The night started in Maidenhead, 35 miles west of central London. There, Alex, I and 29 other mates boarded 2 mini-buses and shot down the M5 into the city. Along this ride, I felt a strong feeling of inseparable camaraderie with this British group of lads. Though previously unknown and introduced to moments earlier, this ride into London yielded no cultural or national barriers, just lads ready for a wild fucking night!
The buses pull off the street and parks in front of Fabric, London’s (meaning, probably England’s) biggest and best Dubstep/Drum & Bass club. This is not surprising, for both genres of music originated in London. Dubstep, a mix of Jamaican “Dub” music and 2-Step Garage that came to rise with London’s heavy Afro-Caribbean populace. Both Dubstep and Drum & Bass were genres previously unknown to my musical palate in the states, but ones that have grown strongly on me over this year.
We stood in queue for a bit, but not too long, considering it was nearing midnight, and that tonight was the last Friday of the month, meaning it was Fabric Live. The night’s line-up consisted of DJ Hype, Pascal, Hazard and many more. Alex in particular was buzzing about the last DJ of the night, Andy C, the “king/originator/best/whateverthefuck” of Drum & Bass music.
Filing passed security, we rolled into the Fabric, psyched with anticipation for this sick club and ready for some amazing music. First up: Plastician, one of the early originators and best of the dubstep djs, Plastician kicked off the night with an incredible set. Plastician shredded the club for 45 minutes straight, bouncing the club off its feet with each anarchic drop after the next. The loud, deafening wobble bass roared from the speakers and smashed through the throng of dancers throughout the club. My body wouldn’t stop moving. I was compelled to dance, and never stop. My body rose and twisted to the kick of the drums, to the rush of the drop. My body insisted on it. It is the nights like that remind of the accepted truth; that, at any given time, music can be as good or better than sex.
One after one, with each DJ that came on, amazing music was played, and I danced and danced, for hours and hours. I may not be much of a dancer, but my body would have no other way. I was forced to dance. The music insisted on it. (Sorry for the 2004 douchebag reference, but think Dane Cook: “No, no, fuck chicks tonight dude, I just need to Dance!”) After hours upon hours of dancing and nonstop motion, it was 3am, a cigerrette, a smoke break and a refuel was in order.
Outside in Fabric’s smoking area, which is actually a grassy area below the London street level, I mixed in with both the lads as well as other Fabric goers. If I am just being honest, everyone was really nice, really chilled out and genuinely glad that people were having a good time. If you have been clubbing in Norwich on Prince of Wales Rd., then you will know what an anomaly this is. In fact, talking to another person at all is a phenomenon. It may sound weird, but you can really tell the difference between clubs that exist with the purpose of playing great music and the ones that merely act as a intermediary between English people and drunk sex. Having experienced an abundance of the latter in Norwich, I was thrilled to be at a legitimate, incredible club like Fabric.
It seemed as if a lot of people were using this cushy 3am slot as a smoke/chill-out break, because the sesh was well-extended passed the cheeky cigarette. It was great talking to other people at the club. I met and talked to a couple of Australians (all these Australians I’m meeting, I need to go there). After sharing a spliff and talking awhile, he said, “You’ve really changed my opinion on Americans,” a quote that I cherish. Being American must have been a popular theme tonight, for, in addition the lads and the Australians, a group of English girls I chatted to were also impressed by my American-ness, but in a different way: “Oh my god! Is that really your accent?!”
Refueled, replenished and adequately revived, I rolled back into the club for another rushing of music. I seriously do not know where the time went, nor can I remember another two hours of my life that went quicker. I get my grime face on, chew a piece of gum and next thing I know it is 5:30 am and the last set of the night, Andy C.
It was important for me to see Andy C, but more so to see him with Alex. Not only was Andy C Alex’s favourite DJ, idol and inspiration as a Drum & Bass DJ, but it was Alex’s birthday, hence why all these 32 lads were here, well ... that and it was a completely awesome time, but for Alex as well. Andy C killed his set, and capped the night with a dazzling set of DJing. I saw Alex watching the stage in ecstasy as his idol would build-up two songs simultaneously, then switch quickly to a third deck and song, play it for a bit, and then drop all three at once. “Damn! What?! Holy fucking Hell!” I have still not exactly come to grips with the sad truth that, whatever it is, I will not be able to celebrate Alex’s birthday with him next year.
Andy C leaves the stage and the club begins to close down, at the wee time of 6:45 am. It is light outside. We pile into the mini-bus, simultaneously feeling musically satiated, physically exhausted, but somehow, if the club was not closing, completely fucking ready to keep dancing. The buses pull away from the club, leaving Farringdon. Headed west across London, we cross the Thames, where it is indisputably another London morning. Workers are bustling on the ships, the London Eye is turning.
The buses drive the 35 miles out of town and drop us off at Maidenhead, conveniently in front of a cafe. The lads pile in, the ever important cups of tea are served and worshipped with English sancticity. Then the full English.
Though less than an hour ago, I was inside Fabric and the night was still very much young, now I sip my tea and my sore jaw chews my toast gingerly. It has been an hour, but it is now a new day. It is a surreal feeling that I cannot quite put into words, nor thoughts. Of the many tolls my body has taken, the night has now robbed me temporarily of my critical mind and I am just left to feel, without further analysis.
My ever decreasing stamina manages to carry me the distance to Alex’s house and I crash on his sofa-bed. Its fabric feels awesome ... LW
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