Viva Espana!

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So, with the rains gone this place is heating up by the day. No complaints there. But if this continues I’ll be shadow of my former self by the time the annual august wave comes around.

 

After my weekly Monday recovery session, I ventured down to Mambo on Tuesday night for a pretty near perfect sunset, the crowds that various parties have bemoaning were out in force and after struggling to get seated on the terrace I made my way down to the rocks for some reminiscing. It was here, you see, that I spent the majority of my 1 st season, nightly without fail watching the sun leave another perfect day.

 

The changing times we’re living in often evoke memories of easier times and I like to recall them if only to remind me of how things have changed, and it’s usually for the better.

 

By the time the night was truly out I was on my way to rolling and against my better judgment headed straight to the port in Ibiza which was in stark contrast to the crowded sunset strip. Still, it was early doors and it would have been rude to not wait about until a balanced opinion was formed.

 

Heading further towards the bars at the end of the port such as the ever reliable Rock the crowds seemed healthier but that possibly because I was experiencing fleeting bouts of double-vision, and by the time I arrived at Pacha for Defected, the sight of not one Sandy Rivera but 2 was positively nauseating.

 

Defected seemed to have found their groove over the last few years. They do exactly as they set out to do providing US house for the crowds that flock there every Tuesday, and although the night took some time to get going they had the main room firing by the time I left at 5am.

 

After a few days back in the U.K. to remind me of what I’m missing I arrived back on the 0610 from Stansted in a worst state than I’d left. Thanks to Mo, my charismatic yet psychotic taxi driver who ensured this flight was yet another in a long list of those missed.

 

Touching down in Ibiza’s morning glow did have me pondering what was yet to come, and resolute that the summer was to begin in earnest.

 

After a disco nap it was straight to space for 6pm and headfirst into the party. A couple of hours listening to Tony Haze’s take on Balearic blew away any remaining cobwebs, ever the professional Alfredo, upon arrival looked like a boy whom had just had his favourite toy taken away and I was going to find it.

 

After so many years of promise and style, to see Spain in a major final was as overdue as it was ominous that they had to get past the German machine to win the thing, and that they did, at a stroll by all accounts, with the football finished and the party begun it was back to Space to do it in style.

 

My first port of call was onto the premier etage to check out Matt Playford, playing to a busied night-time crowd some future soul and retro disco, however I was here for dancing and so it was downstairs to the terraza for Layo & Bushwacka!.

 

Bushwacka! was on form, scratching and dropping his way through mix after mix with an energy I’ve rarely seen from him in the past. Dropping tracks from the likes of Ida Engberg and their own back catalogue. The crowds from the football had certainly found their way to Space by now and the terraza was throbbing to bursting point.

 

Inside in the discoteca, James Zabiela was recovering particularly well from his hivec bout but for a scratch or two telling the full story of the week’s trauma. JZ seems to be maturing more and more and picking his spells of displayism over the primary job of rocking a dancefloor each time getting closer to that electronic nirvana.

 

Next up was a toss up, after seeing too many ghosts, many who would later claim to actually be where they were not I opted for a bit of fence sitting. Hearing Riton dropping knights of the jaguar inside to a delirious discoteca was on a par to Woolly’s wrapping up his show with Didier Sinclair, but the story of the night was already written, I just hadn’t heard it yet.

 

Here’s to chasing the tide…

 

A N Other We Lover

 

 

 

 

Careful what you wish for

Literally scrolls of pages have been written about the beauty and splendour of Ibiza from the serenity of Atlantis to the humbling site of the flamencos across the salt plains, who have made a far greater effort than any of us to be here.

Yet, through their graceful personalities anywhere these birds decide to land becomes sacred, untouchable and protected by law. So maybe grace is our problem?

Throughout the history of this Island it is the people who have come here that have created its legacy and mystery. Sure the views of wonder and the enchantment of leylines et al have caught the imagination but from the likes of Nostradamus to the rock & roll icons of the 60’s to the acid house pioneers of the late 80’s it is the counter culture who have always made Ibiza the magical place that it is.

Every season people come and go, but if you’re like me there will be certain people who make Ibiza what it is to you, who carved the place in your heart where you keep all things magical, all things Ibiza.

So what becomes of Ibiza when these characters cease returning? The ideology & the incessant re-evaluation of the infrastructure would suggest that it will become the playground for the rich and pandered. Pipe-nightmare and ill-considered on two main accounts.

Yes, there is a lot more money than there once was, and why? Because of the exorbitant bleeding of counter culture who have so willingly provided the Island with it’s life-blood of finance and personality. Even the wealth that arrives on the Island in high season is ear marked as the changing and more respectable face of tourism, bollocks. The majority of these are just kids grown up, done well and return yearly in better fashion that the last. Sure where once their night out consisted of a carry-out on the beach before hitting space they can now afford to have an afternoon on a boat before enjoying the space of VIP.

The rest of the money? The famous faces and the royalty, they’ve always been coming. But they won’t always will. Not when the faces of the underground disappear and the Island ceases to provide them with their underground weekend vibeing with the normal people. That’s what they seek when they come to Ibiza, the crowds that come here don’t care if you’re royalty or just royally, it’s the way it’s always been.

So just down the road from our hallowed flamingo’s the godless bunch who attend Circo Loco religiously every Monday are told their sacred ground is a taint and a sleight on the face of the Island yet again. Promoter, Andreas has iterated that the time for reasoning has been attempted and passed unsuccessfully and now he’s going to fight. Good on him, you have to respect his loyalty to the venue and strong will, but you still get the impression it’s a battle that will ultimately be lost.

What’s more incredible that in the same week hippy haunt Kumharas has been effectively shut down due to the explicit and allowed use of drugs on the site. Read, an Ibizan institution that turned a blind eye to people smoking dope on a beach that they have been doing long before the frantic over-development of the surrounding land with eye-sore and now dilapidating hotels. It was one of the few places in the bay of San Antonio that actually still held onto the Balearic aesthetics that make this island what it is. The whole thing would be amusing if it wasn’t so infuriating.

I’m upsetting myself, so much for the chill-out centre of the world.

The good news is that there is still much to make this Island paradise, let’s get on with enjoying it while we can.

Last Friday’s opening of Manumission at their new home of Amnesia was pretty impressive. Amnesia have really pushed the boat out to welcome their new bed-fellows. The entire terrace being re-designed to accommodate the famous manumission show and required stage. Coney Island review? Think muscle bound sailors and freaky rope bound contorting ladies. Whatever floats your boat. Tune wise for the opening the had Mylo on board and judging by his state at We Love… a few days later it appears the Manumission crew were certainly looking after his needs. A good night all in, and I think a good move, the club holds a lot more intimacy than the hanger like Privilege.

