Dance, Drugs and Escape: The Club Scene in Literature, Film and Television Since the Late 1980s 078643001X, 9780786430017

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Dance, Drugs and Escape

Dance, Drugs and Escape The Club Scene in Literature, Film and Television Since the Late ¡980s S TAN B EELER

McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers Jefferson, North Carolina, and London

LIBRARY

OF

CONGRESS CATALOGUING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Beeler, Stanley W. Dance, drugs and escape : the club scene in literature, film and television since the late ¡980s / Stan Beeler. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN-¡3: 978-0-7864-300¡-7 softcover : 50# alkaline paper ¡. Subculture. 2. Discotheques — Social aspects. 3. Subculture films. I. Title. HM646.B44 2007 306'.¡09045 — dc22 20070¡6929 British Library cataloguing data are available ©2007 Stan Beeler. All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Cover photograph ©2007 Digital Vision Manufactured in the United States of America

McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers Box 6¡¡, Je›erson, North Carolina 28640 www.mcfarlandpub.com

To the ravers, clubbers, DJs and grad students who shared their culture

Contents Preface

1

Introduction

3

1. The Rise and Fall of Club Culture: Idealism to Economics

17

2. Crime and Club Life

51

3. Whose Club Is It Anyway? Ethnicity and Club Culture

74

4. It’s Raining Men: Representations of Gay Lifestyle in Club Fiction

94

5. Drugs, Sex and Disco Dancing

115

6. Take the Money and Run: Exploitation of Rave Culture

152

Conclusion

182

Notes

185

Bibliography

195

Index

201

vii

Preface Club culture as defined in this book is the rave and dance club phenomenon that arose in the late ¡980s in the United Kingdom. Based upon the laid-back attitudes and eclectic music selections encountered by young tourists on the Spanish resort island of Ibiza, club culture developed around a combination of idealistic do-it-yourself philosophy and a rejection of an entertainment industry dominated by multinational music corporations. Club culture’s initial relationship with the drug called ecstasy is also an important component in its historical progress from a relatively small subculture to a mass-marketed popular culture. As club culture rapidly developed an international following, it naturally garnered the interest of novelists, screen writers, producers and directors who attempted to reflect the subcultural phenomenon in their works. Club culture has traditionally resisted mainstream culture, and therefore secondary representations in literature, film and television have been viewed with some suspicion by the initial participants in the subculture. In fact, as club culture became the subject of artistic representations it was transformed into a pop-culture behemoth with powerful links to the entertainment industry establishment. This study deals with the secondary phenomena of film, television and literature and their e›ects on the development of club culture. Dance, Drugs and Escape: The Club Scene in Literature, Film and Television Since the Late ¡980s is divided into sections that deal with the most significant thematic aspects of club culture fiction. Beginning with a chapter on artistic representations of the idealistic early stages of the movement, this study traces club culture’s development as a subject for film, television and literature. Club culture has progressed from a subject of interest 1

Preface

for a small audience of initiates to a topic exploited by writers, directors and producers who have no vested interest in the primary phenomenon. The central focus of each chapter of this book rests upon detailed studies of individual texts, film and television shows which reflect the transformation of club culture. Club culture has been the subject of a number of excellent scholarly and popular studies. Sarah Thornton’s Club Cultures: Music, Media and Subcultural Capital and Steve Redhead’s Subculture to Clubcultures: An Introduction to Popular Cultural Studies are solid scholarly discussions of the primary phenomenon, and Simon Reynolds’ Generation Ecstasy: Into the World of Techno and Rave Culture presents the development of club culture in a concise historical fashion. Unfortunately, although these texts clearly indicate the importance of club culture as a social entity, no study published thus far has dealt with the role of film, television and literature in the popularization of club culture. My own primary area of research is the study of popular television, film and literature and I quickly became aware of this lacuna in existing publications. Dance, Drugs and Escape is my response to the need for more research in this area. This book is the product of a research leave from my position in the English Department at the University of Northern British Columbia. During my leave I visited the libraries at the University of Glasgow, Manchester University and City of Manchester, and the University of British Columbia. I also met with participants in club culture in Detroit, Leeds, San Francisco, Vancouver, and London, England. Several of the chapters in this book were initially presented as conference papers in Manchester, Detroit and Edmonton. I would like to thank colleagues who attended these presentations and Dr. Deneka MacDonald from the University of Glasgow for comments and assistance in this research.

2

Introduction In the late ¡980s and early ¡990s the rave phenomenon appeared to explode upon the youth scene in the technologically advanced, technologically dependent world. In a few short years rave went from a subculture with relatively minor e›ects on mainstream society to a composite structure with far-reaching e›ects on cultural industries all over the world. This flowering expression of youth culture, which now has been in existence for well over a decade and a half, is often attributed to a pair of primary interdependent factors; the first is modern electronic dance music, and the second is the use of the so-called designer drug1 ecstasy.2 The interaction of the hypnotic rhythms of the music with the inhibition-releasing and stimulant qualities of the drug provide the indispensable transcendental experience that has resulted in almost universal popularity among young people all over the world. The term rave is, in fact, somewhat misleading since it refers specifically to the large, semi-legal dance parties given in warehouses, aircraft hangars and open fields that were the hallmark of the early years of the movement. Hastily cobbled together legal barriers and the changing preferences of those who attend have made this sort of venue substantially less common in recent years; therefore I have chosen to use the term club culture for this book. Club culture identifies the phenomenon by the current venue of choice — legally established dance clubs — and signifies a kind of lifestyle that is recognizable as a youth culture popularly identified with a specific sort of interaction between drugs and electronic dance music. As club culture and the individuals who participated in it have matured, an increasing number of writers, filmmakers and television directors have chosen to reflect this once obscure form of hedonistic dance culture in their artistic and economic endeavors. Since one of the underlying 3

Introduction

tenets of club culture is a strong desire for its participants to move away from mainstream forms of entertainment, this acceptance by people who have significant influence in the cultural industries has had something of a paradoxical e›ect. As the subculture becomes more popular and the general public becomes aware of the music, drugs, clothing and social practices that typify club culture, many of the original participants become disillusioned with the movement and give it up or make significant modifications to their behavior — in a club culture context — in order to distinguish themselves from the crowd of “twinkies”3 who have just arrived on the scene. Thus, the arrival of this new crop of participants in club culture and the splintering of the movement may be at least partially attributed to the influence of literature, film and television. As writers, directors and producers attempt to preserve the movement in amber, so to speak, a secondary, more popular club movement develops on the back of the original subculture. The parallels with the popularization of counterculture movements of the ¡960s and ’70s are obvious. As hippies and punks were presented to mainstream society through the e›orts of cultural industries there was an essential transformation in the membership and behavior of these groups. Club culture is going through a continuous process of transition from an underground revolution against the entertainment establishment to an important component of that industry and, as the cycle continues, the newest factions and subgroups are rapidly subsumed by the popular expressions of the movement. Superstar DJs now fill places in the cultural industries that parallel those held by rock stars and franchised super clubs provide a homogeneous evening of entertainment for crowds of deep pocketed young men and women who have very little connection to the original subcultural participants who danced the nights away in the early years of club culture. This study of the literature, film and television of club culture will seek to point out the e›ect of artistic and commercial popularizations of the movement on the core of original participants as well as the second generation of club culture and its host of new converts.

THE ROOTS

OF

CLUB CULTURE

Club culture has many recognizable ancestors in the North American dance music scene; electronic music originating in Chicago, New York 4

Introduction

and Detroit was combined to provide a sound track for the burgeoning club movement as it developed in the UK. However, the American music did not provide the unified party structure with a specific attitude, particular drugs and dress styles. Club culture started its life as a recognizable entity when a group of young entrepreneurs from the UK attempted to bring home some of the pleasures of their favorite vacation spot. In ¡987 a number of British club promoters and DJs spent some time on the Spanish island of Ibiza. At this time the island was a resort that catered to vacationing youth from all over the world, with a high proportion coming from the UK and continental Europe. While still in a relatively bucolic state, Ibiza had been a popular place for hippies and other countercultural travelers in the ¡960s and ’70s, but as the tourist infrastructure was developed by the Spanish government the island began to attract large numbers of young people interested in more urban entertainment venues like dance clubs. Ibiza is one of the Balearic Islands and the eclectic music selected by the DJs working there in the mid– to late–¡980s came to be known as the Balearic sound. Since Ibiza was a “sun and sand” tourist destination its clubs encouraged patrons to give up the cool posing and exaggerated styles of clothing popular in UK and European discos at this time in favor of baggy beach clothing and an altogether uncool sense of complete involvement in dancing and party life in general. This attitude was extremely attractive to young DJs and promoters like Paul Oakenfold, and Danny Rampling,4 who went to Ibiza for vacations as well as professional reasons. Moreover, the popular “new” drug ecstasy provided a sense of total involvement with music and dance, emotional exuberance, and a strong feeling of camaraderie. The UK tourists, low-rent travelers and professional entertainers took these attitudes home to London and started clubs devoted to the music, attitudes and styles of clothing from Ibiza.5 Because it was an international resort, the DJs in Ibiza had access to music from all over the world. This musical mélange was presented to crowds that could appreciate the eclectic mix of sounds including music from New York, Chicago and Detroit along with “chart pop, British synth bands, indie rock, Euro Disco, reggae and anything else that seemed to fit” (Garrett 92–3). The original Balearic sound is most often considered the handiwork of Alfredo Fiorillo, an expatriate Argentine who moved to Ibiza to avoid the political upheaval in his homeland during the ¡970s. When Paul Oakenfold 5

Introduction

started one of the first Ibiza-style club nights in London in ¡987 he brought Fiorillo over and invited a group of people who had spent time in Ibiza.6 The people involved in this new music scene in the UK were attracted to the engaged approach to music and to the mix of other subcultural groups that were first present in the vacation clubs in Ibiza. Gay and straight, black and white, all came together to party, and the music that became associated with this attitude came from a number of sources. This imported beach party culture spread throughout the UK, and soon the core of club culture was no longer restricted to those familiar with the music, attitudes and dress styles of Ibiza. Club culture in the UK developed from the happy-go-lucky dance and party involvement of vacation time in Ibiza and the music was, at first, consistent with the eclectic DJ style of the island. However, soon after the culture began to catch on in London a new style of electronic music known as acid house was added to the cultural mix.7 It was then subsumed by techno after it came to the UK. The term techno became so closely identified with club culture that it is often used to describe both electronic dance music in general as well as what is otherwise termed club culture. In the rapidly transmuting world of electronic dance music, terminology is of paramount significance; what is an accurate description today may be incorrect tomorrow. The term techno music is a case in point. The general consensus is that it originated in Detroit in the mid to late ¡980s with a group of black musicians who began experimenting with a combination of recorded music and low-cost electronic instruments. As techno, in its Detroit incarnation, moved across the Atlantic, it began to change. It was no longer a single, relatively homogeneous genre, but rather a combination of musical subgroups that were often referenced by the single rubric Techno: [Techno] as we now know it descended from the Detroit region, which specialized in a stripped down abrasive sound, maintaining some of the soulful elements of the Motown Records palette, over the innovations that hip-hop’s electro period had engendered. Techno also reflected the city’s decline, as well as the advent of technology, and this tension was crucial to the dynamics of the sound [The Virgin Encyclopedia of Dance Music, 335].

In June of ¡988 Virgin Records released Techno: The Dance Sound of Detroit in the UK (Thornton, 74). The British press, encouraged by interviews with musicians, seized upon the music as the exemplification of the 6

Introduction

spirit of Detroit. However, the definition began to mutate and came to describe a more generic electronic sound that did not have the same focus on the city of Detroit in the minds of its listeners (Thornton, 72–77). Despite this change in definition in the minds of the general public, there are still purists who attempt to maintain the “Detroit techno sound” in electronic dance music (Reynolds, Generation Ecstasy, 233–5). The variance between the “Detroit” conception of techno and European conceptions may be related to the struggle between futurism and hedonistic tendencies. Detroit techno in its original form seemed to lead the listener into a more perfect, electronic world. In contrast, much of contemporary electronic dance music is about an alternative to the everyday world, an alternative created in the closed, drug-, sound- and laser-enhanced spaces of clubs and raves. The evolution of electronic dance music from its initial identification with black Detroit subculture to a more cosmopolitan, yet consistently subcultural, genre is an important factor in understanding the subsequent development of rave culture and its reflection in film and novels. Sarah Thornton correctly indicates that it would be wrong to identify club culture as a child of the inner city, which some believe to have spawned techno music (75). In fact, the initial producers of techno were from Detroit’s more a·uent areas and suburbs (Sicko, 33). Dance parties organized by black youths enamored with the upscale economic trappings of ’80s culture provided the initial market for techno. Early Detroit techno was concerned with images of the future, loosely derived from science fiction and the futurist writings of Alvin To·er, as well as occasional images of ostentatious consumption of clothing, cars and culture. Perhaps it was this desire for the exotic, futuristic, and upscale consumer goods that led these young men to go beyond homegrown American music for their sources. In any case, the original artists of Detroit techno all admit to influence from the German group Kraftwerk. In fact, Derrick May, one of the original three most famous of Detroit techno artists (May, Saunderson and Atkins) has said of this connection that “[techno] is just like Detroit — a complete mistake. It’s like George Clinton and Kraftwerk stuck in an elevator” (Sicko, 26). Kraftwerk was formed by music students Ralf Hütter and Florian Schneider-Esleben in the early ¡970s. The original members of Kraftwerk hailed from an industrial section of Germany (Düsseldorf ) and they are 7

