Viva Espana!

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Blog

 

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

 

 

 

 

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

I am rock, I am an Island…

As the weeks unfold my misguided sense of premonition becomes more and more apparent. The latest victim of this being the chiringuitos I proclaimed to be the saviour of our beaches not so long ago have felt the wrath of God, or a drunken ship captain whatever way you wish to look at it.

How one accidently crashes a ship into an island is quite beyond me and I hope its not libellous to infer that Captain Morgan may have been on board in a more supervisory role as opposed to his supposedly more qualified commander.  Now the financial implications of the subsequent oil spill that engulfed the surrounding beaches of talamanca to salinas will be bad enough to handle let alone the obvious ecological implications for the affected areas.

According to local business owners, even after the rudimentary clean-up operations had allowed the affected beaches to re-open, there were to still a larger number of oily creatures in the area. Further afield the repurcussions were felt as far as the dalt villa where the slicks were strewn through the cobbled streets, a phenomenon which is usually reserved for Ferrogusto.

This could be aligned to the sunken ship scenario or possibly more likely to the fact that it seems Ibiza is enjoying it’s busiest summer for sometime with the clubs being the biggest winners. Spanish, Italians, British and a whole host of other nationalties are arriving in greater numbers every week to enjoy the season that is now well and truly hurtling towards October at a faster pace than I would like.

It is an agreed belief that should ibiza ever be in need on an enema the point of entry would be san antonio, and resultantly should san anotonio ever be in need of such an exploratory the bay would provide the neccessaary orifice. However as with all things on this island, change seems to be the only constant and facelifts seem to be more popular here than Essex.

BN3, has slowly but surely trying to ressurect the area’s culinery credentials, and has introduced a  menu that consists entirely of gourmet burgers. Similar to the restaurants that have appearing across the UK at a rate comparable only to a 14 years old acne. The variety on offer is astounding, and while the Elvis burger, consisting of 2 double burgers, peanut butter, jam and banana may be for the misguided the simpler cheese and bacon I had the pleasure of devouring was incredible, worth making the trip to the bay alone. However anybody who can claim to then meekly walk past the surrounding Karaoke bars without devouring an infirm amount of pseudo-vodka whilst crucifying Journey at the top of their lungs are obviously made from greater moral fibre than I.

The contrast between a night like above and the saturday night where I spent most of my evening at KM5 could not be more disparate. If you haven’t been it really should be top of your list the next time you stumble on this place. Set approx 5 km (get it) from Sant Jordi on the Sant Jose road is this moroccan themed oasis, the whole complex is huge but I chose to ignore the restaurant and club areas to lounge in the cushioned bar area supping some of the best mojitos I ever had, extremely complex glass-crushing effects to boot.

 From there it was the obligatory tour of the port, culminating in Rock bar and then back to Villa for some wind-downs. 8am finishes are not best advised on a Saturday by the way.

 After the previous nights tomfoolery it was late afternoon before I reached Church to recieve my pennance, by this time the sunset terrace was already going ballisitic to the sounds of Tony Haze, playing his 1st set in the room, dropping the neccessary monsters for the crowd whilst keeping one foot in the future. After that baptism of fire I headed to El Salon to where the Rev Phil Cooper was delivering a more subdued sermon. Perfect tunes to catch the last of the days sun, while he educated the crowd through a set of acid jazz and sweet sweet soul music.

Once the sun and my hangover had completely disappeared I decided it was time to get serious so I ventured in to the discoteca to find Chris Bones and David Phillips conspiring quite effectively. A tempo slower than the vast room is used to as they played a spaced out disco set, think The Glimmers on Valium, but in a good way, as they gradually upped the pace until Serge Santiago took over to take the night into the darkness. The new We Love resident went down a storm, considering this being the 1st time he’d played the discoteca, keeping his trademark funky/tech sound but having the liberty to push proceedings harder. I hadn’t heard to much of his sets before this summer, I mainly new him through his productions, but everytime I hear him he impresses me more, props to the We Love programming for getting him on board.