As Sunday with the sun beating hard, I eased my way into the day with a few terrace coronas at home before getting down to Space for 5pm. The club was experiencing a slow start, with only 300 or so at a guess sprinkle throughout. My 1 st couple of hours were spent on the sunset terrace where Tony Haze managed to turn a sparse dancefloor into a full on by 1830. Jem Haynes re-rub of Where Love lives being a standout in a set of electronic party house with a nod to the Acid House days. Next up was Jason Bye who picked where he left off last week rolling out his techier sound to a now throbbing dancefloor.

A quick nip through to the Terraza to hear the start of the Streetlife DJs crashing out their electro sound and I was off. I had a football match to watch. Upon hitting the bars around Bossa it was obvious to see why the club was experiencing the slow start that it was, every singly bar was rammed to spilling point for the Span Italy quarter-final. A total let down as far as football matches go but as the final penalty was scored the Island erupted to the sound of blazing car horns which was to last right through to the morning. While the Italian contingent seemed to slope off into the night.

Back at Space to catch Tom Cagedbaby and his masterful control of ableton. By now the terrace was throbbing and when the man dropped his re-edit of Human League’s, do or die, my night had really begun.

On the sunset terrace, Alfredo playing his 1 st set there of the summer also had the room in raptures, the room bouncing to his classic house, and him too, not bad for a 55 year old!

By the time the sunset terrace had closed Tiefschwarz were already in their digital groove, one of only 3 shows this year but totally up for it they seemed, neither of the brother leaving each other sides for the 3 hour set which rolled along with masterful control.

Up on the premier etage things were quieting down to a permissible level after Scott Martin and Jon Howells earlier excursions. Jon, a new weekly resident this year, is a interesting sort to say the least, and he definitely knows his music, more on him later in the summer, as for me tonight was all about the Ed Banger crew, and more specifically A-Trak, the former DMC champ but now boa fide electro convert.

Serge Santiago had the discoteca positively charged with his nu-italo sound, hard to describe, but it’s like the bastard lovechild of the melodies that go with the italo genre with woolford style electronic tech. Bloody good stuff and a man that is more and more coming into his own.

At 2am Busy P stepped up to get the Ed Banger Ball rolling with a raucous intro and dived straight into the French sound crash before making way for A-trak and his final scratch plates. There wasn’t maybe enough of his turntablism skills on display that I’d hoped for but there certainly he certainly wasn’t lacking any ammunition of pounding disco fury. After Mehdi brought the night far too quickly towards 6am A-Trak stepped up to close with a cacophony of electronic noise and a battered and bruised floor showed their appreciation.

I was spent. Talk about taking liberties,

A N Other We Lover

 

We Love…being out of the frying pan, and into the fire!

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When you hold affections such that you yearn for a time or a place to return to you put yourself in grave danger of committing the sin of wishing your life away.

Easily done when you spend 16 weeks basking in the sunshine, dancing from club to club, with friends that you never spend enough time with. The other 36 are not entirely a different matter. My last correspondence seemed to end somewhat abruptly having fished one of said friends from certain doom, and although we both survived that particular episode, the writing was on the wall. It was time to go.

Arriving back in London was not as dispiriting as one might have thought, with what seemed the dancefloor of the Discoteca joining me on my first few forays in into its underbelly, namely the annual depress-fest that is the Fabric birthday and We Love’s Halloween Ball with fellow furtlers, Mulletover.

Fabric, as a club, I hold nearly as dearly as Space, however the yearly conversations I must suffer at his soiree are demoralizing, and for added pleasure this year…you can’t even smoke while some near stranger derrises your life choices. Fuck ‘em all, let God sort ‘em out, He’s got a habit for things like that.

We Love…Mulletover was a different event entirely, mainly because the majority of the crowd were in the same boat as me. However the pleasure in the reunion was only in part the success. The warehouse at the Kings Cross Goods yard (RIP) was a perfect party palace, found only too late by myself and the promoters who rinsed its dubious licensing for its last few months. Rocking out to Alfredo and Jem, in the We Love arch then an old school Geddes polishing off my night was the homecoming I was sorely hoping for.

The rest of the eight months I behaved similarly to the majority of you lot. Getting my head down when required and getting out of it with the same decree. Fleeting trips to Asia and the odd European adventure but still I was wishing my life away.

Ibiza 2008, was it really going to be the year the music died, no more villa parties, clubs being shut down, silent disco, Hierbas been banned blah, blah blah. I’ve always found myself to be blessed or stupid enough to dance in an empty room. So a little less skipping-time inside a club at the height of the afternoon’s sun isn’t going to dampen my passion, nor yours I imagine. Granted DC-10’s dusty dancing will be missed, but the truth is I rarely made most of the day events before five in the afternoon anyway, so, I shall roll with the punches as long as I’m standing.

Things change, that’s life, and you can’t deny it. Nor would you want to. Some things however mature than change.

We Love…Space, 5pm, the usual time I arrive, btw, and We Love…is definitely open for business. Andy Baxter, Island legend but We Love…new boy was building the Sunset Terrace like he’d been doing it all his life.

With the whole of the club, barring the Discoteca, open by 6pm the club really felt like it was starting to swell. The huge Terraza, marshalled by Elio Riso was taking a little longer than most as Spencer Parker; another debutant took the reigns to fill the room. Spencer, playing his trademark deep tech house, was obviously pulling out all he could to fill the room. To be honest, the new opening times I think confused a large proportion, unsure as to when to start the party proper, fyi, I think it was 7:30pm when the club stated to rock and throb as it does. A quick return to Passion for a beer confirmed this as I witnessed the soon to be familiar site of the swarms descending on the car park.

On my return, Jason Bye had just begun his season in style, playing a noticeably different style on the sunset terrace to last year, a theme that was to be confirmed the rest of the night. The usual high jinx on the sunset terrace had given way to more serious techy affair. Good call from the acts, particularly Tom Novy and Bye as the crowd were loving it.

On the terrace Smokin’ Jo had followed from Spencer, stepping up a few gears with her brand of bleepery. By now the terrace was definitely packed, however I was definitely sober, the two never quite mix.

After my weekly sabbatical to Bella Napoli it was time to get down to business. Paul Woolford, this year’s new weekly resident and brand spanker has been a busy man. Over the winter he’s released his album on 2020, provided one of the mixes for the new We Love…cd and followed in footsteps of David Guetta with his own brand of hair product, Wool-Wax, available in all bad salons, now. With a bag full of re-edits, and on this evidence, Paul’s going to have quite the summer. He provides a genuine energy when he’s playing that comes not just from the tunes he plays but the man himself.

Time was quickening as was my pace. After not seeing everybody for so long you want to see them all in the 1 st week. Riton wasn’t for hanging about, I’m not sure the boy does warm-up, but I suppose neither would I if I had the array of acid-buggery he possesses.