Introduction

often credited with bringing electronic music from the ethereal realms of Karlheinz Stockhausen to the dance floors of the world. Kraftwerk’s foundation in post–World War II Germany’s Wirtshaftswunder is important to understanding why their music was seen as a revelation to kids from Detroit after the fall of the great American automobile manufacturers. Young people in Detroit felt betrayed by the economic changes that had removed the core of the automobile industry from their city. Like the Germans of this time who saw their nation rebuilding after a devastating war, they saw technology as a kind of dream of future salvation. Kraftwerk’s music is based around synthesizers and electronic drum machines. It embodies a move away from heavy industry in the direction of our own highly computerized, digital society. In fact, the title of one of their most influential albums is Computer World (¡98¡). In early Detroit techno compositions like “Sharivari” by A Number of Names there are direct copies of the cool electronic ri›s of Kraftwerk. The lyrics of this track describe the trappings of the good life as imagined by ’80s culture. In some ways it appears that early techno music saw internationalism as an escape from the inward looking mindset of mainstream American culture. It is not, therefore, surprising to find that it was eagerly accepted by the youth communities in other countries. It also goes a long way in explaining the essentially pan-national nature of club culture. Despite subsequent changes in format and sound, the themes of futuristic technological idealism and hedonism have been maintained by most variants of the music. This optimistic thread of conceptual underpinning is based in the ideals of Detroit techno and is extremely significant in any analysis of the literature surrounding club culture. If one can summarize the spirit of American blues music as a music of su›ering, then the electronic dance music that developed from Detroit techno is a music of both escape and hope. Juan Atkins, one of the Bellville three who are considered the originators of Detroit techno, became enamored with the concept of futurism as expressed by Alvin To·er: If Detroit was already a post-industrial city, then he [Atkins] felt that surely it would be at the forefront of the revolution To·er predicted in his book The Third Wave. Liberated from the production lines, the city’s residents would pioneer information technology, explore the new possibilities o›ered by the computer [Garratt, 56]. 8

Introduction

When one compares the literature and film of rave/club culture of the U.S. and the UK it will be obvious that the American variant of the culture has never lost this fascination with futurism and information technology. American club culture does not lament past wrongs; it opens itself to ecstatic joy in the present and, at times, an almost neo–Hegelian belief in a better future.

CLUBS ACROSS

THE

OCEAN

In North America club culture is heavily dependent upon the Internet; raves and clubs abound with the trappings of science fiction; alien figures with huge eyes and gray skins are ubiquitous and flying saucers abound.8 On the other hand, the UK expressions of club culture are much more interested in simple hedonism which is highly dependent upon its close relationship to drug culture in general, and the popularity of ecstasy. Although elaborate hi-tech dress styles were quite popular among “Crasher Kids,”9 images gleaned from technology and science fiction are not nearly as pervasive. The focus on drugs in general and ecstasy in particular in the UK has a number of underlying reasons; some of them are based upon longstanding practice of amphetamine use by the Mods and Northern Soul10 movements. Steve Redhead says of the rave movement in England: “Ecstasy had the ... advantage of ‘enabling white men to dance,’ and dance all night long” (Subculture to Clubcultures, 97). It is fair to say that to many outsiders, and a large number of insiders, club culture is essentially a drug culture and this perception is so pervasive in the representation of club culture in literature that Simon Reynolds says in Generation Ecstasy: “Most of this writing [club fiction] consists of thinly disguised drug memoirs, and as everybody knows, other people’s drug anecdotes are as boring as their dreams” (9). I am not sure that Reynolds is entirely correct on this point, since English literature has a long tradition of both dream and drug memoirs (e.g., De Quincy, W.S. Burroughs, H.S. Thompson, Kerouac, etc.). It would be simplistic to assume that the fortuitous interaction between a drug and a music style could give rise to the kind of social e›ect evident in club culture. There are wide-ranging causes and e›ects of club 9

Introduction

culture that are not reflected in its representation in the popular press, but that appear in the literature, film, and television that surrounds the movement. The overwhelming public image of club culture is the result of the transformation of subculture into popular culture. Normally, the mainstream of society is counterbalanced by a host of subgroups that may be loosely described as countercultures. These countercultures are made up of groups who, for one reason or another, feel themselves to be alienated from the general mass of society. When disenfranchised subgroups of society assemble against the real or perceived oppression of the mainstream they tend to select certain characteristic activities and styles that reflect their idiosyncratic nature. For example, biker gangs ride motorcycles, skinheads shave their heads, hippies have long hair, rastas sport dreadlocks, and the mods ride scooters. Although all of these subcultures are easily identifiable to the mainstream by reason of their characteristic mode of dress or recreational activity, it is not just this one thing that makes them what they are. Although one can ride a motorcycle and not be a biker, or shave one’s head without being a skinhead, this distinction is often perceived only by members of the subculture itself. To mainstream culture form usually defines content. In the transformation of a subculture to a pop culture this process of simplification in the public eye is very important. As the secondary defining characteristics of a subculture become widely known through the e›orts of the media, the “scene” fills up with new adherents who adopt the public aspects of the group without ever knowing the original impetus for forming the subculture. The initial stages of club culture were slightly di›erent from the general round of subcultures in that it started as an amalgam comprised of a number of groups that banded together and defined themselves against the mainstream through the recreational activities of late-night dancing and use of ecstasy. Mods, northern soul and gay dance culture all partook of various drugs and late night dance marathons before club culture, but the use of ecstasy somehow altered the way in which the constituent subgroups interacted and allowed for the rapid development of massive raves, first in the UK and then in the rest of the world. Subgroups who defined themselves against the mainstream by reason of political beliefs, race, sexual orientation, and above all age and economic status came together in a recreational setting that had significant political and aesthetic overtones.11 10

Introduction

As subcultures mature and become more apparent to the public eye they often begin to develop an academic and literary superstructure. That is, the subcultural group becomes a subject of interest to nonmembers who are willing to read books, listen to lectures and watch films or television shows that focus on a group that was, up until this point, essentially invisible to nonmembers. For example, near the end of their course as active subcultures the UK youth movements known as Mods and Rockers were popularized by the film Quadrophenia (¡979). The characteristics of once-vibrant subcultural entities were, more or less, frozen in time by the public attention of the author, filmmakers and musicians who came together to present their artistic vision of these two groups. Academic texts that focus on the Mods and Rockers abound in fields as diverse as anthropology and legal studies. Similarly, club culture has begun to develop both an artistic and academic following that attempts to preserve the original subcultural aspects of the movement. However, as these surrounding phenomena are picked up by the popular media, the initial nature of club culture becomes distorted. As modern physics has amply demonstrated, the mere act of observing can change the phenomenon that is the object of study. There are diverse motivations for artists, academics and popular historians for selecting club culture as the subject of their work. Some have a personal connection to the culture and seek to represent the true nature of the movement before it was distorted by public attention. This impetus contains a certain amount of irony in that the act of preservation fuels the public interest, which significantly distorts the movement. As nonclubbers see how attractive the external elements of club culture have become to the public some writers and filmmakers seek to cash in on the wave of popular attention. A common theme in literary and, in fact, historical and academic writing about club culture is a mournful longing for the ideal situation that existed “back in the day” when the movement was new and not easily accessible. In fact, the pattern of transition from subculture to popular culture is repeated over and over. I have observed the introduction of club culture to a small northern Canadian town. The progress from radical ultra-hip participants to every teenager who can a›ord a ticket and some pills over the course of a few years is a microcosm of the worldwide 11

Introduction

progress of the culture in general. As the movement becomes “polluted” by outside interest, early-adopting clubbers with genuine political, aesthetic, or sexual di›erences from the mainstream move on to other areas of interest. Sometimes they become involved in one of the myriad subcategories of modern club culture and scorn “trance”12 or its pop-cultural equivalent. This localization and repetition of club culture is particularly apparent when one compares film, television and literature concerning club culture in the U.S. and in the UK. Club culture seems to have remained underground — that is, not popular to a mass audience — for much longer in North America than in the UK. Perhaps this is because the initial subcultural constituents that made up club culture in the UK were not as prevalent in North America or perhaps it is because the North American marketing of youth culture is much more powerful. The “Do It Yourself ” aesthetic of ravers who became the core of club culture did not fit well with North American cultural industries. UK clubs and the European recording industry have demonstrated that it is quite possible to successfully market the aesthetics of club culture to a general audience. However, the UK youth market is traditionally more volatile and inclined to seize upon trends coming up from the underground. The essential conservatism of North American cultural industries has worked against the innovations of club culture except in specific localized markets like San Francisco. Why this West Coast American city is so amenable to radical ideas and new cultures — from the hippies in Haight-Ashbury in the ’60s to gay culture in the ’70s and club culture in the ’90s — is a rich topic for further academic inquiry. It may be because of the proximity of San Francisco to Silicon Valley, one of the great centers of the computer industry, that one can say the true heart of club culture in North America is to be found on the World Wide Web. Sites like hyperreal.org, ecstasy.org and dancesafe.org are constantly mutating, providing practical indications of the location of underground and not so underground parties, drugs that are safe and drugs that are not so safe, personal testaments of the values of the culture, fashion tips and mockery of the would-be hip. The general sense of DIY (do it yourself ) entrepreneurial anarchy pervades these sites and the print publications that accompany them. 12

Introduction

The literature, film, and television discussed in this book reflect, in a more or less artistic fashion, the realities of the maturation of club culture. Some of these works seek to preserve the origins of the movement in subcultural factions and others present the pop culture of the club as if it had sprung full blown from the established cultural industry. Some texts use club culture as a convenient topos to frame traditional themes of love, hate, friendship, or betrayal, while others are thinly disguised memoirs of the authors’ experiences. In the UK, writers concerned with the themes of club culture are often referred to as the Chemical Generation. On both sides of the Atlantic there are writers and filmmakers who span the full range of artistic quality. Whatever the quality of the works in question, there are several essential elements of club culture that must be present in any work of fiction that attempts to represent or comment upon the subculture to mainstream culture or, indeed, to clubbers themselves. The first, and perhaps the most prominent, feature must be dance music and dance venues. Despite the fact that any discussion of the music is fraught with danger of misapplication of terminology or involvement in internecine struggles between subgroups, any fiction about club culture must incorporate the music. The second aspect that identifies club culture to itself and outsiders is the use of drugs. The third aspect of club culture essential to any discussion of the subject, artistic or otherwise, is escape. From its beginnings with Detroit techno’s cool, electronic aesthetic, to the nonstop celebration of gay clubs in Chicago and New York, to the wild vacation party times of the Balearic clubs, club culture proposed escape to a better world. Hedonism, futurism, drug use, and internationalism combine to make escapism a primary element of fictional representations of club culture. Clubbers escape from the quotidian world into a “special” place. The rave or club is a world unto itself and it allows the dancer to transcend the mundane, if only for a few hours a week. When approaching a study of this sort there are several ways of dividing up the subject material into convenient subsections. For example, it would be possible to compare North American club literature with material from the UK. On the other hand, it would also be reasonable to compare prose fiction with film and television. In this book I subdivide the material according to major thematic considerations that are generally 13

Introduction

important to club culture. Although many of the texts, films and television shows fall naturally into a single one of these thematic categories, it is also easy to see that some of them are appropriate for inclusion in more than one section. For this practical reason the first mention of any text, film or television series will include a short summary of the major plot elements. Subsequent mention of a source will assume that the reader is familiar with the plot. Chapter ¡, “The Rise and Fall of Club Culture: Idealism to Economics” deals with fictionalized representations that attempt to reflect the beginnings of club culture in the countercultures of the late ¡980s and early ¡990s. Writers who are concerned with this aspect of the culture often express nostalgia for a honeymoon period that has passed, choosing to represent the deterioration of the contemporary club scene from the heady days of idealism when they first discovered ecstasy and the all-night dance parties. The opening section of this chapter will provide an introduction to the intellectual and political movements underlying the development of club culture in order to give the reader some insight into the rather idealistic tone of the fiction. Although it is true that almost all club fiction incorporates some elements of criminal activity, some club fiction tends to focus on this aspect of the culture, and this will be the focus of Chapter 2, “Crime and Club Life.” The disillusionment with the natural economic progression of a subculture based on illegal activities is important in the representation of the transformations of club culture. The underlying political and socioeconomic factors that are reflected in fictionalizations of club culture result in a closer involvement with the “black economy,”13 gangsterism, and corruption of the movement through contact with mainstream social and political institutions. On the other hand, it is important to remember that club culture fiction often presents the salvation of criminals through contact with the redeeming idealism of the movement. This chapter also covers the close relationship of club culture fiction and crime fiction. The necessity of telling an interesting story means that club culture fiction often presents the less wholesome aspects of the movement in order to move the plot along. The representation of club culture has always invoked questions of 14