Headlining the terraza were 2manydjs, whom the 1st time I heard them I wet myself, seriously, however I never regained that embarressing indiscretion on the 2many times I seen them that followed as I felt the manner in which they played only allowed for a strict style of tunes, however I am proud to say on sunday that initial experience came flowing back to me. Obviously the brothers have that rock-classic-on-a-dancefloor tune sewn up, but the tracks they were playing were fresh and wonderful. Fuck knows what re-edit it was of Justice’s D.A.N.C.E I presume it was there own, but it wasn’t just a big tune set, the whole terraze was there from beginning until end and rocking the whole way through, I look forward to there return.

And so the night drew to a close and the thought of another hangover drew closer. Riton or Felix? Felix or Riton, Riton Felix Felix Riton?????? da housecat or da bobcut? Enough to make you dizzy, or could that have been the laughing gas?

Anyway Felix one in the end, or in my end as it turned out to be, it was gone six and I was in bits again, happy, smiling little bits.

 A N Other WeLover

www.welove-music.com

www.myspace.com/welove_music

week 4 blog

Panic on the streets of London
Panic on the streets of Birmingham
I wonder to myself, what miserable songSmith Morrissey could be so concerned about in the balmy summer of ’96. Admittedly unemployment was running at an all time high, now excuse my scepticism, but I really can’t imagine a time when a new romantic poet was eagerly awaiting his career options interview down at the dss. Blagger.

Granted the poor man had just lived through worst years of Thatcher and judging by the pained expression he excuses as a face, he’s been carrying that monkey on his back longer than any of us, but c’mon panic? No, I think if he were too release it today it would be slightly more just, panic on the streets of London (check), panic on the streets of Birmingham (check), Glasgow, Leeds, Bradford, the list goes on however that fact that we can now add Ibiza to the end of that list is a sure sign that the world has finally gone mad, and not in a good way. But unfortunately that is where we are at now. After the bomb hoax (I’ve always felt uncomfortable about that term, as if someone’s trying to be funny by just ‘pretending’ to blow people up) at Ibiza airport last week, it seems nowhere is sacred anymore. In fact the more I considered the conflicts that are fighting between themselves for airtime on Sky or the BBC the more it became apparent that in everywhere area of our lives that skirmishes are about to erupt at any point. Be it over a road, a new beach development, a poster space, a style of music, a club being allowed to open, a beach bar not, even the oasis of a dance floor or booth can no longer be expected to be safe shelter for the unsuspecting. Hang the DJ, our melancholy manc uttered in his reprise; forget that, hanging’s apparently too good for them these days. The tactics of now is to infiltrate his bunker and pester him with ridiculous requests to play tomorrow’s track of yesterday, while assaulting them, and accusing him of disrespect, like I said, the worlds gone mad. I’m not trying to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes. In fact I think the wool shouldn’t be pulled anywhere and be left to do what it does best. Agreed? Good, continue? Ok 

Anyway, time marches on and the Island over the last week has continued to get hotter and busier, all good if you ask me, I like to be hot, it’s one of the reasons I come here every year and I like company, another reason I return year after year. Amnesia finally broke free of it’s shackles and was a road block for Made In Italy’s belated opening party with one of We Love’s original residents Sasha overseeing the proceedings, the same night Azuli was opening at Space, a tough situation to deal with but they pulled in more than enough heads on to the terrace to suggest they could be one of the parties to watch this summer. Jo Mills dropping her trademark sounds, with Slam slightly altering their beats to accommodate the housier Azuli ethos, very good indeed. 

Saturday was a day of high living for yours truly culminating in a feast in dalt villas Studio, relocated this year to, in my opinion a far better site within the walls, but fear not, all else remains the same from the friendly service, to the wonderful food. Then it was home for some beauty sleep, I had work to do!