What was to follow took my breath away, after delving into the deepness of Ben Watt on the Terraza; I made my back to the Discoteca for DJ Pierre.

I’m no veteran, however my first forays into acid house were with Pierre at the controls, and some of the 1 st records I bought were produce by the man, so it was with some affection and a little trepidation that I made my to the Discoteca floor. However, I should have feared not, this was no retro, sure there were the classics thrown in but Acid House like this is timeless, I’m sure I wasn’t alone in my reverie as the room was charged as it only it can be. Mind-blowing, well done the man.

Next up stepped the Zombie-Blaster, Felix to take the night home, however he was going to rush it. I jumped back to the terrace to catch the sonic hotpot that 2ManyDjjs throw their kitchen sink at the packed crowd before stepping back to hear Felix close the room stinking of teen spirit. A quick night cap at Ocean Drive and the day & night was done.

It’s good to be back…

A N Other We Lover

 

we are your friends…

“Where the fuck have you been?”, “answer your phone, loser” and “call me back, cunto” are only three of the recurring questions come statements that I’ve had the pleasure of handling lately, all delivered with the vitriol and belligerence normally only reserved for the morally corrupt in our society be they rapists or American Republican’s.

Admittedly I have been somewhat elusive over these past few weeks; however my friends and colleagues alike seem to cast illusions of me merely shirking their attempts at communication where in fact I have been undercover diving deep into the murky depths of our glorious underworld, risking sanity and major organ malfunction all in the name of research.

It all started shortly after my last correspondence, 2 very good friends had announced they would be joining me for some frolications as the closing parties were about to begin in earnest, in order to protect their identity and infer their innocence their names have been changed,

Friday 7^th September 2007-10-27 

And so it was, with the arrival of Pablo and Howard, two of my very bestest friends had seen fit to come and assist me with my coverage of the final weeks of my summer of malcontent. Myself, Pablo and Howard go way back, having forged a strong bond in our adolescence it became so that in my homeland we were rarely seen socialising apart, and while fate forces it’s hand upon many relationships the power of times tide done little for our appreciation of each other. While all certainly cut from different cloth there was always an immense feeling of invincibility when the three amigo’s ventured into the underbelly of society.

Pablo, with his ease in unknown company could start a party in an empty room, and often had, was not without his frailties, often akin to accusations of aloofness to the point of banal intensity, and not being the suavest of individuals wore a forlorn look often appropriated with stroke victims, but he was  someone I kept close to my heart. While Howard a much more introverted soul, would always be there for during the bad times and the diabolical.

What better place to meet my platoon, than as the sun was setting upon a glistening ocean outside the Cade del Mar, often derided for its Bavarian friendly barkeeps, and disregard for anything not draped in white linen, this legend needs to be allowed some warranted distaste for anything which it distastes. After 25 years this bastion of chillout must have some amount of detest for the mass market it has helped produce, like all pioneers. However it is still setting the standards where other bargain basement comps will surely follow in a year or so. Myself and Howard were more than happy here in our tranquil surroundings, but after what seemed like an age, Pablo reappeared announcing there would be no need for dinner tonight as he had just had dessert.

Being his edgy self, Pablo was somewhat opposed to the idea of venturing any further than was absolutely necessary, and while he will never have any complaints from Howard when it comes to pushing boats, we retired to the sanctity of the villa to consider our imminent futures….We Love…to transgress.

Sunday 9th September 2007

The initial 2 days of their retreat had passed without serious incident, much to my surprise and relief, but this was Sunday, this was where legends were made and souls broken, what with it being a special Sunday, it was decided in advance that an early start would be required and the necessary breakfasts were consumed, so much so that we were not to far behind the all-nighters who were filing in as we arrived for Vitalik’s Sunday morning minimal manoeuvres. Ryan O’Gorman was on duty in the discoteca, as we chased our contemporaries’ early morning inebriation attempts, I was struck by the feeling that many of them were trying to heal last nights pain, where contrary we were attempting to inflict tonight’s. The operation was a resounding success, and after an ill-informed trip to the aguamar, where we flumed like day releases the euphoria of shooting down winding half-cut pipes can only be countered by the despair of the same water shooting through your already obliterated sinuses. Pablo was having none of it and demanded a return to a more adult playground, where he could continue to act like a child.

After a quick change in the communal area provided (apologies to that large family form Bradford) the bags were slung in to the car and we were back at the bar on the sunset terrace as Oscar Colorado threw down his set. Unfortunately, I’ve found that the only exciting thing about this man is his name, the first time I heard it I had preconceptions of an amazing cowboy Muppet, not that they were completed unfounded, so I suggested what I always do in these situations, vamos la premier etage.

Time and again I’ve soap-boxed about this little gem, and it was here that we chilled as the day got cooler listening to some deep house on the roof terrace on a lazy Sunday afternoon. We Love…the Small Faces.

Again while Howard couldn’t have been more content, Pablo was again getting ancy. He iterated that he came for some sweaty action, and while I suggested that I would do all I could to make his holiday memorable there was a line I wasn’t prepared to cross for no man.

Thankfully we came to an accord as Smokin’ Jo was now getting the terraza steamy so we enveloped ourselves in the masses as we came up to her funkin tech house workout. as the night tore on I recall thinking how well everyone was getting on, especially with my new friends, Pablo was an exceptional popular, but he’s always been like that, to a point where we were literally quaffing some strange woman’s champagne in the vip, she didn’t even seem to mind as long as she had Pablo’s attention.

Not one to stay to long in such environs I headed to the discoteca to catch Ben Korbel ripping it up. The Sounds man, was certainly living up to his branding as he incorporated the trancey-synths that have become synonymous with this years driving prog-tech sound, all good for another, suggested Howard, and off we went again, back to rescue Pablo from the claws of cruella.

All this as Hot Chip were taking over the reigns of the terraza, this being their first exploits on the island was going to make things interesting. Playing a more up-tempo version of their electro to an almost techno beat the crowd lapped it as they rocked through their set. I was in the mood now and going nowhere, but for the bar and back to my spot. Ben Watt had by now taken over the booth and with it the crowd cementing the legacy that he left for us a few months before.

Now excuse my professional indifference but the next thing I can clearly recall is me telling Pablo that champagne doesn’t make you float as I attempted to retrieve him from the pool.

We Love…unconsciousness

Tuesday 9^th September

The torturous soul-searching that follows such sessions cloaked my Monday as if it was one of the storms that are often associated with this time of the season but as the sun  broke through the villa on Tuesday morning I felt my demons rescind with it.

Pablo’s courting on Sunday night had not gone unnoticed and while myself and Howard felt obliged to ridicule his performance we were still more than happy to accompany him with his invitation to some VIP villa bash tonight.