Introduction

race and ethnicity, and this is the subject of exploration in the third chapter, “Whose Club Is It Anyway?” Writers and producers of club fiction deal with the question of race and ethnicity in the movement in several ways. Obviously race representation in club literature is closely related to the mainstream society that has given rise to club subcultures. In this chapter the question of race in UK club fiction is discussed in the context of its postcolonial implications. Race in UK club fiction reflects the upheaval of society in the UK engendered by the influx of immigrants from India, Pakistan and the West Indies in the “collapsed empire.” It would be impossible to study club culture fiction without engaging with the di‡cult matter of sexual preference as it appears in club culture literature, film and television, the subject of Chapter 4. There is a general consensus that one of the major founding groups of club culture was gay subculture. Many of the earmarks of club culture — electronic dance music and designer drugs, for example — were first found in gay dance culture; yet, there seems to be some degree of separation between gay dance club culture and heterosexual branches of the movement. The way that sexual preference is represented in artistic and commercial works about the gay and straight dance scene is important to a complete understanding of the development of club culture fiction. It is possible to view club culture as a contemporary branch of the long-standing tradition of drug cultures, but, as will be discussed in Chapter 5, this viewpoint does not reflect the nuances of club culture fiction. Although to some observers, club culture is nothing but a drug culture, there is a clear line of demarcation between the kind of drug culture represented in books like Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting or William S. Burroughs’s Junky and the more socially active music culture of most club culture fiction. One cannot ignore the fact that drugs are often a very prominent topos in club literature and film, but drug use is not the pivotal characteristic of all club culture fiction. Chapter 6 deals with the production of club fiction for obvious financial purposes. The texts, film and television discussed in this chapter focus on the representation of club culture from a mainstream perspective or in the form of documentaries or pseudo-documentaries that purport to reveal the “truth” of club culture to outsiders. This pecuniary motive a›ects the way in which club culture is represented. Many aspects which are impor15

Introduction

tant to subcultural participants are ignored in favor of elements that fit with the profile of club culture presented by the popular press. Other e›orts attempt to whitewash the movement, ignoring the very real social problems that come with the idealism that engendered club culture. The Conclusion brings all of the elements discussed in the preceding chapters together and makes a general statement about the interaction between club culture as a living subcultural phenomenon and artistic endeavors to represent the culture. It centers on the role of literature, film and television in the transformation of club culture from an underground expression of discontent to a popular form of entertainment for the privileged masses.

16

¡

The Rise and Fall of Club Culture: Idealism to Economics THE IDEAS One may ask if it is possible to ascribe any political motives to a counterculture that appears to be based upon late night dancing and the consumption of drugs. Is it possible to develop a coherent political thesis based upon what appears to be simple hedonism? For a brief answer we may look to the book most often recommended by clubbers of an intellectual bent,1 Hakim Bey’s ¡985 T.A.Z.: The Temporary Autonomous Zone, Ontological Anarchy, Poetic Terrorism. His opening statements, providing examples of what he terms “poetic terrorism,” have much of the spirit of the rave, which is the source of contemporary club culture: “Organize a strike in your school or workplace on the grounds that it does not satisfy your need for indolence or spiritual beauty”(5). Bey defines poetic terrorism (4–6) with a series of examples which are designed to shock people out of their day-to-day life. To an observer with no knowledge of their political inspiration these examples seem to be a cross between hoaxes and pranks.2 Bey defines the purpose of poetic terrorism (PT) as follows: The audience reaction or aesthetic-shock produced by PT ought to be at least as strong as the emotion of terror — powerful disgust, sexual arousal, superstitious awe, sudden intuitive breakthrough, dada-esque angst — no matter whether the PT is aimed at one person or many, no matter whether it is “signed” or anonymous, if it does not change someone’s life (aside from the artist) it fails [Bey, 5]. 17

Dance, Drugs and Escape

Bey is a neo–Sufi philosopher of the contemporary underground whose ideas seem to strike a chord with the original concept of the rave as a dance party thrown in defiance of minor legal hindrances like property ownership, zoning laws, and regulations concerning acceptable sound levels. When club culture first began to have a significant public e›ect in the UK it borrowed many of its political structures and conceptions from the previous generation of punk rockers. Their reaction to the political and economic changes that were taking place in their homeland was a sometimes violent distrust of any form of government or established economic system. Any philosophy that promoted anarchy became immediately attractive since it was obvious that the self-involved capitalism of Thatcherism3 was slanting the legal system against anyone unwilling to wholeheartedly embrace its principles. Bey’s anarchic concept of the TAZ was, and still is, an important link to the will to defy the o‡cial rulers of the state. It recognizes that the battle is in some sense futile since a successful revolution simply replaces one establishment with another. The theory of a temporary autonomous zone embraces the transitory nature of rebellion against an all-powerful system and makes a virtue of what other political theorists would call defeatist attitudes: History says the revolution attains “permanence,” or at least duration, while the uprising is “temporary.” In this sense an uprising is like a “peak experience” as opposed to the standard of “ordinary” consciousness and experience. Like festivals, uprisings cannot happen every day — otherwise they would not be “nonordinary.” But such moments give shape and meaning to the entirety of a life [¡00].

A common element of the club literature that is discussed in this chapter is the perception of the rave or club experience as an uprising in Hakim Bey’s definition of the term. The weekend of music and drugs punctuate life; it provides the sense and meaning to what otherwise could be a hopeless mode of existence. Disenfranchised groups assemble and for a brief time are able to transcend the limitations of their day-to-day lives. Of course this sort of rebellion could not go without reaction from the establishment of the day. The anarchist aspects of this dance culture were significant enough in the UK for Parliament to pass the Criminal Justice and Public Order Act in ¡994.4 The legislation even went so far as to outlaw music comprised of repetitive beats. Naturally, repressive approaches like 18

¡ • The Rise and Fall of Club Culture

this had the e›ect of inspiring countermeasures by club culture. Outlawing music with repetitive beats in order to discourage raves prompted the electronic music group Autechre to cut an extended play record entitled The Anti-EP which incorporated a track entitled “Flutter” that was obviously part of the genre, but was touted as having no repetitive beats. Brewster and Broughton in their delightful study of the history of DJ culture sum up the inherently political nature of dance culture: Dancing is political stupid. You think you’re just having fun, but when you’re on the dance floor, you’re rejecting the rules and responsibilities of your daytime life, questioning the values that make you wait for the bus and smile at the boss every morning. Dance in a club and you are rebelling for a while. Your escape might come in a pill, a smoke, some beers. Or the music might be enough. Your escape might be from yourself. You’re dancing with hundreds, maybe thousands of people; you’re no longer just an individual. A dance floor is about collective action, making you an active participant, a vital component. You’re creating the event, not just consuming it — the spectacle doesn’t exist without you [Brewster and Broughton, 390].

It is this collective action that makes club culture a political movement for escape even though it would appear to many observers to be simply a bunch of young people having a good time. The culture is an outcry against the balance of leisure and work in modern technological society and yet, in what appears to be an irresolvable paradox of human behavior, the people who organize raves or manage clubs are willing to put an immense amount of labor into providing entertainment for others. The participants of club culture often spend the entire week preparing for the weekend of music and drugs. They are making a profound statement about their priorities; rent, transportation and education are often considered as secondary while clothing, club tickets and recreational drugs are of paramount importance. One of the primary criticisms that activists from the ¡960s apply to contemporary youth is that they do not have any issues. In the ¡960s young people all over the world protested the Vietnam War, they resented the Cold War in general, and they wanted to drop out of society in protest. In the new millennium the issues are not so clear-cut despite the attractive theories of anarchists like Hakim Bey. For example, the search for wealth is not rejected outright. Clubbers, like many of their generation, usually do not feel that living in poverty is a rejection of capital19

Dance, Drugs and Escape

ism, but they do reject the idea that wealth for its own sake is a valid goal. Work is a means to an end, and the end is pleasure. The club serves as a site where its participants feel that they can transcend the limitations of their quotidian existence and become something special, even if only for a brief period. Clubbing fits well with Hakim Bey’s definition of an uprising, serving to punctuate the tedium of the clubber’s life outside of the subcultural milieu. Characters in club culture fiction exist outside of their subculture under a general environment of pressure. They attempt to endure the pressure for the week until they can be released into the “true life” of the club on the weekend. The music and the drugs combine to reinforce this sense of relief. Clubs and raves are actually designed to promote a sense of otherworldly space5 and clubbers’ desire to suspend their quotidian existence seems to be completely in line with the political theories of Bey. Although the political musings of Hakim Bey and other pundits are immensely attractive for the academic investigating club culture, one must never forget that it is a subculture or counterculture that is most often characterized by consumption of a cultural product: a highly specific form of music. In other terms, it is a culture predicated upon an art form, and, like most art forms it is a commodity that may be bought and sold for profit. I would not go so far as to agree with Adorno and Horkheimer’s cynical notion of the cultural industry as a force that removes all artistic merit, but the transition of club culture from subculture to a form of pop culture that is sanctioned by the mass media industries has some similarity to the misgivings they expressed in “The Culture Industry: Enlightenment as Mass Deception.”6 One of the sure signs that club culture has begun to move from the realm of subculture into an economically sanctioned main-stream pop-cultural phenomenon is the fact that it has become the subject of representation in literature, film and television — media that are generally controlled by the established culture industry. For this reason I have chosen to deal with these secondary artistic phenomena rather than following the established precedent of most texts on club culture which directly discuss the interaction of the music and its audience. Clearly the increasingly high profile of club culture in other media is a sign of a transition. These “secondary” cultural products are a sign that club culture has come of age and is becoming a force of some significance 20

¡ • The Rise and Fall of Club Culture

to the mainstream. In doing so, some elements of club culture are losing the characteristic of an uprising that is so important to anarchistic philosophies like that of Hakim Bey. As the dance club becomes an established part of mainstream youth culture it is often stripped of the joyous one-time-only release characteristic of the rave. As the random timing of rave has transformed into the weekly event of club night, the phenomenon is no longer so attractive to many of the aesthetic anarchists that helped found the movement. Indeed, clubs and club culture are incorporated into the day-to-day life of the average person, even if that person is not an active participant but a passive observer with contact mediated through the distorting lens of film, television and literature. As club culture moves from an unmediated experiential phenomenon to a broadly represented social construct, the economic aspects of the culture come to the fore as the purely aesthetic enjoyment of anarchistic club culture falls away. Despite this tendency towards integration into the general economic and social life of western culture, it is crucial to remember that as some aspects of club culture move into the public eye and become part of mainstream culture, other aspects of the culture are able to maintain their underground credibility. Angela McRobbie says of the Jungle or drum ’n’ bass movement: [T]he underground location and the distinctive style and language means that only insiders from the DJ and dance music press comment upon it [drum ’n’ bass]. On the part of Oxbridge-educated establishment critics drum ’n’ bass remains a bewildering and confusing thing.... This sense of being unable to place, locate or assess the artistic value of such work is both a mark of its otherness and also, as Bourdieu would say, of the unwillingness of the cultural legitimators to consider, never mind catagorize as artists, those who exist at the far end of the social scale [McRobbie ¡6–7].

McRobbie’s comments help to position one branch of club music — drum ’n’ bass — and the associated culture’s unfortunate double-bind position of being, at one extreme, too far underground to be considered part of the artistic establishment, and at the other, so far into the public eye as to be simply pop culture with no legitimate claim on status as an art-based subculture. The fact that club culture seizes upon aspects of cheap popular art somehow lessens it in the eyes of many established cultural arbiters.7 21

Dance, Drugs and Escape

MUSIC

AND

MUSICIANS

One of the major figures in the anarchistic subcultural foundations of club culture is musician and writer Bill Drummond. With his comradein-arms Jimmy Cauty, Drummond released a series of seminal electronic music hits under the names JAMs ( Justified Ancients of Mu Mu), The Timelords, and the KLF.8 The theme of the Justified Ancients of Mu Mu comes from the underground classic science fiction novel The Illuminatus! Trilog y by Robert Anton Wilson and Robert Shea. The Justified Ancients of Mu Mu were a mystical force of chaos-promoting wizards that appeared in a struggle against the Rosicrucian heroes of Wilson and Shea’s novels.9 Drummond and Cauty seem to have taken this identification with the forces of chaos to heart. Their short but illustrious career as “rock stars” involved a famous lawsuit for copyright infringement. They pioneered many of the sampling techniques that are the heart and soul of contemporary electronic music, and raised the ire of the established music industry by ignoring the copyright of their sources. Their first number one hit was “Doctorin’ the Tardis” (¡988), which was based on mixing samples of the theme song from the famous UK science fiction television show Doctor Who (¡963–) with Garry Glitter and Mike Leander’s ¡972 hit, “Rock and Roll.” Drummond was a student of fine arts in Liverpool in the ¡970s who became interested in rock music and went on to manage the famous Liverpool band Echo and the Bunnymen before gaining success as a musician in his own right in the nascent rave movement. In his memoir, 45 (published in 2000), he reprinted the following populist art manifesto from his notebook, which was written in ¡973: Until science and technology have developed a way of reproducing the works of the great masters and their progeny to such a level that even top experts cannot discern the di›erence between the original and the copy, and these copies can be reproduced at a cost so low that every council house in the land can have a “Haywain” or a Rothko hanging above the mantlepiece, we must leave the oils to dry on our palettes, and turn our easels into ploughshares. It is to the world of pop music we must look for leadership where the work of the “fabbest” to the work of the least is available to all for less than 50 pence on a piece of seven inch black plastic [Drummond, 3¡0].

