A belated congratulations to The End club which celebrates it’s 10th anniversary this month. For me, it’s been the scene of many a good night of dancing from some obscure Techno night many years ago to Swerve to last years Grime 2 launch party. Most recently I reached The End for Trash which in all it’s indie, electro and rock glory is considered by many as London’s most happening Monday night bash.
Whilst in the queue, it was made apparent that despite being one of London’s most infamous clubs, The End still likes to attract people who genuinely love the music and not simply because they wish to be seen to be scene.
In front of us a bloke who’d previously given my friend jip because she accidentally brushed his arm with her umbrella was being questioned as to why he had turned up that evening. For whatever reason, his answers swiftly saw he and his friends turned away, inducing a bitter protest that included “but you must let us in, we’re fashion students,” an argument that only gave the door lady more reason to keep them out whilst my previously accused of umbrella crime friend and I smiled up at the Gods of Karma.
Luckily I didn’t have a problem getting in, due to original invitation to from Jakob (Mendicant/Lishka) who’s currently receiving training by The End’s No.1 Scouser and lights man, Woody, who after a good few years with the club, has a fair few stories to tell. Most amusing is his recital of being asked for requests by innocent clubbers who mistake his lighting booth for a DJ booth, an anecdote that also made it into The End’s one off anniversary magazine. The magazine which was only available for a limited amount of time also reflects The End’s efforts to maintain a genuinely up for it crowd of music lovers as well as a very personal account of the history of the club by the people that run it, namely, Mr C and Layo Paskin who in 1995, opened The End, a purpose-built club dedicated to breaking new music to the right people.”
In keeping with their ethos, Erol Alkan and the guys behind Trash share a love of music that is obvious throughout the night from the very moment you walk in. The dress code is simply to make an effort, something which the punters with their polka dots, edgy hair cuts, dolly shoes and eyeliner stretch to the limits, each in their own unique way. Immersed by the glamourous, trashy and sexy blend of electro punk, rock and pop I suddenly found myself surrounded by a sea of Debbie Harry’s, Karen O’s and David Bowie morphs, which to a music photographer with a history of lip-syncing to these same artists whilst doing the hoovering is quite something.