Now, I’ve always hated these soiree’s for many reasons, but primarily because no-one ever invites me and secondary on the odd occasion I do manage to gatecrash an unsuspecting crowd of bona fide VIPs’ I find the banality of their company only slightly more enjoyable than my normal Monday evening self-loathing sessions. However with the prospect of free food and the chance to be in company of far superior beauty to myself I slapped the old spice on and was ready to roll.

Secluded in the pine forests between San Raphael and Santa Gertrudis lay our destination and upon arrival it became clear that this party would differ somewhat from your average sanan balcony set, breezing past the salmon canapés and directly to the bar to introduce myself to my best friend for the night I then went, two drinks in hand, in search of my first VIPs after what seemed like an age of cruising the crowds I found one, only, unexpectedly he was in the impromptu dj booth, a certain A-list dj who’s identity will remain a secret to keep his integrity intact, when questioned as to who he knew here? or why he was present, he answered quite succinctly, nobody and money. Perturbed and bemused I went to freshen myself in the bathroom taking Pablo with me we mused over the lack of present superstars of heads of state. This took more time than usual and after a good forty minutes we re-launched ourselves amongst the supposed jet set to.  Not wanting to be rude I then began to introduce myself, somewhat agitatedly back,  to my reserved company, to be met by a Russian guy here on holiday who new an Israeli who was putting the party on whom he done business with once, and then it struck, these bastards weren’t VIP’s they were just stinking rich, disgusted by my peers fraudulent claims I returned to the washroom, which done nothing to dilute my distaste. This recent presumption of money creating someone’s importance is foreign to me, some of the richest people I have never known could not be more unimportant to me if they were selling hamburgers outside I synchronised swimming gala.

My appal for my hosts expelled itself in a somewhat uncouth manner when I caught up with aforementioned stinking rich Israeli in the form of me question of what importance his wealth was to me and as such justify not only his importance, but very important status, ( I’d had a few), a man in a non-remarkable suit asked me to leave and take my cohorts with me. I left.

 Back where I belong in the grimy surrounding’s of the Limelight bar in the port  we enjoyed the hospitality of a far better host, in Ahmed, the cheery Moroccan seemed to have no boundary for his repulsion for our previous hosts manner, funny seeing as they’d never met.

P.S we thank the big man with the strings that we hear our dear friend Gerard is doing well and on the road to recovery.

Sunday 16th September 2007

After the disco bloodbath of last week I promised myself I was going to tread with more care on this one.  Arriving to catch the end of Oli Faulkner’s efx workout I was able to move around the terrace quite comfortably enjoying the wiggles and squiggles before Ralph Lawson joined him in the booth to release his drums.  taking a while to get going after about 30mins the floor was primed for some serious manoeuvres, as was I having spent the duration of my visit propping up the bar. However it was all a well thought out plan, while saving myself for Kissy Sell-Out. I hadn’t heard the freak DJ yet but his tunes and remixes had being doing damage throughout this year so I was looking forward to hearing his madness, restricted to a short set, probably worked out, as his electro insanity was quite disparate and launching with 2-unlimted is wrong in anybody’s book. the crowd soon forgave him and by the time he was handing them over he had done himself justice, although still disappointed.

Friend of the family, Bones was treating the el Salon to some unusual flavour’s but had a busier room than most for that set but onwards I travelled into the discoteca to prep myself for some Zabiela shenanigans, by now the sun was long gone and the pretty faces of the daytime crowd had made way for a more ghoulish clientele, no doubt anticipating the appearance of the dark lords Tiefschwarz. By the time they appeared the massive room was rocking to JZ’s skills justifying his recent accolade as best British DJ by DJ Mag with some manic scratching. While Succumbing to the black music of the brothers grim, I decided I wanted a spot for the return of Mehdi on the terrace, billed with closing spot of the terraza such was the devastation of his performance at the 2nd party he returned without his Ed Banger stable to truly obliterate the Terraza. Rolling through his own productions such as lucky girl, and tracks such as phantom, and a cheeky Blue Monday bootleg, to close with a bit of R.A.T.M, priceless. 

Wednesday 19th September 2007

The highlight of the Ibiza season for many years now has been without doubt, the We Love staff party, stars and clergymen alike scramble for their golden tickets to the hoedown in the hills, which this year decamped to Aura on the to San Juan.

An excellent little oasis away from all sorts of preying eyes, we were treated to culinary delicacies far beyond our usual daily breads, but it would surprise you how many in attendance don’t come to eat, trying to served at the free bar is just down right dangerous, so it was with a sense of relief that we were directed through to our dining area without any serious casualties. The staff done us the honour of dealing with our food quickly and after we had consumed our feast and the first strains of Alex’s after dinner beats fell a good friend of mine suggested that we show Pablo where the bathroom was. Unfortunately Pablo got lost on the way to the bathroom but we did meet Howard there, regrettably a catastrophe ensued, and I spent the following 2hours clawing my way around a gravel car park trying to find the exit. Oh how I laughed when I got to the other side. By this point the bar was nearly dry and but for Scott Martin’s beats and 3 hastily devoured bottles of rioja this night could have all to easily been a disaster. After a tricky drive back said friend announced he would like to make up for his earlier indiscretions, and thus retired back to his with Howard until the sun came up.

Sunday 23rd September

By now Pablo and Howard’s outstayed welcome was starting to irritate me somewhat and prior to venturing towards We Love’s penultimate party I had convinced them that their skills would be better served on other shores and thus promptly booked them tickets for the following morning, thus making this one rather emotional.

We arrived early evening, the sun still blistering, and headed straight to the sunset terrace as Tony Haze was starting his set, the floor was packed and we were ready to delouse ourselves of last nights cobwebs. The three of us didn’t wait about and got set about our goals as Tony Haze flew through his set of electro house with a smattering of surprises, highlighting with Crescendolls and a cheeky Born Slippy boot. The terrace was bouncing as he made way for Jason Bye to turn the direction down a more tribal path, all of us loving every last minute.

A little bit of a breather was required so an hour spent on the premier etage was called for, allowing us to dissect what had gone before and prophesise about was yet to come, that was if we could get Pablo away from his fans.

An often neglected caja roja was our next port where we soaked up Paul ”I don’t play breaks anymore” troubles Arnolds breaks set as he got things underway in the chew the fat room. Electro party breaks and the contained crowd were going nuts even for this early hour. But the world doesn’t stop spinning for anyone and the next place we found ourselves was in the discoteca grooving to Serge Santiago’s ubiquitous unique beats. Warming up the club perfectly for one of tonight’s headliners, One + One, ending their world tour in the same room where the concept took shape exactly a year ago to the day. Emotions running nearly as high as the duo’s charismatic manager Serge. The earlier set time allowing the massive Maidstone contingent to celebrate the end of tour in style and looking at the back bar of Space, where they had set up camp you could of swore there would of been a fleet of XR3i’s in the car park waiting to ferry them home.