Drummond was nineteen years old when he wrote this and his unfamiliarity with the business aspect of rock music is apparent in this ingen22

¡ • The Rise and Fall of Club Culture

uous statement. In ¡988 Drummond and Cauty published the slim volume known as The Manual: How to Have a Number One the Easy Way. This text is a sly jab at the rock music industry and purports to be a step by step guide to creating a number one pop music hit. When The Manual was reprinted in 200¡ Drummond commented in the foreword upon the historical changes that had made many of the details of their template inaccurate. Nevertheless, it seems to have aged quite well as a counterculture document. What is astonishing is that long before his success in the rock world Drummond had a clear vision of the di‡culties that partnership with capitalism can bring to idealistic subcultural enterprises. In fact, Drummond’s cynicism about the populist nature of the music business increased in the ensuing fifteen years.10 In The Manual Drummond and Cauty provide a fascinating look at the relationship of music to cultural splinter groups. Their analysis of press and music industry collusion to co-opt radical musicians into the mainstream is a fairly clear description of what happened to music and dance culture as it was transformed into contemporary club culture at the time that The Manual was written. Cauty and Drummond continue with their analysis to explain that members of subcultures who find their personal choice of musical style in the popular eye often conclude that mainstream culture is finally changing or that they now have agents working on the inside of the oppressive system. This is, in fact, the way in which many of the KLF’s fans felt about Drummond at first. Then, as his actions became less palatable and appeared to follow an aesthetic agenda that was far beyond the simple ideals of the general public’s perception of club culture there was some disenchantment with the “band” and a general sense of unease with the KLF’s anarchist political agenda. In The Manual, Drummond and Cauty clearly indicate that adherence to strong principles that are not part of mainstream culture can be detrimental to economic success: Although the latest subculture might be useful to give each potential chart record its attitude gloss, it must be remembered that this particular attitude might put as many people o› the otherwise perfectly acceptable pop record as be attracted to it. Another useful hint when it comes to subcult attitude gloss: it often helps not to be purists. Water it down, sugar it up [The Manual, 23].

Cauty and Drummond ignored their own advice about watering down the “attitude gloss.” As the KLF, Drummond and Cauty did not per23

Dance, Drugs and Escape

form music live; their personal appearances were a sort of performance art intended to shock the traditional rock entrepreneur and the mainstream audience. One of their most famous stunts was flying a number of rock journalists to the island of Jura o› the Scottish coast to watch the KLF burn one million British pounds. The relationship between performance art of this sort and Bey’s concept of poetic terrorism is inescapable. The artists are attempting to disrupt the normal association between money and success through the destruction of the most obvious goal of a capitalist society. They sought to change the approach to music by the rock journalists who they invited to the ceremony through a graphic demonstration of their rejection of the industry. By selecting influential members of the press to attend they maximized the impact of their poetic terrorism and, incidentally, alienated the people in charge of the mechanisms of popular success. At the height of their career, the KLF simply disbanded and refused to make any more music. It was not the usual situation in which a band falls apart over a matter of “artistic di›erences”; Cauty and Drummond remain friends and actually work on joint projects from time to time. The two were more concerned with the aesthetics and politics of the production of art than with economic success. Their attitude did not sit well with multinational corporations intent on bringing electronic music into the mainstream. Drummond’s taste for pop music was founded upon a notion that art could be had for a fair price and when he discovered that at high levels of success it became an industry like all others, he withdrew to his farm and found other ways of expressing himself. Despite their apparent disillusionment with the process, Cauty and Drummond do have a few positive things to say about the process of popularization of subcultural music.11 They celebrate the youthful joy that is the impetus for the musical stylings of subcultural groups and reject the ultimately cynical attitudes that would give up on dance music simply because it can be and has been co-opted for economic reasons. Bey and Drummond were both important influences in the creation of club culture’s political agenda in the late ¡980s. However, as the movement progressed, many of the subversive notions of these pioneers were — as predicted in The Manual —discarded in favor of the goals of traditional western capitalism. Contemporary club culture publications like Mixmag are, by and large, slick commercial products with pages of advertisements. 24

¡ • The Rise and Fall of Club Culture

It would be easy to say that the rave was co-opted and in its incarnation as club culture became part of the mainstream’s process of deriving money from youth culture. However, there are some aspects of the mechanism of cultural transformation that are not quite so straightforward. For one thing, club culture does not move as a single, multinational entity. Moreover, club culture and the music that is at the heart of the culture constantly bifurcates. Sarah Thornton’s identification of club culture as a “taste culture” (3) that is founded upon a desire to be di›erent from the mainstream means that there is a constant movement away from the mainstream and the big club industry and this tendency is reflected by the popular clubbing publications. It is a fascinating paradox of club culture that what is seen as popular today becomes immediately unpopular for just that reason. Although club culture has its economic and mainstream successes there are still links with countercultural elements to be found.12 For example, clubs occasionally provide venues for multimedia presentations that reemphasize the countercultural roots of club culture. The literature, film and television of club culture are a part of this dual movement towards and away from the mainstream. Club fictions have two important functions with regard to club culture and its aficionados; the first is to describe the subculture to the mainstream and the second is to allow the members of the subculture to celebrate their participation in ways other than clubbing. Although commercial enterprises dominate the market for club fiction, club culture continues to circumvent mainstream venues of publication in many ways. The self-reflexive functions of club art are often fulfilled by samizdat-type publications that e›ectively bypass the mainstream culture industries at the expense of mass distribution. Nickianne Moody discusses this do-it-yourself style of club literature publications: One of the contributors to the Champion anthology [Disco Biscuits] is the black British author Q, who produced his first novel himself, gave readings in clubs and sold the book from the back of his car. The readings are very performance oriented incorporating music and visual e›ects.... At a recent conference on Black Literature at the Museum of London, Q expresses a disillusionment with the publishing industry and an interest in publishing on the internet [Moody, ¡006].

Further examples of club culture’s resistance to the cultural industry’s economic controls abound. For example, Hakim Bey’s T.A.Z. has an “Anti25

Dance, Drugs and Escape

copyright” statement in place of the usual assertion of author’s rights of ownership: “May be freely pirated & quoted — the author & publisher would like to be informed....” Autobiographical accounts of club experiences abound in the relatively ephemeral medium of the World Wide Web. MCs13 will often extemporize on the experience of their work during the mixing, and electronic dance music itself will often have lyrics that attempt to describe the experiences of club culture. Even this spontaneous expression of the music and movement can be co-opted by the music industry. An example of this may be found in Norman Cook’s (Fatboy Slim) track “Song for Shelter” on the Half way Between the Gutter and the Stars (2000) compact disk. The narrative voice comments on the experience of house music from the viewpoint of a DJ. In the introduction to her ¡997 collection, Disco Biscuits, Sarah Champion points out that club culture has, at least at one level, incorporated the participation of writers into its regular musical venues.14 Moreover, this phenomenon is not restricted to large urban centers; poetry readings are occasionally incorporated into raves in small Canadian cities. Club culture at its initial underground stage is primarily constituted of participants who feel themselves to be marginalized for one reason or another. For example, youth cultures are always separated from the mainstream of economic activity simply because they have not had the time to acquire the capital of older generations. Get-rich-quick schemes from underground economies will always be attractive to younger people who are more inclined to risk taking. People who are marginalized by reason of race or sexual preference will also attempt to carve out a place for themselves despite the limitations that the mainstream economy places upon them. This pattern is replicated in all of the countries where club culture appears. It would be wrong, however, to assume that simply because modern technological society has brought about a blurring of the divisions between national and geographic boundaries that “the mainstream” is, unlike subcultures, a unified entity cut from a single cloth. Despite the fact that club culture is international in its genesis and practice, film and literature in North America and Britain tend to reflect essential di›erences in the nature of the phenomenon in the two locations. In Club Cultures Sarah Thornton states: 26

¡ • The Rise and Fall of Club Culture Club Culture is faddish and fragmented. Even if the music and clothes are globally marketed, the crowds are local, segregated and subject to distinctions dependent on the smallest of cultural minutia.... So, although most clubbers and ravers characterize their own crowd as mixed or di‡cult to classify, they are generally happy to identify a homogenous crowd to which they don’t belong. And while there are many other scenes, most clubbers and ravers see themselves as outside and in opposition to the mainstream [98–99].

Thornton’s argument is that this phenomenon defines itself, in part, by what it is not, almost as much as by what it is. It would seem reasonable to assume then that since the mainstream culture in di›erent countries has significant di›erences, then club culture will move in a di›erent direction according to what it pushes against. It is clear from this discussion that the political roots of club culture are intimately connected to the underlying economic conditions of the members of the subculture. Some, like Bey and Drummond, seek to disregard or actively fight against the global capitalism of mainstream society. Club culture — especially in its rave manifestations — prides itself on a DIY (do it yourself ) philosophy that favors this disjunction from the traditional economy; illegal raves, twelve-inch white-label dance tracks, pirate radio, and unauthorized remixes all form an essential part of the mythology of club culture. Nevertheless, as club culture becomes successful, despite its idealistic leanings, it is incorporated into the general economy and thus becomes unacceptable to a certain portion of its hardcore audience — those clubbers who define themselves as di›erent from the mainstream society. Raves, clubs, electronic music and drugs are profitable enterprises and lead the subculture into the world of finance. In the texts and films that we will be discussing in the rest of this chapter the underlying economic conditions of clubbers will be seen as a motivating force in their exclusion from the mainstream as well as a way in which they are reintegrated into the rest of society.

BOOKS, FILMS

AND

TELEVISION Ecstasy Club

The first text that I would like to deal with in the context of countercultural economics is Douglas Rushko› ’s ¡997 novel, Ecstasy Club. It 27

Dance, Drugs and Escape

is set in San Francisco and Oakland in the early ¡990s and deals with the rise and fall of the members of a semipolitical collective who live from the proceeds of throwing parties in an abandoned piano factory. Although the text refers to the events as raves or parties the fact that the collective has a fixed venue for their events means that it is actually an illegal club. The book is considered by some to be a roman à clef about the early days of club culture in San Francisco: [Rushko›] wrote this book called The Ecstasy Club [sic] and based the story on Toon Town [San Francisco rave collective], me [Dianna Jacobs] and Mark Heley [UK journalist turned San Francisco rave promoter]. The Ecstasy Club is about a cult, but it’s placed in a rave environment — it’s like a rave cult with ecstasy and all that. There’s this leader who brainwashes and hypnotizes people, which is based on Mark, and I’m his girlfriend.... Miramax bought the rights to that book and it worries me a bit, because I don’t want my parents going to the movie and associating me with a cult [Push & Silcott, 92].

Ecstasy Club attempts to describe the initial stages of club culture to both participants and nonmembers of the subculture. Because Rushko› chooses to use a high degree of historical accuracy in his fiction — enough that some people feel that they recognize themselves — the novel serves as an attempt by the subculture to justify itself to participants and to casual observers. The fact that Rushko› is writing for two distinct target audiences makes some clubbers and former clubbers uncomfortable, as they fear that events may be misinterpreted by casual observers. Because the novel transcends simple description and serves, at least in part, as justification of the lifestyle, there are a lot of theoretical musings in Ecstasy Club. Rushko› makes his living as a media analyst and the style of this novel owes a great deal to the analytical tools that he uses in his nonfiction. This sometimes detracts from the novel as an example of club culture art, because Rushko› tends to wander o› into theoretical discussions of the subculture and its relationship to the mainstream rather than attending to the progression of his novel’s plot and character development. However this is — in some respects — an appropriate strategy since ostentatious theorizing about the deeper meanings of the movement appears to have been part of the philosophy of San Francisco club culture in the early ¡990s. Heley, in particular, is famous for his attempts to move away from simple hedonism toward a futuristic ambience. His club events and raves had 28

¡ • The Rise and Fall of Club Culture

a distinctive signature which depended heavily on the use of computers and smart drugs: Mark Heley’s master plan was to create a new interface between technology and rave. A tech-playground thing. A place where people could come and experience technology in a di›erent setting.... So we had brain machines, lots of digital media like interactive TVs. A holographic exploratorium, things like that [Push and Silcott, 92–3].

Rushko› ’s fictional collective, like the real people who brought club culture to the West Coast of the U.S., espouses DIY philosophy combined with a techno-fetishism that seems to be a part of the San Francisco club scene. It is not particularly surprising that there is a high degree of integration of the computer culture of Silicon Valley in San Francisco and it is also quite likely that this link with computer culture can be traced back to the futurism of Detroit techno. The di›erence seems to be that in Detroit techno the music was framed around an electronic machine aesthetic, and in Ecstasy Club not only the music, but the whole club/rave experience is informed by the use of computers. This would bear out the notion that subcultures take aspects of their local mainstream culture and make them their own. The interdependent relationship between computer culture and club culture that is present in this novel demonstrates a reapplication of San Francisco’s mainstream computer based economy for subversive, subcultural purposes. Whereas the Silicon Valley entrepreneurs seize upon computer technology in order to make money, the characters in Ecstasy Club use the computers to establish a feedback loop with the user’s mind in an attempt to blur the line between drugs and computers. Both computers and drugs are espoused as means of transcendence, ways of escaping the mundane world of the mainstream. Unfortunately, in Rushko› ’s novel this search for transcendence by any means is doomed to failure. Ecstasy Club follows the general theme of disillusionment that is present in a high proportion of club culture narratives; the idealism that motivates characters to withdraw from mainstream society cannot be maintained and the financial realities of the rest of the world begin to intrude. The representation of the black economy in Ecstasy Club is very detailed and explicit. As the groups of squatters who call themselves “Ecstasy Club” become successful in their illegal rave presentations they develop links with the Oakland police department. The club collec29

Dance, Drugs and Escape

tive is amazed that the police have a highly organized mechanism for bribes that includes forms to fill out and the o›er of stickers for car windows of large contributors. When things get down to brass tacks during the negotiations it becomes clear exactly what they are paying for. Parrot, the man who handles the money for the collective, says to the police: “If I advise Mr. Levi [first person narrator of the novel] to give you the eighteen hundred cash he’s holding right now, plus an additional eighteen every week, and we implement wristbands for drinking and a fake metal detector at the door, you have to guarantee us no crashes [police raids] until at least 3:00 A.M., warning phone calls, and two uniforms from eleven to two.” Laruso put his hand out for the bag. “You know those uniforms know how to count cars, Mr. Levi” [Rushko›, 70].

