All This Has Just Got To Mean Something

INT. CASTLE FANGSKULL* - DAY

The lovely Mr BC and I are watching the 'Clubbing' episode of Spaced.

Mr BC: When you were a raver, did you have a clubbing name?

ME: Don't be ridiculous, of course I never...oh wait, I did actually.

Mr BC: What was it?

ME: 'Technopup'.

Mr BC: Technopup. What does that mean?

ME: I have absolutely no idea.


* The response I received upon asking Mr BC if his flat has a name.

There's A Rainbow Inside My Mind

At one point on my Grand Tour through the subcultures of Britain's youth, I was a raver.

I can't say I ever *really* got into it, mind you. For one thing, I was far too self-conscious to go around sucking lollipops while wearing my hair in bunches, which seemed to be the de rigueur get-up for raver chicks in the very early 90s*. For another thing, well, it wasn't a very intellectual scene, was it? There were no deep and meaningful lyrics to analyse, or corpuses of literature that one had to read in order to 'belong', not like there was with indie and goth.

No, mostly it consisted of getting totally wasted in fields and warehouses, dancing to really mental, bleepy music, blowing whistles, sniffing Vicks inhalers and babbling on about shamanic insight and transcendental journeys to other planes. Hardly Friday night at Les Deux Magots with Jean-Paul and Simone.

So I wasn't particularly sad to hang up my whistle and glowsticks when Britpop came along, and I haven't really looked back since.

Until last September, that is, when long-term Quinquireme readers may recall that I briefly attended the Bestival festival on the Isle of Wight. Not only did I end up wearing a cowboy hat, but I also ended up dancing like a nutter, with 25,000 other people, to Soulwax's mental, bleepy set. Ooh, it was just like 1992 all over again. Fantastic!

So obviously I had to download this Soulwax remix thing that turned up on Said The Gramophone the other day. Oh boy. This is really not for the faint-hearted. The first minute and a half seem to go on forever, and sound like 10,000 old-school fax-modems that have taken it upon themselves to dial straight into your brain and deliver an incoherent message about shouting and excuses. But luckily once the beat kicks in, it just gets better and better and better, until all I want to do is pull my hair into bunches and jump around non-stop for eight hours in a West Country field**.

If there's anyone reading who has ever held aloft a glowstick like the oriflamme at Roncesvalles, this is for you:


Soulwax - NY Excuse (Justice Remix) (mp3) - courtesy of Said The Gramophone


NB I may or may not have listened to this eight times in a row on the way to Islington today. This may or may not be why I now have a terrible headache.


* I wasn't too self-conscious to go out into the world wearing silver lurex hotpants, but that's another story.

** Better not, though - I've got a meeting tomorrow.


tags: rave | soulwax | oriflamme

Summertime Cowboys

I've rarely experienced such a sense of quiet contentment as I did last night, sat alone on the top deck of a double-decker bus travelling across a darkened Isle of Wight, destination unknown*, listening to my song of the week (mp3) and wearing my cowboy hat.

But oh yes, before that happened, I went to the Bestival. Which was ace. I won't go into too much detail because I'm rubbish at describing what things were like. Let's just say there was a lot of dressing up as cowboys and Indians (hence the hat), and much laughter, scandalous gossip and general enjoyment.

I read a portentous article in the Sunday Times last week about how Rave Is Back. Cue the involuntary resurrection of confused memories of too many lost weekends from years ago. I think my reaction could best be summed up as "Nooooooooo!".

However, I can now confirm that It's All True. The sight of 25,000 thirtysomethings dressed up as glitter-bedecked cowboys, dancing to mad bleepy music (courtesy of this lot) and - horror! - waving glowsticks will not easily be forgotten. What's more, it was brilliant. Be very afraid.

So, several hours and what also seems like several hundred pounds later, I've made it back to London and am now on my way to fulfil my duties as History's Most Recalcitrant Godmother at my very clever and talented god-daughter's 12th birthday party. Might leave the glowsticks behind for this one. The next generation doesn't need that kind of embarrassment.

* It turned out to be Newport. Which was emphatically not where I wanted to go. Where I had to wait another half an hour for another bus to Cowes. Where I had to wait another 50 minutes for a ferry to Southampton. Where it turned out that I had missed the last train back to London. Whereupon I was obliged to pay £100 for six hours' sleep in the waterfront Holiday Inn. By which point the sense of quiet contentment had worn off somewhat.