Leaving them to their Pernod’s I ventured to the terrace fro Andy Cato’s last solo gig of the summer as he breezed through his proggy acid sound to a frenzied dance floor, all this and Matt & Layo had still to round things off for us. Matt having been on and off a wagon more times than a stage coach driver was on blistering form bringing the night to a close amidst howls of appreciation.

Unfortunately it was not to end their as we retired to the one+one after party at the ever friendly Ocean Drive, but even by our standards we were pushing it as fifty infused loons introduced themselves to the marina breakfast club.

My work was done, all that was left was to introduce the now quivering brace of Pablo and Howard to their waiting driver and wish them luck on their 14 hour journey.

 Hasta Lluego

Friday 28th September 2007

After the carnage of after-party, dc-10 and cocoon closing  my week’s been spent in the salubrious company at a friends villa, this man was vip2me, a close business contact of Pablo from back home he had very kindly invited me to join him in his villa which looked had been designed by Don Johnson, everything was to hand to a point where after Thursday’s small get together finished sometime around Saturday afternoon I don’t know who felt more used, me or him, all innocently on both our parts I’m sure. Good company, good sounds, great security.

Sunday 30th September 2007

So, is this it, 16 long weeks and it’s come to this, but this wasn’t time for reflection that would come. Today was about the closing party and the chaos that would unfold over the following day(s). Even by normal standards this one was ridiculous in size. It started for me on the terraza, just gone high noon as Dave Beer was playing to the early crowd still rolling from his earlier exploits in Leeds at Basics the night before that man was on form, taking into account the time of day and keep it friendly with a few classics. After Tony Haze had done his bit it was Dave’s sparring partner Buckley’s turn to up the gains as this session got into itself. Serge Santiago then picked up the reign’s and by now I was rolling, not a good sign seeing as there was still 14 hours to go, but the rest of crowd seemed to have the same idea, unable than to do anything other than party to Serge’s techy electro. All this and all of my friends weren’t even talking to me, more converned as to where Pablo and Howard had got to.

Upstairs Scott Martin was getting all emotional playing his final sunsets, and as I came to party I headed for the darkness of the discoteca to feel Oli Faulkner ripping up the first of the days zombies. On the terrace the renaissance man, Cassius was showing what we missed last year, by stepping up with a bag of house delights with that French touch that I love to go for, and so I did. On the dancefloor properly for the first time of the day, the man tore up the terraza as the sun was going down, it was properly packed by now, but the crowd had somehow agree to move in unison to avoid any agro. An unexpected extended set from the Frenchman was well received as Paul Woolford had forgot to set his alarm clock again, but when he did come on was well worth the wait. Flying straight into Man with Guitar. Things were heading along quite nicely.

It was then David Guetta’s turn to bring his selection of upfront house to the terrace, obviously a main draw for a lot of the crowd, although not for me. So I went for some much needed downtime in the el salon. By the time I had recharged the gigolo’s were displaying their wares in the form of a short set from label man David Careta, a huge clued up crowd had been waiting patiently for this and as Hell oversaw his prodigy he must have pleased with the ‘floors response to one of his main men’s sounds.

This was where I was to remain until that is I got the call that 2manydjs were about to bring it to the terraza, so I returned to my spot and pounded the dance floor with all the other delirious punters, having to catch a flight the brothers left bang on 6 which left it up to resident David Phillips and little help from Bones to close what has been an indescribable summer, apart from the fact I’ve been describing it for you. badly

Is this it?

Is it fuck!

I’ll be in touch soon with more of my innate ramblings

A N Other We Lover

www.welove-music.com

www.myspace.com/welove_music 

hip hop hooray…

I’ve never accepted the auto-negativity of the “what goes up must come down” brigade having always satisfied my unjustified optimism with my own “what comes down must go up” mantra, screw Newton and his apple-cart. It is with this sense of unbridalled sanguinity that I’m embracing September having survived the madness of August and while sad in the knowledge the end is nigh excited by the fact that the best is yet to come. It is widely agreed that September holds more allure to the majority of people here than any other month of the year, the restaurants are quieter, the roads less hazardous and the weather brings an ethereal spring like quality to it. The clubs are filled with a slightly more discerning crowd that are ready for one final push of hedonism before the doors close on the final closing parties. But we still have some way to go yet.

Wednesday nights habitual culinery treat led me to bambuddha grove, Jon Moon’s disturbing fusion of tantric sex and thai cuisine, decorated with all the vigour of an acid casualty pining for his lost soul. I hadn’t been up here in a while, mainly due to my realisation in previous seasons that the food rarely matched up to it’s accolade of being a must visit on the ibiza resaturant circuit. However my misgivings have done nothing to stem it’s firm inclusion in the consciousness of many clubbers who make it their main night out for a slap up meal when their appetites return. It was under such duress that I found myself there the other night and I’m big enough to admit when I’m wrong. My memories and experience could not have been more disparate. While I found the incessant burning of incense and aforementioned Pollock inspired neon-assault on the walls verging on the nauseus the food was anything but. The fillet I had rivalled any other I’ve had on this island and the wasabi-mash served as much appreciated sinus clearer. My cheesecake dessert was the only genuine attempt at it I’ve found over here and staff couldn’t have been more attentive if my shirt was made out of 500 euro bills. Respect is due.

The following night I continued my adventures at Privilege for Monza I shuffled as enhusiastically as I could to Magda’s brand of gypsy techno, as aurally inoffencsive I found her groove, I couldn’t manage to do anymore than that, so retired back to the villa for somemore appropriate sedatives.

On to Sunday and not that we tend to need it but we yet another excuse to get down to our birthday suits, as Sasha returned to host his annual knees-up. But the big man could wait, I launched into this session while the sun was still up as Jason Bye had the sunset terrace rolling to his trademark beats mixing up his electro tribal sound with some of the seasons big hitters, highlight being being tune of the summer contender, transit time.

After I had built up enough of a sweat it was upstairs to the Premier Etage to catch some Alex Wolfenden toying with the last of the days sun and throwing everything from MJ to Al Green at the swelling numbers.

But night had arrived and it was time to get down to the serious business, Groove Armada had returned and by the time it struck midnight the terrace was jumping in unison to the duo’s party set, I was in the middle of it all, loving it. From there to my first foray into the discoteca where behrouz was playing a stormig progressive techno set warming the way for birthday boy Sasha to take over the controls, no doubt a lot of the crowds headliner as his sets become fewer and farther due to his stateside commitments I was bowled away having not heard him in such a long time. Really bouncy acid with the effects over the top that made you feel like you were turning inside out.

