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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
