and carried through a fire exit and along a maze of tunnels. An officer held my arms tightly so that I couldn’t reach the stash and drop it on the floor. As they marched me along the officers asked me what I was carrying and I told him I only had a bit of personal puff on me. He said that if that was all I had they would let me go, but if he found anything else I’d be nicked.
We went into a huge room with glass windows that went all the way round it. There were around 60 police officers in the room, some of whom were taking pictures of the crowds, while others were looking through binoculars. We had to empty our pockets before two coppers thoroughly searched us. I was asked to drop my trousers, which I did. The puff and pill fell on to the
floor and I was promptly arrested. When Darren dropped his strides his wrap of charlie fell on the deck. I heard an officer ask him what it was and he said it was speed. They handcuffed me and let Darren go.
I was led again through a maze of tunnels that led on to an upper-level landing, looking directly over the dance floor. To my astonishment, hundreds of policemen were sitting around, spying on the unwitting party revellers. The observation team couldn’t be spotted from the dance floor. There was me thinking what a positive step this party was, when in reality it was a huge police surveillance operation. The more people they arrested for possession or dealing, the harder it would be to be granted music and dance licences.
When we got to the ground level I was taken through a back door and into a van. There was a group of ten plain-clothes, black, female officers, who were dressed in sexy shorts, high heels, the lot. They had hold of a few geezers who looked well shocked. I was taken to a police station and charged with possession but my friend Darren didn’t even get nicked.
I knew the Energy organisers had the right intentions, but they’d made a mistake in even contemplating bringing the police and partygoers together. Not just that, I’d say, judging by the attendance, that they must have lost money after they’d put all those Old Bill on the guest list. That was pretty much the end of the original Energy, which was then taken over by a company in north England who continued to arrange dance parties.
BIOLOGY
Wednesday nights at the Café de Paris were essential for late-Eighties clubbers. It wasn’t a T-shirt job: everyone dressed for the occasion. You’d find all the faces from England’s entertainment industry in attendance, along with the boys from the hood and others. I met a lot of promoters at these events; meetings would usually begin with sarcastic humour, then either a friendship would develop or the companies would be set on a head-on collision course. But what was the point in promoters being enemies? We were all out to achieve the same objectives. So I agreed to help out Biology with their promotion.
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