After which it was the turn of protege James Zabiela to run the night home bringing his skills to the closing set as the crowds pounded to the last beat.

 Here’s to Birthdays

A N Other We Lover

www.welove-music.com

www.myspace.com/welove_music

Ain’t no sunshine…

Forget the the Coccon after parties or the ridiculous haircuts, to be regarded as a true ibizan seasoner the must have has to be the quintessential beubonic august flu. You really can’t get though August without, yes for the past 4 days I have been transformed into a quivering wreck with all the motor skills of an altsheimer sufferer fresh from the gym.As my body has slowly been shutting down one would hope for the care and sympathies of ones fellow man, even if it’s just for Karma’s sake but all I’ve been offered is the witticisms that go along the lines of “flu eh, Columbian” yes fuckwit, I’m suffering from Columbian flu, the cartels of south America have amassed their multi-billion pound empires on the back of rendering their clientele trembling wimpering shadows of their former selves, Max Clifford couldn’t have done a better pr job, I hear the warlords in Afghanistan are working on a side-effect that causes their poppies to make their users eyes bleed, all in the hope that it will make their product a little more marketable to the no brainer imbeciles who continue to mock my pain, happy smoking.So you will forgive my usual optimistic outlooks being somewhat vacant this week as the pain filters through my defunct shell with every letter I type. Anyway’s those of you who may be interested in my usual movements, I doubt will be less interested with the amount of discharge I have produced or the brain-numbing movies I have watched during my convalescence.Friday night and the darkness of the week is becoming light again, feeling somewhat frisky and adventurous to try out my renewed sense of mobility I decided to give Manumission a crack after my somewhat unsavoury observations of yesterweek. Manumission having debunked from Privilege have now joined forces with Made In Italy to present of a megamix of splendid variety. But I wasn’t going with any preconceptions.On arriving I was surprised by just how similar both crowds were, less the language barrier and obvious fashion tastes. The displeasure at each crowds attendance was palpatable. One love, eh.The lineup was huge however with Made in Italy supplying We Lover Steve Lawler while Ammunition presenting an array of talent including Mark Ronson, Arctic Monkeys, Tom Middleton and Fatboy Slim. Unfortunately I was not alone in my observations that instead of the cutting musical diversity that I hoped for instead was a jumble of anarchic disfluency.

And so, I headed back under my rock with mixed feelings of bewilderment and disappointment. Tomorrow’s another day.

And so it was, after the week I had I thought it best to renew my substandard pigmentation to white after I had descended to a mucky shade of grey after my infirmity so it was not until after 5 in the afternoon that I got my now unofficial starters pistol that is Elio Riso laying down the last of his afternoons beats to make way for Tony Haze. After 2 hours of slowly picking up the pace the terraza was heaving as the sun started to set and the disturbing site of Dave Beer was visible in the booth from the dancefloor, complete with inflatable guitar, I wasn’t ready for this, I’m a sick man.

Over on the Sunset Terrace the peak time crowds for that room, the masses were jumping to Tom Novy’s house, with Tom seemingly enjoying it as much as anyone. The fluency was perfect as the upfront crowds left the openair terrace to descend on the terraza which was starting to groove to Dimitri From Paris’ grooves, making his debut for the party he was visibly blown away by the enormity of the space. The man’s legacy has already been written is the history books but I think this was a new challenge even for him, and I have to give his dues as he went though his box picking up disco classic after classic, next it was Andy Catos turn to fly solo from the booth enjoying the freedom away from his usual constraints to produce a more progressive acidic sound that ebbed and flowed nicely.

In the disctoeca Smokin Jo was presiding over her goons as the Nude/Warehouse collaboration took over the discoteca for 3 hours of freaks and geeks. Transforming the room into a circus on the right side of wrongness with the back drop of Jo’s slamming tech house, quite the spectacle. After which Ewan Pearson picked up the pieces and drove my night home. Enough to make you sick.

Bit’s and Pieces

A N Other We Lover

www.welove-music.com

www.myspace/welove_music

  

don’t stop me now…

Don’t stop me now, I’m having such a good time I’m having a ball…. Stated our Freddie, now allow me to be so bold but, our old friend hindsight may suggest that one of Freddie’s aides may have been well advised to have a word in his shell-like as apparently there is too much of a good thing when choosing with which vice you prefer to take it’s grip.Indeed it seems word’s was about the only thing that Freddie didn’t like mincing, this is coming from a man that wrote an aria in Latin about Barcelona and decided to premiere it where… Ibiza, Now, those not familiar with regional rivalries accustom yourself with these three distinct letters Eee Tee Aaa.Now what Freddie chose to do with the rest of his balls is open to debate but that particular show of lunacy has to be applauded. Now with the impending anniversary of the Kings passing, and I swear I’ve never been in a chippie where anybody has ever resembled Elvis though I once did have a passing thought of a charismatic potato, but that man’s no longer with us. Freddie did seem to leave some of his more disturbing spirits with us. For on that site that was Ku, there seems to be a lasting madness that only true genius could have created. How could the enduring allure of Manumission have survived 12 strong years in which are tantamount to Bedlam. Also how could the responsible parties allow relations to become so strained as to result in the recent extrication of the hosts from their spiritual home, the words nose spite and face automatically spring to mind?Privilege (there’s an ironic name for a club if ever their was one) decision to show the only promoters the door that ever got any guests through it, is bizarre to say the least but Mike & Clare’s belief that their baby can survive anywhere apart from it’s spiritual womb is misguided at best. Sure Ibiza Rocks is one of the most ingénues moves of recent seasons but as a bona fide rock on which to project, I’m not convinced. Still waiting on my Bar M season pass.I put it down to mid-August madness, though I can still count on September to arrive before the nets come out, please before the nets come out. The masses of Ferrogusto and Radio 1 may have been and gone but with their departure they leave us poor souls dizzied by their whirlwind and reeling in their wake.At least I could count on the safety of We Love… to keep me from the doctors door. My usual escapades would be somewhat more succinct this week, I had a plan. Massage by Ralph’s drums, a long slow inhalation of Ivan’s acid, and then ejected by the clarity of the Schwarz’s darkness. Then I’ll be fine, I can make it through this week.And so it was, with the door mirroring scenes of midgets at a Homebase clearance, I thought best to head straight for the front as Oli Faulkner set the pace for Ralph Lawson’s arrival, and with it he brang the nuts. Straight off picking up the now filling ‘floor he was playing his trademark beats, another DJ that’s never felt the need to sway with the times, just kept true to his soul and steered many like-minded ones away from the darkness. Perfect for this time of year, one of the few acts not to be picking up on someone else’s bag,, playing his tunes his way, and I all the more appreciative for it.With the jam-packed terrace heaving to Claudio Coccoluto, I thought it an opportune time to make way to catch the last of the day’s beats on Bora.After my convalescence I was now ready to be misguided. Ivan Smagge had the discoteca in the palm of his sweaty hand, pounding out minimally acid to a room far larger than the tracks had originally been conceived, but it worked, the crowd thought so, as many agreed it was one of their highlights of the season.Not many people could follow Smagghe’s delusional soundscape, although Tiefschwarz have never really had a problem with delusional tendencies. And so it was up to them to run this night home. Delving much darker and truer to what I believe is their sound, House and Techno, take me home.Enough’s enough; I need a sabbatical, only to find Miss Kitten’s bouncing electro wrapping up the terrace.When is too much enough Freddie? A N Other We Loverwww.welove-music.comwww.myspace.com/welove_music 

