…watching indie flicks produced by local film makers. Two oldish reggae DJ’s dropping War Ina Babylon and a version of Summer Holiday (Dennis Brown I think). Dancing to These Boots Were Made For Walking, Roisin Murphy, DJ Shadow, Souls of Mischief and Roll Deep. Hearing Breezy (Size 9) improvise to a French man making the most of a broken piano. Looking up at a low ceiling, cracked and peeling and covered in chalky footprints with the sounds of harmonica, tapping feet, guitar and an unlikely looking blues singer whose voice suggested Deep South rather than South London floating in through a huge square window. Female DJ’s playing everything from Grime, to Old School Hip Hop to Pop to Lovers Rock to Jungle. Eating freshly bbq’d burgers beneath a cornflower coloured dawn sky to a soundtrack of ‘It’s A Wonderful World.’ A general feeling that anything goes; constant senses stimulation and the joining of people from every single corner of the globe sharing thoughts, visions, dreams, weed and instruments collected along the way.
Not a Utopian dream but an underground bash in a rickety South London studio on Sunday September the 11th. Hidden down a little lane, closed off from the everyday, mundane world of the nearby highstreet and devoid of the usual images and attitudes that come with party’s that receive attention or hype, this was a place that was quite simply free. Art as it should be; honest, spontaneous, vibrant, unrestricted. Music that by nature refuses to classified as ‘this’ or ‘that.’
It’s made me think and It’s made me feel slightly guilty. Does the documentation of music and the nessecity to label certain sounds as ‘this’ or ‘that,’ destroy the ability to hear it subjectively? If a photograph really is a soul snatch, am I guilty of snatching the soul of the dancefloors?