In other words, the police suspect that they are not being given an accurate percentage of the take at the club. It seems that no matter how hard club culture attempts to separate itself from the mainstream economy, it is absorbed at one level or another. If club culture tries to avoid the stamp of legitimate enterprise it becomes a part of well established criminal patterns, which seem to be just another face of the same mainstream economy. The economy of the music industry is also a subject for discussion by the theoretically inclined characters in Ecstasy Club: Pearl Jam is just the best rock has left to o›er people who still want to worship some long-haired guys on a stage. This [club music] is homemade music, recorded by kids in their garages, then DJ’d by other kids just like them. We’re showing people how to worship themselves. The fact that they’re willing to pay for it just confirms its value [52].

Rushko› is more interested in the theory behind the music than examples of the music itself. In many ways this is typical of the self-conscious expressions of club culture in North America. The movement is not just based around having a good time; it looks at itself and justifies the good time as a means of healthy self-expression. Rushko› ’s representation of the economics of music production in this statement is reminiscent of some of Drummond’s comments in The Manual. In both Ecstasy Club and The Manual club culture is praised for taking itself out of the production loop that developed around the rock music of the baby boomers. The philosophy of club culture as represented by the characters in Ecstasy Club is based 30

¡ • The Rise and Fall of Club Culture

upon disintegrating the rules of the mainstream culture and developing a new system that will allow the members of the subculture to: ... enact your true will. The real challenge is to find it. Break the social codes and external programming in order to become one’s own programmer.... Use whatever you can — drugs, music, ideas — to break down the old programs and replace them with new ones [Rushko›, 75].

The representation of the social and economic status of the characters in Ecstasy Club is somewhat di›erent from that of other films and novels of club culture. Rushko› ’s characters have dedicated their lives to the production of raves and club nights. They all come from upper-middle-class families and they are not locked into jobs they hate. The club night is not an escape at the end of the week, but a way of life that rules their entire existence. Hakim Bey’s concept of an uprising is not immediately applicable to the protagonists of this novel, but the general notions of a lifestyle based on aesthetic principles is integral to the book. During the course of the novel the collective runs into the essential problem of trying to work out a lifestyle based upon entertainment. The members of the Ecstasy Club make their living by providing others with an opportunity to escape everyday reality. Their own day-to-day routine is driven by their function as entertainers and they — quite naturally — become jaded and cynical about the whole process. One might usefully compare this to the long tradition of novels focused on the life of entertainers in carnival, theatre or film industries. The customers tend to become a faceless mass as the entertainers’ society turns inward and devalues individuals not directly involved with their enterprise. Part of this process of movement from subculture into the entertainment industry depends upon the function of the press. In a collective that exists to provide other people with parties the free advertising provided by press coverage is extremely important, yet there is a careful balance between advertising and distance from the mainstream. After all, as Thornton so clearly expresses, club culture requires that its members believe that they are outside of the mainstream; whenever some aspect of the subculture becomes too popular it is rejected by a core of radical participants and the subculture moves on. Rushko› recognizes this verity and parodies the delicate relationship between the popular press and the subcultural founders of his collective. When Duncan, the leader of the Ecstasy 31

Dance, Drugs and Escape

Club collective, meets with a reporter he attempts to convince her of the coherent philosophy of the movement: Together we are forming the first node in the new colonial human organism. The herbs, smart drugs, mind gym, music, lights, lasers, and whatever psychedelics people have ingested all combine to create a group awareness. A common resonant frequency. The party itself serves as a remote highleverage point that, if successful, will iterate throughout the rest of the social system as these kids go home and share their experience with others [Rushko›, 54].

The reporter is not impressed with Duncan’s notions of social engineering, but feels that she has discovered a hook for her story when he begins to talk about the collective’s economic philosophy. Duncan indicates that they are squatting in an empty factory that they do not own: “By establishing ourselves here, we are in the face of the logic that says that you have to have a nine-to-five job in order to get by” (Rushko›, 55). Despite this countercultural declaration, it is quite apparent to the reader that the nine-to-five job of the collective has become entertaining other people. Rather than have a specific taste of their own that is represented by the parties that they throw, the Ecstasy Club members host parties that cater to fans of Goth, Industrial, or house music and try to integrate themselves into the crowds who attend these species-specific parties. Of course, this is a reflection of the diversification of the club movement. Because clubbers eschew anything that appears too popular, the natural tendency is for the movement to bifurcate and develop into subgroups with idiosyncratic tastes in music, dress and drugs. This diversification is reflected in the way that Rushko› ’s characters use drugs. Ecstasy is, of course, the primary drug in the novel, but there are many other drugs ingested in the course of the downfall of this fictional collective: The whole atmosphere of the club changed with whatever drug was coming through that week. When we had good windowpane LSD, the vibe at the PF was intellectual. When that skunk pot was coming through, we walked around in a fuzzy stupor. After the brown super–E we were convinced that the gods were directing our actions. Our group personality took on the qualities of our drug stash at any given moment [¡¡¡].

When the collective in Ecstasy Club begin to use DMT15 their psychedelic experiences are fused with the computer experiences. Some of the stoned 32

¡ • The Rise and Fall of Club Culture

musings on the connection between drug use and computer based futurism are intentionally quite humorous: “The @-sign! Of course! The Fetus, the Internet address, the DNA strand viewed from above. It was the cosmic spiral. The journey of the soul through time and space” (205). This kind of drug humor is similar to that found in most club culture texts and film. It is a kind of pseudo-intellectualism that always sounds silly the morning after — even more so when it is represented in text or on film. One of the refreshing things about club culture is its ability to laugh at itself.16 Although it may appear that Rushko› is quite cynical about this aspect of club culture he does not in any way exceed the norms of self criticism found in other examples of club cultural fiction. However, his critique is not restricted to poking fun at self-important drug culture. Although there is a lot of theorizing about the essential equality of all involved in “the scene,” Rushko› represents an extremely hierarchical organization with all of the trappings of western marketing and corporate structure working underneath the subcultural ideology of the collective. Rushko› ’s novel is a rather cynical look at club culture and although it appears to celebrate some of its aspects, on the whole it represents the culture as inherently unstable and doomed to failure because of inherent flaws in its underlying principles. The idealistic notions of the youthful members of the collective start to flounder on the barriers of day-to-day life in mainstream North American society. The desire for a good future with well-paying jobs, children and a stable social life make the nonconformist lifestyle of the collective untenable. Ecstasy Club incorporates most of the common elements of club culture in an engaging if somewhat desultory fashion; it refers to the music, to sexual license and drug use, presenting club culture as a release from the restrictive pressures of the everyday world. The countercultural structures espoused by the members of the collective seem to stumble when the economic pressures of the mainstream conflict with their idealistic notions. Despite their idealistic leanings, Rushko› ’s characters are very close to the mainstream of North American society in their sense of economic empowerment. For example, he chooses to represent the people who manage a club rather than those who use the revelry as an escape from their quotidian existence. 33

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The failure of the collective in Rushko› ’s novel is not unusual in club fiction despite the fact that the reasons for this failure are somewhat di›erent than those found in many other works of the genre. Many of the works that represent club culture end on a rather cynical note because the authors point out the ultimate failure of the culture to maintain a truly separate lifestyle. However, if one analyzes this from the perspective of Bey’s writing this is only natural. It should be impossible to maintain an uprising at a constant level. Revolutions always fall prey to day-to-day necessities and become the establishment, and a club culture that forgets that it is supposed to be a series of peak experiences and attempts to reengineer society will fail. It is only when the counterculture recognizes its necessarily transitory nature that it can develop a philosophy and praxis that escapes the mainstream.

Human Tra‡c One of the common themes of club culture fiction is the relatively impoverished economic situation of clubbers in general and the tendency to turn to drug dealing as an alternative to low paying and demeaning jobs in the mainstream economy. This is one of the most prominent elements of the UK independent production Human Tra‡c (¡999). This film is set in Cardi›, Wales, and it tells a tale of the preparation, expression and aftermath of a night of drugs and dance music. For the protagonists of Human Tra‡c the highlight of the weekend is a night at a club called Asylum. Human Tra‡c is a film made by UK clubbers for UK clubbers and abounds with in-jokes and obscure references that are primarily accessible to a club-culture audience. It is important to note, however, that clubbers make up a significant proportion of the eighteen to twenty-five-yearold movie-going audience in the UK. Thus, although it is aimed at a subcultural audience, Human Tra‡c still managed to do quite well at the box o‡ce. Although Human Tra‡c, which was written and directed by Justin Kerrigan, joyously celebrates club culture to members of the subculture rather than attempting to provide a glimpse into an exotic world for members of the mainstream culture, it is not completely inaccessible to a nonclubbing audience. For example, the film’s humor has general aspects that 34

¡ • The Rise and Fall of Club Culture

refer to common problems experienced by young people: complex relationships with their parents, di‡culties with social groups, and, of course, money. Moreover, there is a clearly recognizable love story that carries Human Tra‡c’s plot along in situations that might otherwise alienate a non-clubbing audience. Human Tra‡c begins with a representation of a group of Gen-X friends who are stuck in unrewarding jobs. The primary character of Human Tra‡c, Jip, serves as a narrator using a combination of voice-overs and breaking the fourth wall by directly addressing the camera. His Walter Mitty type fantasies are often presented on-screen; however, we never lose track of the distinction between Jip’s fantasies and “real” representations of the main plot. For example, when Jip introduces himself to the audience as a young man who works in a clothing store, he complains about the abuse of the junior sta› by management. An older man wearing a suit walks into the scene and starts to berate Jip as a lazy good-fornothing; he then proceeds to bend the poor boy over a pile of clothing and make literal the common metaphor of what managers do to their employees. We are never in doubt that this is a fantasy, and the tone of the film remains light; what could be a grotesque horror remains humorous. The low socioeconomic status of Jip and his friends serves to place their clubbing in a subcultural context; they use the weekend of club activity as a release from the tedium and anxieties of their quotidian existence. Human Tra‡c never strays far from the primary theme of club culture as a coherent subculture with its own history and goals. For example, the film begins with a political comment that would not make much sense in an American context. The opening credits are shown over a montage of newsreel type scenes of fleeing youths and pursuing police. The reference is to the crackdown on rave parties in the UK in the early nineties that culminated in the Criminal Justice and Public Order Bill. Many believe it is because of this bill that rave culture in the UK became club culture and clubbers still point proudly to this as a semipolitical heritage for their movement. It is significant that a character study film like Human Tra‡c gives a nod in the direction of this political activism. This rather briefly acknowledges the political roots of club culture in the UK. Thatcherism was a sharp contrast to the social policies of the previous governments of Britain and the opportunities for youth were greatly restricted. 35

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Club culture was a way of suspending worry about these lost opportunities. Few of Jip’s friends appear to have jobs that are more rewarding than the average run of characters represented in the club fiction of the UK. Koop, Jip’s best friend is a salesman in a vinyl record store. He is shown joyfully selling various types of techno and hip-hop at exorbitant prices, incorporating fantastic tales into his sales pitch. Koop is black and his conversations with his extremely white Welsh clientele are hilarious. The customers take on what they imagine to be the accents of black American “Gangstas” when they are buying rap and Jamaican Rastas when they purchase dub. Koop matches them accent for accent and treats them all like brothers. Koop, like many characters in club fiction, has managed to find a way to improve his economic status through club culture. However, he is not particularly happy with this path to success. He would rather be a DJ, but unfortunately he does not have the skills necessary to accomplish this dream. Mo›, another of this merry band of clubbers, is not, strictly speaking, employed. He lives at home with his parents and makes pocket money by dealing drugs. Jip’s narrative comments make it clear that Mo› is not a big-money dealer; he just provides a service for his friends. Mo› is very unhappy with living at home, but cannot seem to make the transition to his own flat, thus highlighting the small scale and limited profitability of his drug dealing. One scene shows Mo› going to a customer’s house on his bicycle — no Porsche for this dealer — to sell her a small amount of hashish. The customer tries to shortchange Mo› by five pounds and yet his reaction is in no way threatening. Drug dealing as practiced by Mo› is just another petty, low-paying job that has no glamour. He is not the flashy dealer represented in so many drug narratives; he is just a rather pathetic young man trying to make enough cash to have a good time on the weekend. Human Tra‡c represents many of the classic scenes of dance and drug culture in a delightfully humorous way. The evening at the club and the after-party show the etiquette of passing a joint, stoned conversations which represent the Star Wars movies as allegories of drug use, old-skool ravers complaining about the change in the crowds in the clubs, the blathering bonhomie of people on ecstasy and close-ups of the gurning17 club 36

¡ • The Rise and Fall of Club Culture

patrons, all clearly intended to celebrate club culture to the initiated. Not surprisingly, mainstream society is represented in a less than sympathetic manner in the primary narrative as well as in Jip’s fantasies. The contrast in basic representation of club culture between Human Tra‡c and North American club fiction is founded upon the prevalence of the culture in the two geographic areas. The well-established club culture in the UK is demographically significant enough to support “insider fiction” like Human Tra‡c, while North American club culture fiction is more often intended for a mainstream audience. However, the increasing importance of club culture in North America is verified by the fact that Human Tra‡c was released, in slightly modified form, in video stores across the North American continent. In order to make the material more accessible to the North American audience, a parody of the British royal anthem, “God Save the Queen,” and some references to the early rave scene in the UK were cut. It is clear that Human Tra‡c speaks to members of a type of club culture that does not exist in North America. Undoubtedly, North Americans would recognize many common aspects of drug and youth culture, but elements that are specifically club culture in a UK context would not be commonly accessible to the average North American clubber.