We Love…Tony Wilson

The ever burning passion that keeps our devotion to the dance floor alive is the feeling of unity that binds us together in clubs across the world. It is with undescribable sadness that our tribe is one less this week with the passing of Tony Wilson. True also that throughout the industry we are prone to the infections of sycophantism, so I will try and keep this is as brash as I can.

The word brash could have been invented for Tony Wilson, the man was fully aware that he wasn’t put on this earth to be liked, and he stuck to his mission with gusto. What he did do was champion his own ideals and people with vigour.

From bringing the early punk scene north from London to his native Manchester so began a road that if it had not been travelled I suspect we would not have the global dance scene we enjoy today. But to be fair, Tony Wilson didn’t care much for global domination, purely making Manchester the epi-centre of culture for a short space of time was enough.

While forming Factory Records and presenting the talents of OMD, Happy Mondays, James, and iconically Joy Division and the succeeding New Order. Tony Wilson opened Fac 51 the Hacienda in 1982 and after the rave explosion in 97/88 Wilson along with DJ’s such as Mike Pickering, Graeme Park, Sasha and Laurent Garnier cemented The Hacienda as the Godfather of clubbing but this isn’t a history lesson. These words are merely to lament the range and impact that Tony Wilson has had on all our lives. But as sad I am at his passing, reflecting on what he helped to create can not keep a smile from my face for too long. Here’s to a rich man who chased his own dreams and never chased the money.

And so, after the news on Saturday, did it feel right to be celebrating the birthday of Space the next day, well yes, it did, couldn’t have felt more right actually. Unfortunately I’ve been to a few wakes in my time and when the day comes for my send off if it’s anything like Sundays was I’ll be greeting St. Peter with a smile.

Space’s 18th birthday party was due to be rather large, old enough to drink now, you see and with Groove Armada, Bob Sinclar, Jeff Mills, Dan Ghenacia, James Zabiela, Nic Fancuilli and Paul Woolford blowing out the candles I was prepared for anything, I had even brought enough cake for everyone.

It was with the afore mentioned fancuilli that the festivities really got underway on the terrace with swarms of Italians, Spanish and British converging together to play a rather disorganised version of musical chairs. (I won, again I brought my own and kept it in my pocket). But after Tom and Andy rocked up no one was looking to be sitting down, set 2 of the summer and they’re getting better. For the vast majority of their set I was found pogo-ing from one side of the terrace to the other. However, one mis-timed pogo too many and I was captivated by the charms of Zabiela, destroying the discoteca with whatever it is that he does, I swear the man must be some kind of mutant freak and the blur of blonde hair banging inside the booth is just a ruse of misdirection as his extra freaky hands spring forth from his abdomen to facillitate his alleged wizardry.

Anyway enough with the conspiracies for now, more later. During the changeover from James we’re not fooled Zabiela to Jeff a breath of fresh air please Mills the fuc y fum misfits made it apparent that they had yet again escaped from their zoo to whip the crowd into hystreonics, via their bizarre interpretations of inanimate buggery.

On the terrace enigmatic frenchman Bob Sinclar was pulling all sort of tunes from his bag from Dj Kool’s let me clear my throat to his own new release Sound of Freedom. Having had my fill I jumped back to the disctoteca to here the start of Dan Ghencias set returing to Space for the 1st time this summer, as expected Dan dropped a gear from Jeff Mills’ exploitations and then started to rebuild. Which left me in the perfect mind to round off my night with the man Paul Woolford.

By my ear Woolford was playing an edgier more underground set than he has been of late on the terrace drawing the crowd further and further in to his groove until it culminated in one of the finest moments I’ve ever had on the terrace. Leaving the crowd to hang for a beat from his last record and as the drums stuttered the start of Blue Monday the poignancy was not lost on the crowd as it erupted.

I think anybody present would agree, God maybe gave Rock and Roll to us, but we’ve got Tony Wilson to thank for Acid House.

A N Other We Lover

www.welove-music.com

www.myspace.com/welove_music

For An Occasion

November, we would all agree does tend to be one of the colder months of the year, This is no more apparent than in the 1^st few weeks of august when the fornication of our forefathers really comes to light, the last few weeks have seen more birthday parties than Mr Wimpy on a bank holiday weekend. Pete Tong, Carl Cox and James Kyte have all thrown bashes of varying extravagance and on Thursday night Mathew B hosted his bash at S’Estanyol beach.

Never one to be involved in low key affairs, Bushwacka and organisers Sid and Joe had contrived to create a memorable night with Mathews sparring partner Layo looking after the tunes and a mysterious punch doing the rounds the only downer of the night was the guardia appearing on queue at 0030 to close the party down….for 20 mins until they left and festivities resumed until the small hours.

Saturday night and by this time of year, the port is struggling to contain the sheer numbers that gather for ferrogusto. It actually now takes longer to park your car than it does to get served at one of the bustling bars. Never being one to be put off by a crowd I eventually nestled in Locura. A beautiful little bar secluded in the back streets that surround the Dalt Villa. Away from the masses I was able to lubricate myself comfortably until the small hours.

Sunday’s seem to be coming around quicker with each passing week, and as I arrived just before 5pm this one looked to be gearing up to be one of the busiest. No time to hang around I headed straight for the terrace to catch Oli Faulkner warming up the terrace for the coming carnage. Sugarshacks resident was doing a fine job as Elio Riso then stepped up to lay down plenty of his own productions.

A quick pop over to the Sunset Terrace relayed any fears that Jason Bye was getting over comfortable with his pre sunset spot. This was the point in the day when the crowds were really setting themselves up and Jason certainly wasn’t for holding them back. Back on the Terrace, Tony Haze was playing his 1^st gig in the room and doing a fine job filling the room up for Buckley. Laying down tracks from Samin, very quickly becoming a summer favourite and the new rerub of Eyerer’s, Haunting. Buckley very quickly took the ‘floor to the next level pushing the room harder with moroderesque keys, and a definitive groove. The big man clearly enjoying his set as much as the people on the dance floor.