Sunday, ah, Sunday bloody Sunday. Is this number 4? apparently so. The Americans were coming and I was going to be ready. The StreetLife Dj’s were the start of my party onthe terraza, and it was easy to see why these guys have come so far in the last year, with a perfectly timed set paving the way my trip into the discoteca forDavid Phillips to precede Abe Duque and Tijiana T.

Now I have nothing but respect for Abe, a man who has been producing longer than I’ve been alive, with that distinct underground New York sound that he’s been pretty much single handily responsible for. But a suit? In Space? And not even sweating? He either wasn’t working hard enough or the man doesn’t have a pulse.

Prior to this, Smokin Jo was returning for her second set this year playing her minimal tech playing tracks such as Oliver Koletzki and Andrea Doria before Sandy ‘king of tomorrow’ Rivera rocked the terraza with his 1^st ever appearance for We Love. I believe he was playing a tougher, some might say cooler set to fit the room, though I’m pretty sure he’ll deny it, but that hair? C’mon huggy bear may have been able to get away with that in the ‘70’s due to the fact he had two of Bay City’s finest watching his back, and snoop can do what he likes, the mans done time for attempted murder, but that is it, no more.

Another man, with a dubious haircut, DJ Hell, was headlining the discoteca picking up the baton where his friend Felix had left it last week, delivering a pounding electro techno set. But the room was still standing, which bodes well for when our good friend Carl Cox starts his residency in their next Tuesday.

Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself, I was still to lap(top) up JZ’s house set in the terrace where he was playing a distinctively different style to last weeks one + one show. After that it was up to the contender for the crown, Paul ‘Bobby Peru’ Woolford for the main event of closing the terrace. Paul’s an unpredictable kind of a guy, week 2 playing, didn’t turn up, then did turn up, week 3, wasn’t playing, turned up anyway, and rocked it, what surprises was he going to bring for week 4? Well turns out it’s a slew of exclusive classics re-edited solely for the Space Terrace. From Professional Widow to Orbital, an absolutely blistering set, that kept the crowds dancing in Space until the back of 7. 

Will he be back to defend his title next week? 

See yah

 A N Other WeLover…             

you + me + them = us

For someone who spends a third of their year on a 20 x 12 mile island my relationship with the encapsulating beaches is reserved to say the least. Don’t let me be misunderstood, show me a picture postcard of a serene blue green sea, suggestively carressing a utopian stretch of bleach white sands and I’ll get all misty blue along with the rest of you. However the harsh reality of spending the day being infiltrated by a billion pieces of broken glass while the only repsite from the offensive is to effectively plunge into another unknown battlefield where all sorts of unknown adversaries lurk, really isn’t my idea of “chilling”

Correct me if I am wrong but I am not alone in my terror. As there is blatently something about human nature that constantly alures us into these incomprehensible acts of stupidity. Now, as it goes, acts of stupidity are somewhat a forte of yours truly, in fact most of my more enjoyable escapades in this place have been the result of some misguided sense of adventure but this recurring leisure pursuit is simply beyond me…:NAMESPACE PREFIX = O />

Thankfully some of the wise custodians of our island have had the foresight to recognise our primal flaws and created for us the chiringuito. Ibiza is awash with these beach bars that allow us to endure our sick urges.

For me, a day at Tropicana beach club on Jondal on the south of the island exemplifies all that is good about these oases. Situated at the far end of the cove that constitutes Jondal, ideally placed to catch the breezes that sweep in from the southern med, an entire day can sail past you as you work your way through the numerous menus, while the soft beats of thievery corp. or K&D wash over you. Although definitely a favourite, the island has so many but to name a few, Cala Carbo Restaurant, just to the east, is where you’ll find some of the best fresh seafood on the Island, probably even better than Sa Caleta, however without the draw of the nuclear coffee, probably more potent than anything else you’ll be offered during your time here. The list really does go all around the island, and they should be seeken out, for me they are as much a part of the experience out here as trying to explain to your taxi driver where you live, even though you don’t truly know yourself