A Midsummer Night’s Rave This 2002 independent film by Gil Cates, Jr., as the title indicates, is based upon Shakespeare’s comedy A Midsummer Night’s Dream. In this version of the play Puck (Glen Badyna) is a gay drug dealer who hands out “special” pills that cause mismatched couples to fall in love with one another. The character Lysander, one of the primary lovers in Shakespeare’s play, becomes Xander (Andrew Keegan) in Cates’ film; Nick Bottom, the comic relief, is simply Nick (Chad Lindberg ); Hermia is Mia (Sunny Mabrey); Demetrius is Damon (Corey Pearson); Oberon is OB John ( Jason Carter); and Helena is Elena (Lauren German). OB John often speaks dialogue that is lifted directly from Shakespeare’s original version. This technique emphasizes the otherworldly aspects of the character, but the e›ect is rather jarring to the general flow of the plot. The film is actually quite accurate in its representation of a rave, although the director admits that he did not have a lot of contact with the 37

Dance, Drugs and Escape

phenomenon before researching this film. In his DVD commentary the director says, “This movie was obviously made for the ravers and the people who want to understand raves....” (Midsummer Night’s Rave: DVD director’s commentary). Stoned people wander in and out of the frame, beginning conversations and dropping them as their attention wanders under the influence of drugs. The physical reactions as well as the behavior of the characters are all quite convincing. Moreover, the sound track is comprised of authentic club music of the sort one might hear at a rave in 2002. The music was done by Moonshine Music, who also did the sound track CD for the documentary film Better Living Through Circuitry which is discussed later in this chapter. One of the funny, authentic touches that endears this film to club culture participants is a visual footnote that is inserted into the plot. As one of the characters at the rave prepares to pop a pill into his mouth the scene freezes and the words how it got from there to here appear on the screen. The film then cuts to a graphic of the globe with an arrow pointing from the label Amsterdam to a point in Europe. The scene changes to a lab with beakers of blue fluid prominently displayed and then we see a man, sitting on a toilet with a horrified expression on his face, take a bag of pills roughly the size of two human fists and reach around behind himself. The next shot is of a commercial jet, then the globe returns with an arrow pointing to Southern California. The man is shown in another toilet with an even more distressed expression on his face after which the shot of the raver putting the pill in his mouth continues where it left o›. Humor of this sort is an integral component of club culture as we have seen in the discussion of Human Tra‡c. The film includes a crime story that is intended to help move the plot forward. One of the clubbers has acquired a jacket from his roommate — who incidentally is the smuggler who is pictured in the visual footnote — that is stu›ed with money. A criminal named Doc follows him to the rave and spends the night providing a thuggish contrast to the “loved up” ravers. In the end he is forced to drink the love potion and is arrested by a pair of rather unsympathetic cops. The director claims that this plotline is intended to provide something “edgier” for the ravers, but as most of this chapter indicates, club culture does not condone violence and its inclusion usually signals the end of the early idealism of the movement. 38

¡ • The Rise and Fall of Club Culture

The plot device of a drug that inspires love does not work as well as it does in Shakespeare’s original, as this version of the potion does not have the same e›ect as the juice of the flower in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The special drug in this film does not lock in the user to the first person that comes into view after the drug’s ingestion and therefore much of the comic impetus of Shakespeare’s original plot is lost. A Midsummer Night’s Rave is at its best when it ignores its pretensions to classical allusion and fantasy and focuses on the rave itself. Although its low budget and contrived classical allusions detract somewhat from the quality of the film, it is rather endearing as a club cultural product. It is unlikely that the film had much e›ect on the mainstream audience, but for initiates this is a relatively interesting product, especially in a North American context.

Morvern Callar The fact that many of the “Chemical Generation” authors who have achieved some measure of success in the UK and worldwide are from Scotland suggests that there is something special about club culture in the northern regions of the UK. Alan Warner’s fascinating novel Morvern Callar and its sequel, These Demented Lands, focus on the life of a young Scotswoman who becomes deeply involved in club culture. Morvern’s slightly lower socioeconomic status than most of the other characters of club culture fiction that we have discussed thus far is consistent with the representation of club culture that we find in the works of Irvine Welsh. In fact, club culture fiction from Scotland tends to represent a grittier, more working class background than we find in fiction from elsewhere. Morvern’s social status is emphasized by her lack of formal education. Warner has followed the time honored Scottish tradition — since Robert Burns — of writing in dialect. Moreover, much of the novel is written as if it were Morvern’s journal and is framed in ungrammatical English with idiosyncratic spelling conventions. Morvern Callar begins and ends in a small port town in Scotland, but includes two excursions to Spanish resort communities. Morvern is a young woman who works stocking shelves in a grocery store. Although she does not like her work any more than the characters represented in the other works we have discussed in this chapter, she is a›orded a measure of eco39

Dance, Drugs and Escape

nomic security because she lives with her considerably older lover. This man is never mentioned by name; he is simply referred to by the male pronoun. He is a well-educated aspiring novelist who serves a strictly symbolic function in the novel, as he appears only as a corpse in the narrative. The novel opens as Morvern comes home from work one evening to discover that her lover has committed bloody suicide. Instead of informing the police Morvern spends the next week living around the corpse as if it were a broken window that she is unwilling to fix. She finally disposes of the body by chopping it into pieces and burying them in the hills nearby. Why not call the police or the ambulance? We may assume through her subsequent actions that this is a way of punishing “Him” for his suicide, which she considers a form of betrayal. His pervasive influence on her is represented by two symbolic considerations; at first his corpse is hoisted up and dumped in the middle of the model of their town that he has built in their loft. There his body assumes the proportions of a giant dominating the village. Later, he is dismembered and buried all over the wild Scottish countryside, which has been presented as a symbol of Morvern’s physicality. The absent male figure of the dead lover is used to represent Morvern’s a‡liation with mainstream society; he represents economic and emotional stability, a way of her fitting into life in her small hometown. After his death Morvern must deal with the fact that she is no longer able to be a part of her former life. Once Morvern has come to terms with the death of her lover she takes his bank card and withdraws all of the money in his account. She then signs his novel with her own name and sells it to a publisher. With the money that she gains from these apparently unethical activities she goes on an extended holiday in Spain, living the life of a clubbing tourist until she runs out of cash. Morvern Callar is a novel that represents club culture to an outside, mainstream, audience. Although Warner is sympathetic to the economic and social situations that result in a disrupted lifestyle, it would be hard to consider this novel as a celebration of club culture as an alternative to mainstream life. Morvern is admirable in her ability to cope with pressures that we might consider intolerable, but it is hard for a mainstream audience to really sympathize with her choice of an extended clubbing holiday in Spain as a solution to the death of a loved one. It does, however, fit well with the idea that the club is a temporary 40

¡ • The Rise and Fall of Club Culture

suspension of the normal rules of existence. The intolerable disruption in her life is relieved by escape to the world of sun, clubs and drugs. Morvern’s choice of a clubbing vacation in Spain as a means of escaping her problems is not surprising given her age group.18 When Morvern and her friend Lanna arrive in Spain it is clear that the resort that she has chosen is designed for crass, unreflective people; the tourists are encouraged to humiliate themselves with sunburn competitions and free beer for allowing themselves to be cut with a saw. Morvern soon gets tired of this situation and abandons Lanna to trek up the coast to the less-frequented resorts. True to the general principles of club culture, Morvern recognizes that the essence of the movement is in its distance from the average crowd. Although it would be possible to follow the book jacket commentary and read Morvern Callar as an exploration of club culture and the “generation” that partakes of this particular celebratory experience, I believe that this is not the single focus of the text. It is certainly not the source of the emotional impact of the novel. The novel Morvern Callar is most interesting for its representation of a specific ethical position that could be considered to be a reflection on club culture. Morvern is, as are almost all the characters mentioned in this study, stuck in a dead-end job and feels that the club is a release from her unrewarding life. In this novel, her two trips to Spain are something of an extended journey into the “special” world of the club. She escapes the physical space of her little town as well as the mental environment of her dull job. She also seems to grow as a person once the limiting aspects of her life — dominating boyfriend, oppressive job, lower class social circle and, above all, poverty — have been removed. After the death of her boyfriend Morvern falls into a lifestyle characterized by the hedonistic use of drugs and sexual abandon. However, it is a lifestyle that allows her time for reflection and personal development. Morvern’s relationship with her best friend, Lanna, is pivotal to understanding sexuality as a kind of escape in this novel. There are obvious strong homosexual overtones on both sides; yet, heterosexual relationships serve as a leverage point in their suppressed desires. Lanna betrays Morvern several times in the novel by sleeping with men who are close to her friend. This hurts Morvern deeply because it not only deforms the potential bond between Morvern and Lanna, it also strains Morvern’s relationship with 41

Dance, Drugs and Escape

other members of her very narrow circle of friends. On Lanna’s side the reader suspects that this is a way for her to legitimize her sexual feelings towards Morvern while striving for some sort of emotional ascendancy. Morvern’s two-sided hurt is very clearly expressed in the way that she asks for details of the infidelity with her very-ex-boyfriend. It is characteristic of Morvern’s inarticulate nature that she points at portions of Lanna’s body and asks if they were involved in the action rather than simply describing sexual acts. This aspect of the tale is central to the impact of the story. Morvern is not only betrayed by her boyfriend, she is doubly betrayed by Lanna. She wants Lanna, and feels that she cannot have her; then she discovers that Lanna has taken away her special relationships with both her boyfriend and father. That Lanna keeps the infidelity secret until after the boyfriend has “departed” simply adds to Morvern’s feeling of betrayal. She cannot trust her best friend and her best friend has contributed to the alteration of her whole life. It is no wonder that she mutilates her boyfriend’s corpse and steals his novel. She can’t do too much to Lanna, as she still loves her; she just cannot trust her not to wedge herself in between any relationship that Morvern has with someone else. In this novel alternative sexuality is tightly linked with the whole notion of the club as a means of escaping the day-to-day world: I was so close to some boy or girl that their sweat was hitting me when they flicked arms or neck to a new rhythm. I slid my foot to the left. You felt the whole side of a face lay against my bare back, between shoulder blades. It was still part of our dance. If the movement wasnt [sic] in rhythm it would have changed the meaning of the face sticking there in the sweat. You didnt [sic] really have your body as your own, it was part of the dance, the music, the rave [2¡5].

The above quotation unifies the themes of dance, drugs and sexuality that typify much club culture fiction. However, the numerous accounts of excessive drug use in this novel are not always linked with club culture. Morvern travels from small town Scotland to the resort towns of Spain to the posh sections of London. In all of these places drug use seems to be the norm in all levels of society, including her meetings with her publisher’s representatives. There is, however, a special aspect of Morvern’s drug use that is worthy of mention. Through the regular use of ecstasy and LSD Morvern seems to develop a kind of sensuality that is not part of her char42

¡ • The Rise and Fall of Club Culture

acter in the early portion of the novel. Even when not directly under the influence of drugs her internal monologue begins to be filled with comments on colors and shapes: the taste of food and textures of her physical environment. This may be an oblique reference to the neo-tribalistic notions that the regular use of hallucinogens can somehow improve the quality of life of the individual. It is also possible to interpret this as simple personal development that results from Morvern’s emotional and economic emancipation. Because she is no longer restricted by her community and a romantic relationship with a dominant partner she is able to develop facets of her character which were previously suppressed. Warner cleverly uses descriptions of Morvern’s drug experiences to heighten the reader’s empathy with a woman whom we might otherwise consider an essentially selfish character. Morvern’s use of drugs appears to be contingent upon her desire to expand her horizons. Ecstasy fuels her empathy for others, but the experience often turns into post-club sex that does not go anywhere emotionally. This is in stark contrast to the transcendence of the mundane life that writers like Aldous Huxley, Timothy Leary and Ken Kesey posit in their representation of drug experience. Warner represents Morvern’s drug use and club experiences as an impetus as well as a symptom of her coming out from under the shadow of dominant figures in her life. Initially the strength of her lover’s influence on her life and tastes is immense. However, as the novel progresses Morvern becomes her own person and by the time that she returns to Scotland at the end of the novel she has become a strong individual in her own right. Another symbol of Morvern’s coming of age reflected in the narrative style of this novel is her use of tapes and records. The music that Morvern listens to on her Walkman or stereo is carefully listed so that a reader who is familiar with the music has a sound track that serves to highlight her emotional state. In fact, because Morvern’s behavior is so cool and her journal entries are without a›ect, the music is often the only clue that the reader has to her true feelings. Throughout the course of the novel she listens to an eclectic mixture of jazz, classical music and electronic dance music. As the novel progresses, Morvern’s music moves from classical and jazz, which she characterizes as “his music,” to dance music which she characterizes as her own. This is most prominent as Morvern moves to Spain and lives the life of a club tourist. Her increasing involvement in 43

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club culture serves as a metaphor for the development of her individuality. By the end of the novel it is clear that she is no longer under the influence of her dead lover. Morvern Callar is, perhaps, most interesting for this study because of its representation of a specific ethical position that may be considered to be a reflection on club culture. Although Warner is sympathetic to the economic and social situations that result in a disrupted lifestyle, it would be hard to consider this novel as a celebration of club culture as an alternative to mainstream life. In Morvern Callar the club is a way to represent the break from tradition and the strictures of small town life. Club life signifies Morvern’s coming of age.