After a well earned rest on Bora Bora it was back inside to catch the man with the Golden Fleece, David Guetta, by now the Terrace was packed and bouncing to the Frenchman’s unmistakable sound. While inside man of the moment Claude Von Stroke was delivering a lesson in accessible techno. Now, I was aware of all his Dirty Bird shenanigans, but I had never actually heard the big man play before. Think big bouncy squelchy bass-lines with a driving beat throughout. Setting the scene perfectly for the legend that is Carl Craig to round the night off.

The man’s music just eschews intelligence. Far and away the best techno set I’ve ever heard at Space or anywhere else for that matter. A master class from a master, watching the smiling faces surrounding me on the dance floor as he close with Knights of The Jaguar was beautiful. Having been hypnotised by Craig’s beats I only came to as the last beats echoed around me but just off in the distance, well the terrace to be precise I could here Tiefschwarz winding down. With a quick hop skip and a jump I was able to here the last 2 tunes of their set before I had to once again head off to endure what Monday was to bring.

A N Other We Lover 

www.welove-music.com

www.myspace.com/welove_music

Push the boat out?

All this hullaballoo about climate change, world wars, biblical flooding has left me a little perplexed. Having lived the life of a heathen for far too long now, even when I’ve known better, I’ve now seen the blazing light, and it’s bright. The big man gave us enough warning, sent us enough messengers, and what did we do? burn them, nail them and drown them, you name it.

One such messenger seemed to slip through our keepers nets however. Nostrdamus wasn’t a man to mince his words, he was French after all, and thankfully for us had a penchant for this little Island of ours. For, while the UK wades around in the aftermath of the biggest shower since our gallic friend last picked up his quill and the middle-east teeters further towards our inevitable armagedon, we here in Ibiza can rest easy as our presumptuous scribe prophesised that “Ibiza will be Earth’s final refuge after Armageddon”, magic. Engines running, lightbulbs on, lets go disco.

Nostradamus must have stood out from his fellow beardstrokers, as did Rick James, now Ibiza has welcomed back Mr C., he’s super-freaky, for his DC-10 soiree, joined by his mischievous Dollz At Play. This is where I found myself last Wednesday for some perfect mid-week moves. The atmosphere and tunes are nice and not quite as hedonistic as the Monday gathering.

On the subject of DC-10 residencies it seems as they are welcoming one in Andreas et al are ushering another one out the door, prior to it even commencing in fact. Josh Wink, who not so long ago was splattered over every dance music magazine announcing his new union with Circoloco. However, apprently in one such publication the acid king jumbled the following; promotors are the off their all and heads disorganised the crowd and all drug-fucked are incapable loons hearing of the nevermind music to it dancing.

I’ve never been a master of word jumbles, but to me it certainly sounded a bit harsh even offensive, strange coming from Josh, who won’t even drink milk as it encourages twisting cows nipples in order for our own gratification. Another false prophecy by the way, Josh, as agreed they all say they don’t like getting their nipplies twisted, but we know they love it really.

Thursday night and myself and some wonderful company took the road less travelled to Sol d’en Serra, very quickly marking itself as one of the places in Ibiza. Built into the rocks just south of Cala Llonga, the three tiers that make up the venue from beach to cliff-top offer total luxury which can be savoured during the day via the sumptuous loungers and cocktail menu.

However it was night time, just after sunset when we sat. Perfectly located on the middle tier we sat and chose a selection of the sushi to start and some bad-ass fillet steak for our main. The whole night was perfect but booking is definately required.

The contrast could not have been more severe when we returned on Saturday for the 2nd session of silliness procured by the Mulletover boys, or to be more precise boy, as Rob Star was the only one present due to Geddes showing a greater amount of hygene than usual and washing his passport the previous night. Although his presence was definately missed the support from Jaime and Rocky proved a perfect soundtrack for a very memorable night amid a perfect backdrop, fireworks the lot. I found the party tamer than usual which was quite welcoming, as there were so many friendly faces catching up as opposed to being able to speak as is the norm at these parties.

Sunday, Sunday, so good to me. Not just for the Mamas & Papas who seemed to prefer the morning after the night before but for the guys and girls who are pounding the dancefloors on a weekly basis at We Love… even by normal standards this one was going to be a marathon, who was I going to be able to catch Dave Beer, Cagedbaby, Ben Watt, Sneak, Glimmers, Princess Superstar, Hell and Layo & Bushwacka. Correct me if I’m wrong  but that’s a lineup for a festival not a club, and on a Sunday of all days? when we’re supposed to be reflecting? the big man would not be pleased, cue floods.

What can be written about Dave Beer that hasn’t already, well the latex power-rangers mask is certainly an addition to his repartee, and if there was ever a man who should wear a mask…However he was brought here not to scare small children but to get the terrace warmed up for Cagedbaby’s live show, which he did with aplomb. Cagedbaby who looks like he’s wearing a mask but actually isn’t got into his electro groove very quickly keeping it accessible yet quirky as the swelling terrace crowd responded to every click and drop. Raise the Roof especially eh… raised the roof

Ben Watt followed and flowed easily from deep house to techno eschewing that now sound which is very much down to him via his Buzzin Fly label. The ex-EBTH man seemed to relish his 1st set for We Love and I would ceratinly expect to see him back in the coming seasons judging by the response of the crowd.

I usually need a breather by this time on Sunday but the acts were coming thick and fast, and fully aware of my responsibilities to you guys I had to get my head down and get on with it because, DJ Sneak was in the house, yeah. The unmistakable, aurally and asthetically unmistakable DJ Sneak. House music continually evolves thats one of the reasons why We Love… it so and many DJ’s who can’t adapt simply get left behind. Sneak is the exception to this rule, you could walk into any club in the world and within 2 beats you would know that Sneaks Boomp is the house. Classic chicago boompty house music. The terrace was absolutely rocking as the other big man kept the floor locked in a constant groove. We Love…to wiggle

 The Glimmers, trying their hardest not to make their set, flying straight from Global Gather and their flight touching down 30mins before they were due to mix their 1st tune, they arrived in the booth miraculously with 1 tune to spare as David Phillips handed over the reigns of the mammoth Discoteca soundsytem. Personally, this is what my night was waiting for, these boys are up there in my top 5, with their mix of space rock disco, and classic house party music, and they did not dissappoint. Rocking all the way until Hell turned up to usher the crowd down his satanic path.

All that was left of the evening for me was to bound between the 2 main rooms to catch Layo & Bushwacka and the glam electro of Princess Superstar. Having caught Matt & Layo on their previous visit, I chose to spend most of my time stomping to the one-off chance of electro queen Princess Superstar.  Driving through Herberts, Moving like a train and culminating with an encore of Justice Vs Simian. Please forgive me.

Peace be with you

Another We Lover

www.welove-music.com

www.myspcae.com/welove_music.com