That is how last Saturday was spent, slowly but surely withdrawing the self induced traumas of the previous two night’s activities at pacha. Thursday night reintroduced Renaissance to the island where John Digweed and Hernan Cattaneo headlined, a bit excessive I thought, but never ones to do anything by half. The dj’s exemplified where Renaissance is today. Both DJ’s have been touring the globe for more years than most now however especially in Digweed’s case the music he plays evolves every time I hear him. Personally I was never onboard the prog bandwagon of a few years ago and while he is undeniably a figurehead of that scene. The sounds he’s purveying now have little in common with the rolling monotony that I relate to the prog house sound. Now its track after track of acid disco, lovely, lovely acid disco

Friday night had Pete Tong residing with the Pasta Boys presenting their Italo-Minimal thing to Pacha, again when acts like that are playing venues such as Pacha, I think it’s a huge statement as to where dance music is as a whole, not so many pigeons seem to being holed which is all good, and what the whole idea was in the first place. Bringing down fences and building roads, literally

 After my well deserved reinvigoration on Saturday, I was more than prepared for my weekly sabbatical in Playa D’en Bossa. Or so I thought

Not wishing to replicate my faults of previous weeks, I decided on a new plan of attack, gradually infiltrating the club rather than the all out assault that had resulted in the unrepeatable carnage of the preceding parties

Thus, it was nearly nightfall when I initiated my assault, stealthily grooving my way onto ..:NAMESPACE PREFIX = ST1 />Doris’ dance floor in the el salon, was quite the appetiser. He was playing tunes not frequently heard behind these lines. Proper old-school, hip-hop with plenty of Calypso funk. This was perfect for my tactics, so much so that I stayed until Alfredo was well into his set. Playing from a different bag by my opinion, than what he was at the opening. These were the tunes I expected to hear from the man that has been credited with bringing balearica to all back in ‘88 and beyond, a proper mix from a man who has been there, done it, and still continuing to set the standards

Throwing caution to the wind, I decided it was now or never and broke on to the Terraza where Paolo Mojo was throwing down some punchy electro, the perfect launch point for Serge Santiago’s assault on the midnight hour, it then hit me. It’s July and there’s no going back

Inside the Discoteca, I made a bee-line for Ewan Pearson who had just commenced his ops. Starting with his dreamy take on acid house via his own productions most notably his re-edit of Courtney Tidwell. Gradually escalating the intensity of the room in perfect preparation for Riton to set the scene for thee man of thee night

Felix da Housecat, possibly one of the coolest guys to work behind a booth, and no slouch when it comes to defining genres either with a slew of albums and 12″s to his name drove into his set which, if it’s any indication as to what to expect from his new album, this is one angry cat. Two hours of electro techno, was sometimes harder than expected, none the less the discoteca crowd were seriously lapping it up, especially when he started to deliver his trademark mezcal direct from the bottle to the dancefloor, there was a number of points when you could sense the room was about to combust only for the man to drop a slightly housier tune, just for a minute, until the attack recommenced. We Love…to purr

On the Terraza, Danny Howells, no stranger to compromising situations, was taking the evening forward in a lightly less incognito manner to myself, camouflaging him in trademark red paisley patterned jeans and shirt that would make Dr Hoffman think twice, he was playing a more subdued sound than what I have been used to hearing from him. Possibly giving due respect to house music’s new Beaker and Bunsen, One + One, who were headlining the room

James Zabiela and Nic Fancuilli had already tested their project on the Space crowds twice last season prior to officially launching it as a concept, and I think they would admit that their eagerness to make their union more official, was partly based on the responses of last year. None the less the crowds of the terraza were more than ready to go round again. For three hours the duo blitzed the ‘floor with their technical skull-duggery James’ scratching exemplifying why he had just collected his best British dj award 24 hours previously, not to be outdone Nic swiftly manoeuvred between CDJ and Ableton to twist the sounds he had at his disposal into a barrage of beats which reverberated all around the room, ultimately culminating in James’ twisted take on Enjoy the Silence and a bit of Spandau from Nic, to send us all home with a smile on our faces,

Another week down,

A N Other WeLover…