Morvern Callar: The Film In 2002 the BBC released a film version of Morvern Callar directed by Lynne Ramsay, starring Samantha Morton in the title role and Kathleen McDermott as Lanna. This film was a critical success and won a number of awards, although as an example of club culture fiction it is a bit weaker than the novel. The narrative style of the film varies from the novel substantially, as the ungrammatical yet completely engaging first-person voice is missing. In fact, the introspective narrative form of the novel has been transformed into an extremely visual film with long sections with no dialogue or incidental music. The result is that the film audience is not so sympathetic to Morvern’s actions, as their motivation is never completely clear. There are a number of variations in plot details between the novel and the film; Morvern’s unnamed boyfriend is identified on the title page of his novel as James Gillespie. In the film Morvern does not take the highly symbolic step of laying the body out in the miniature village, and the suicide note that he leaves is a lot less specific in the film. In the novel the boyfriend makes his intentions concerning the disposition of his novel quite clear: “I only ask You to get it published. I’ll settle for posthumous fame as long as I’m not lost in the silence” (original in all caps) (87). The film version of this note simply asks Morvern to get the novel published and refrains from any mention of fame. It does, however, add the comment “I wrote it for you” (Morvern Callar film). Hence the significance of 44

¡ • The Rise and Fall of Club Culture

Morvern’s act of renaming the novel before submitting it to the publisher is changed. In the novel it is clear that she is deviating significantly from her lover’s wish to be remembered by his work, while in the film version the comment that he “wrote it for her” could be loosely interpreted as giving her free reign to present the work as her own. In the novel there is no mention of the money in his bank account, while in the film he explicitly indicates that the money is there for his funeral. Morvern’s decision to use the account to fund a clubbing vacation in Spain therefore seems slightly more callous in the film version, but still an order of magnitude less than the act of stealing the novel. The relevance of Morvern’s criminal behavior as a countercultural reaction to the “establishment” as personified by her boyfriend is more pointed in the novel than in the film. However, both versions are clear in their representation of Morvern’s reaction as a form of protest against the restrictions of her role in mainstream society. Club scenes in the film are consistent with the general bias toward the visual. When Morvern and Lanna first go to Spain they have a rather disjointed conversation with some other tourists and then go out onto the dance floor of a club. The music is aggressive, alienating, gabber.19 The dissonant and confusing environment of the music in the club is reinforced by red lighting on an incredibly packed dance floor. There is a lot of physical contact represented, but no chance of emotional empathy. The final scene of the film is in a club lit by a strobe light with colors alternating between red and blue. Flashes of Morvern with a contemplative expression on her face are shown tightly framed by other dancers. However, the music playing is obviously non-diagetic; instead of dance music the Mamas and Papas’ ¡967 version of the ¡950s tune “Dedicated to the One I Love” accompanies an ecstatic crowd of writhing bodies. This device drives home the film’s message of Morvern’s alienation from her surroundings and adds an element of a bittersweet love story to the plot. The music in this film is almost completely diagetic although the onscreen source is often a set of headphones that Morvern uses in combination with her cassette player. The transition from “his” music to Morvern’s music that is accomplished through the use of lists of mix tape tracks is not mirrored in the film. This removes one of the strongest club cultural referents from the film as well as one of the primary indicators of the char45

Dance, Drugs and Escape

acter development of the protagonist. The ’60s tune playing as the final credits roll indicate that music is not used as a development device in the film version. Lynne Ramsay’s version of Morvern Caller strays quite widely from Warner’s novel. This is especially noticeable in an analysis of the two works with regard to their club cultural context. The novel presents Morvern as a representative of a certain kind of exaggerated alienation from the mainstream. Her clubbing, drug use and musical tastes are symptoms of a general distancing from her initial environment. The film, on the other hand, seems to favor an interpretation of personal loss. Although Morvern exhibits behavior consistent with club subculture in the film, it is not at all a defining characteristic.

These Demented Lands Although the novel These Demented Lands is technically a sequel to Morvern Caller there is very little continuity between the two works. The protagonist is again Morvern, but the novel’s narrative point of view is extremely fractured and we discover her identity only at the end of the novel when she signs it, presumably an ironic comment on the fact that she signed her dead boyfriend’s novel in order to sell it in the prequel. These Demented Lands tells the story of Morvern’s adventures before and during a millennium rave on a small island o› the coast of Scotland. It opens with Morvern swimming away from a sinking ferry of the symbolic name Psalm 23. While on the island she meets a number of characters with evocative appellations that are more functional descriptions than proper names. People like “the Brotherhood,” “the Devil’s Advocate,” and “the Aircrash Investigator” accompany Morvern on her journey to the climax of the novel. The narrative style is fractured and hard to follow at times as it attempts to represent an altered reality resulting from Morvern’s transcendent experiences. One of the primary points of continuity between the two novels is Morvern’s pregnancy; at the end of Morvern Callar we discover that Morvern is pregnant, and she has the baby at the end of These Demented Lands. The fact that the birth of the baby coincides with the ecstatic release of a rave make this into one of the more idealistic as well as one of the least accessible texts in this section. 46

¡ • The Rise and Fall of Club Culture

Better Living Through Circuitry This ¡999 documentary film by John Reiss is a study of the musical, historical and social aspects of club culture. It was received enthusiastically by a club culture audience and the sound track CD was headlined in popular music stores throughout North America when it was first released. The film’s title, Better Living Through Circuitry, is a play on the DuPont advertising campaign slogan “Better Living Through Chemistry,” which has been seized upon by club culture as a slogan advocating drug use. Modifying the final word to circuitry puts the emphasis on electronic music rather than on the drugs while still acknowledging the interaction between the two essential elements of club culture. Although music plays an important part in this film it is much more focused upon club culture than on electronic music. Better Living Through Circuitry is structured around a series of interviews with DJs, musicians, graphic artists, promoters and rank and file members of club culture. Although many of the DJs and musicians are from the UK, in general this is a North American club culture film and the exuberant newness of club culture to the participants is apparent in a way that would not be possible if the more mature UK club scene had been incorporated. For example, the New York–based DJ Frankie Bones relates with wonder his first experience of a UK rave. He went expecting ten times as many people as he would have found at a rave in New York and found 25,000 people rather than the 5,000 he expected. The director attempts to maintain a connection with the more extensive UK history of club culture by using Genesis P-Orridge, one time Industrial musician with the band Throbbing Gristle, who claims he was one of the first people to use the term acid house.20 P-Orridge’s interview is cut up and sections appear throughout the whole film as a sort of punctuation which renews the theme of club culture as a radical, countercultural movement. This film emphasizes the new-age tribalistic aspects of North American club culture. The film is attractively done, including a good electronic dance sound track and computer generated graphics which are cross-cut with documentary footage of raves and clubs. This is a film that would be of most interest to a club culture audience or at least an audience predisposed towards the movement. In fact, in many ways Better Living Through Circuitry is 47

Dance, Drugs and Escape

an infomercial for club culture in North America. Many of the more troubling aspects of club culture are passed over or given a positive spin. For example, the subject of clubbers who overdose on drugs is discussed in the context of a media problem. It is said that television and newspapers claim that raves are full of kids taking excessive doses of various drugs. Young people who read these accounts assume that this is appropriate behavior and go to raves and take the drugs. The film concludes that the core of “true” clubbers are being overwhelmed by “tweaked out twinkies.” Tweaked out refers to people using methamphetamine (crystal meth) and this film includes an extensive interview with the California group called The Crystal Method. There is another interview with DJ Keoki — the same one who appears as a marginal character in James St. James’ shock story Disco Bloodbath —in which he comments positively on drugs but concludes that you can’t take drugs forever. Better Living Through Circuitry is a positive look on club culture in a North American sense and as such its philosophy is heavily influenced by what one might term neo-hippy concepts. Many of the raves filmed take place in the deserts of the western United States. The fact that many of the participants in club culture use it as a release from boring day jobs is mentioned several times throughout the film. This is consistent with the theoretical positions on club culture presented in this chapter; it is, however, not consistent with the earlier traditions of North American counterculture. For example, the hippies in the ¡960s expected a more overarching commitment to the lifestyle. Clubbers, unlike hippies, do not drop out of society to live on a commune or move to the Far East to work with the Peace Corps; they endure their boring jobs and party on the weekend. Better Living Through Circuitry seems to accept this fact, but one has the impression that the filmmakers would — to use Hakim Bey’s terminology — prefer to have club culture conform to the precepts of a revolution rather than an uprising. For example, Keoki says the modern world is su›ering from a lot of evils imposed upon it by the past and that club culture has the potential to save people from these evils. This line of argument is closely related to the connection of club culture and shamanism that appears several times in the film. Club music and light shows are related to the psychoactive e›ects of shamanistic drumming rituals in one interview. Better Living Through Circuitry is one of the more thorough studies of various aspects of club culture that are not discussed in other works on 48

¡ • The Rise and Fall of Club Culture

the subject. The theoretical implications of music created not by musicians but by sampling and remixing is considered in depth. The film also interviews active participants in club culture about the fear that the subculture is selling out to the established entertainment industry, although the possibility that club culture has already sold out to criminal interests is not mentioned in this film. It would seem that omissions of this sort are due to the general attempt to put a positive spin on the subculture and to avoid the pitfalls of sensationalism which are the standard of news reports on club culture. However, this approach has some of the characteristics of a whitewash — combined with the high production values and the intense marketing of the CD sound track — and the film appears to owe more to advertising techniques than is quite appropriate for a documentary on counterculture. On the other hand, the sound track is produced by a smaller company, Moonshine, that specializes in DJ mixes. The commercialization of the movement is seen as inevitable by the makers of Better Living Through Circuitry; as one interviewee states, “20,000 people at a rave can’t be underground anymore” (Better Living Through Circuitry). The film has a generally ingenuous feel that presents the positive side of North American club culture to a willing audience. Despite the fact that it recognizes the dangers of commercialism to the spirit of club culture it appears to be an open invitation for the uninitiated to join in. If one recognizes the fact that an establishment counterculture is no longer a counterculture then this film has a slightly futile air.

CONCLUSION Ecstasy Club, Human Tra‡c, A Midsummer Night’s Rave, Morvern Callar the novel, and to a lesser extent the film, These Demented Lands, and in documentary form, Better Living Through Circuitry all incorporate most of the common elements of club culture in a more or less political fashion. They refer to the music, to sexual license and drug use, and the concept of club culture as a release from the restrictive pressures of the everyday world. There are, of course, major di›erences in the way that this political impetus expresses itself. Rushko› ’s characters are very North American 49

Dance, Drugs and Escape

in their sense of economic empowerment; it is significant that Rushko› chooses to represent the people who manage the club rather than those who use the revelry as an escape from their unfulfilled lives. Although there is a lot of theorizing about the essential equality of all involved in the scene, Rushko› represents an extremely hierarchical structure with all of the trappings of western marketing and corporate structure working underneath the subculture of the rave collective. Rushko› ’s novel is a rather cynical look at club culture and although it appears to celebrate some of its aspects, on the whole it is more critical than Warner’s novels. In contrast to Rushko› ’s economic model of freedom, Morvern Callar and These Demented Lands present club culture ideals as a release from traditional morality. Morvern’s actions when listed as simple facts range from simply self-indulgent to criminal. Nevertheless, in the novel these actions are her only means of escape from a restrictive lifestyle. The film version of Morvern Callar, although it uses elements of club culture as part of its narrative structure, is more concerned with Morvern’s emotional reaction to the loss of her lover; it does not present club culture as an integral part of her escape from her former life, club culture is her way of relieving her anger and confusion over Gillespie’s suicide. Human Tra‡c is much lighter than Rushko› and Warner’s work. Although it presents some serious topics, on the whole it is a sympathetic perspective on the lives of a group of clubbers. Club culture, as represented in Human Tra‡c, is a way of coping for these young people. If only for the weekend, they are free of their unpleasant jobs, their domineering parents and their worries about the future. The other humorous film in this chapter, A Midsummer Night’s Rave, although similar in tone, does not present club culture as an escape in any sense. The Shakespearian basis of the plot dominates the structure of the film and the underlying political considerations are almost completely absent. Better Living Through Circuitry is, perhaps, the best example of the process by which an underground movement becomes popular culture. The slick, engaging format of the film draws the audience in to participation while acknowledging that these new numbers mean that the movement can never be the same again. This, however, is not seen as a completely negative outcome. Club culture still has political power and its popularity can be an advantage. 50

2

Crime and Club Life Not all of the originators of and participants in club culture are as altruistic and unconcerned with economic success as most of the characters presented in the preceding chapter; there is a definite link between club culture fiction and crime fiction. Despite the fact that most of the participants in club culture represented in the preceding chapter were unconcerned with economic gain, some aspects of the link between crime and club fiction were also apparent. In this chapter we will look at a branch of club fiction that revels in the more seamy side of the movement.

THE CHEMICAL GENERATION The club fiction writers in the UK who are known as the Chemical Generation are characterized by Nickianne Moody as: ... hav[ing] an aftertaste of futility. Characters in the British fiction are clearly aware that they are involved in economic processes, but political process just happens to them. Leisure is clearly demarcated as illegal, but there is infrequent reference to the issue that work may also be criminal.... The work behind leisure is addressed only obliquely by the Chemical Generation, but Champion [editor of the club fiction collection of short stories Disco Biscuits] is quite astute in making the one story that does, “Ardwick Green,” the opening story for her collection [Moody, ¡006].

Both Ecstasy Club and Human Tra‡c include descriptions of club-related work that is, indeed, illegal. However, in these fictions the idealistic aspects of the narrative tend to outweigh the criminal aspect of the plot. In fact, the theme of the semi-legal economy occurs in quite a number of the texts that are included in this study. Tales of outlaw club and rave promoters 51

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abound in factual accounts of club culture and club fiction tends to mirror this interest. The fact that many active participants in club culture represented in club culture fiction are in restricted economic situations means that this criminal activity is often presented as a companion to dissatisfaction with work in mainstream economy. Thematic representations of organizing raves or club nights, selling drugs for these events, or becoming a superstar DJ are extremely important to the creators of club literature, television and film because club culture has a way of giving in to the forces of capitalism without really surrendering its subcultural, anticapitalist core beliefs and this can be expressed in a taste for illegal activities. When club culture is represented fictionally the economic concerns are often a prominent element of plot structures and the underlying economic structures of club culture are usually represented as somehow illegal. Promoters are not telling the whole story to the tax authorities, drug sales help support functions, or the venue is a co-opted abandoned building. The political banner of the squatter1 was often raised in defense of club culture in its early days; however, just as often the promoter makes a tidy profit through saving outlay on things like rent and income tax. In this way club fiction owes some debt to the basic plot devices of crime fiction. Club culture fiction is characterized by a profound disregard for the traditional political structures and rules of mainstream society and the subcultural participants seem ever ready to forge their own rules. Often these new rules are represented as club culture’s way of transcending the corruption and injustice inherent in mainstream society. In other instances club culture’s shining idealism is stained through contact with the darker criminal elements of mainstream society. Occasionally, especially in UK fiction, club culture holds up a mirror to criminals and allows them to see the error of their ways. The texts analyzed in this chapter exemplify the uneasy and constantly shifting relationship between club culture and the law.

“Ardwick Green” “Ardwick Green” is a short story by Nicholas Blincoe that represents the problems encountered by a young club promoter, Andy, who attempts to initiate a chill-out club2 on Sunday afternoon in a run-down venue that 52

2 • Crime and Club Life

caters to older people. Sunday is selected as it is the end of the hard clubbing weekend and the intended patrons would be winding down at a chillout club. The narrative presents the serious logistical problems that can occur within the organization of clubs and raves, especially when the organizers are confronted with less idealistic underground elements. The club is located in a rough section of Manchester; the eponymous Ardwick Green and its owner is at first reluctant, but eventually agrees to try the idea of a club night for younger clientele once he hears that Andy has contacts with a notorious local criminal, Conrad Stubbins. This relationship is completely consistent with the representation of club culture’s associations with mainstream economy; that is, the point of contact is often through established criminal networks. Although club culture usually posits itself as an alternative to the mainstream in all ways, when it comes to economic contacts it tends to fall into the standard relationship that mainstream economies have to the criminal underworld. Even the most upright and moral societies in the world tend to have regularized contact with criminals, and club culture is automatically shunted into these pathways. In an encounter that serves as a metaphor for club culture’s relationship with the criminal world, Andy, who has a leg in a cast and is therefore not very mobile, finds himself trapped in the men’s toilet with Conrad, who is fresh out of prison and having a fine time imposing his rough-edged cultural standards on the worn-out clubbers that wander into the toilet: Conrad let out a roar — aaarrrgghhh — and swiped the lot [beer glasses] on to the floor one handed. The two lads jumped a foot and ran for the door, Conrad’s laugh following them out. He was already thinking, nice lads just a bit nervy. He’d met a few like them on the inside, they never seemed to shape so well to prison life [¡2].

After an evening of pure terror Andy is forced to pay for the damage that Conrad has done to the lavatory. To add insult to injury, the regular crowd of hard cases at the club has enjoyed the music. Andy has no intention of continuing what he considers to be a disastrous performance, but as he is leaving the owner says, “I guess Conrad’s got your address. If there’s any trouble about you turning up next week, he’ll drop by. But I’m sure I’ll see you next Sunday” (¡9). This short story is a humorous way of representing the sometimes uneasy relationship that develops between the criminal underground and 53

Dance, Drugs and Escape

club culture. The basic precepts of the two groups are quite often at odds, but they are forced together by the pressures of exclusion from mainstream society. In “Ardwick Green” it is clear that the violent social structures of the criminal element is in ascendancy and the clubbers have to accommodate.

CLUB CULTURE

AND

SOCCER HOOLIGANS

The UK has a very special criminal element, not present in North America, that is noteworthy for its contacts with club culture. Football hooligans were a well-established and highly organized criminal subculture in the UK by the time club culture came along. In fact, there is a popular theory that club culture was able to somehow defuse these dangerous and violent criminals: Almost overnight the box cutter-wielding troublemaker metamorphosed into the “love thug,” or as Brit rapper Gary Clail later put it, “the emotional hooligan.” “Football Firms” [warring gangs who supported rival teams] were going to the same clubs, but to everyone’s surprise, there was never any trouble. They were so loved up on E that they spent the night hugging each other rather than fighting [Reynolds, Generation Ecstasy, 64].

Two of the stories discussed in this section represent this theory in a literary fashion. The first, “White Burger Danny,” by the journalist Gavin Hills, also appears in Sarah Champion’s anthology, Disco Biscuits. It tells the story of the contact between the narrator and Danny McGuire. The narrator meets his childhood acquaintance Danny again in ¡988 and is surprised at his stoned clubber-type behavior: “Not something one expects from a well known soccer hooligan” (Hills 65). The second is the novel Marabou Stork Nightmares by the famous Chemical Generation writer, Irvine Welsh. It tells the tale of a thuggish young soccer hooligan from the housing schemes of Edinburgh who loses interest in his violent life of crime after contact with the burgeoning dance club scene in Manchester. Both of these stories represent the primary character’s trajectory from a life of violence to a more happy-go-lucky experience with club culture. Despite the optimistic implications of these tales both of the primary characters end badly. The tenuous nature of the idealism of early club culture 54

2 • Crime and Club Life

is concisely expressed in the following quotation from Sara Champion’s introduction to Disco Biscuits: For one brief naive moment in the late eighties, in a field o› the M25 at an acid house party or at an urban warehouse party, we all believed that things might change. Like our parents did in the sixties. And maybe for a short time things were di›erent. Social norms and barriers did crumble — if only for a moment [xv].

“White Burger Danny” “White Burger Danny” could be considered a cautionary tale of the pitfalls of the optimistic notions that Champion expresses in the above statement. Soccer hooliganism was a particularly English problem in the seventies and early eighties; young men disillusioned by the apparently empty economic promises of Thatcherism turned to lives of violent confrontation and rioting centered around football matches. When club culture came to the fore it is not surprising that these two youth cultures began to cross over: they were, after all, essentially similar demographic groups. These young, unemployed people began to mix and associate; however, as represented in “Ardwick Green,” the two cultural norms did not always mix well. On the other hand, sometimes the cultural interaction worked and the gentle self-expression and exploration promoted by club culture in its early days had a calming e›ect on the violence of soccer hooligan culture. White Burger Danny, a.k.a. Danny McGuire, is a childhood acquaintance of the narrator. Danny has gained some fame as an important person in a football firm (soccer hooligan organization). When the narrator meets him again in the summer of ¡988, when club culture really began to influence popular culture in the UK, Danny is dressed like a raver and rather obviously under the influence of ecstasy: “Bug-eyed and brainless, Danny was an eye-opener. Sociability hadn’t always been his strong point. It pleased me to see him so placid” (Hills, 66). Danny’s new name is derived from the white burgers (ecstasy pills) that he is distributing at a warehouse rave. The narrator emphasizes the social leveling influence of club culture throughout the story. With groups of students, blacks and soccer hooligans gathering to enjoy the music and the drugs: 55

Dance, Drugs and Escape There is nothing like a visit to the acid house to make you feel at home. Radiant girls come and kiss you, the boys to chat and hug. It is as if the veils of pretence and reservation had fallen and truth was allowed to dance naked. Quite literally on some occasions. There were few stars, only extras, and we all had speaking parts. Well, gibbering ones, at least [Hills, 70].

As the hooligans congregate and swap stories of their days of violent confrontation, “...after each little adventure story someone would pipe up with the words ‘Fuckin’ stupid really, wasn’t it?’ And, it was dawning, of course it was” (Hills, 7¡). Hill traces the inevitable deterioration of club culture and drugs through his own experiences and contacts with Danny over the next few years. At first Danny has a wonderful time applying his larcenous talents to smuggling and selling drugs. However, he eventually becomes involved with cocaine and kills someone in a bar fight. The story ends with the narrator’s less than charitable reflections on Danny’s career: “For a moment he’s ridden the sublime on the seraph-wings of ecstasy. Then he’d come back down to earth with one up each nostril and the thrust of a kitchen knife. From Gooner to goner” (Hills, 77). Although Danny represents the softening of the football hooligans by the drugs and camaraderie of the clubbers, Hills’ narrator is obviously of a di›erent social class than Danny and the narrator becomes very uncomfortable with the legal troubles entailed with this association. Danny is a symbol of the uneasy union of club culture and the established underworld of the UK in the ¡980s.

Marabou Stork Nightmares To North Americans perhaps the most prominent writer of the Chemical Generation is Irvine Welsh, whose gritty account of the life and times of a group of heroin addicts in Edinburgh in the novel Trainspotting— and Danny Boyle’s film version — brought the accents and music of an alien culture to the other side of the Atlantic. Welsh’s other works, Marabou Stork Nightmares, The Acid House, Ecstasy, Glue and Porno are much more relevant to the topic of club culture, but the driving electronic sound track of Boyle’s version of Trainspotting has indelibly marked it as club culture fiction in the eye of the general public. The bulk of Welsh’s creative output is focused on youth culture in the poorest strata of urban Scotland. 56

2 • Crime and Club Life

His insight into the particular social strata and location he prefers to represent in his writing is derived from his personal history. Like many of the writers who work on club culture fiction, Welsh is slightly older than most of his characters. He was born in ¡958 in Scotland and worked at a number of blue-collar jobs in Edinburgh and London while continuing his education. In the ¡970s he performed in punk bands in London and began publishing in the early ¡990s. The characters in Welsh’s fiction turn to drugs and violence in order to relieve the pressures of their economic situation. In contrast to the upper-middle-class clubbers represented in Rushko› ’s Ecstasy Club, Welsh’s Scottish youth have a heavy load to bear and the drugs and dancing do not always seem to be a “path to enlightenment” as it is in the club literature of our previous chapter. Although club culture may lead to a certain degree of introspection in previously unreflective individuals, when the characters in Welsh’s writing become involved with the established criminal underground there are usually disastrous results. Welsh’s Marabou Stork Nightmares is one of the most horrifying examples of the combination of rave literature and football hooliganism, mixing avant-garde writing techniques with the morbid attention to violence found in popular crime literature. In this novel Welsh documents the internal and external life of Roy Strang, an abused young man who grows up in the poorest sections of Edinburgh. This is structurally one of Welsh’s most innovative novels. Welsh is, if not the most uplifting representative of club literature, one of the best writers of the subgenre in a literary sense. The narrative structure of the story is relatively complex, including a frame story in which Roy is in a coma in a hospital bed. He drops in and out of consciousness, between two alternate realities. One is simply the memories of his life within the context of the frame story and the other is a metaphorical dream life in which he is a brave, attractive character hunting the evil Marabou Stork in the wilds of Africa. As Roy relives his life in the historical level of this story he becomes aware of his own reprehensible nature. As a child he was brutalized by his parents and reacted in turn with brutality toward others. Involvement with the football firms is a way for Roy to hit back at the world. However, when he moves to Manchester and becomes involved with the nascent club culture in that city he has an epiphany: 57

Dance, Drugs and Escape I was overwhelmed. All the shite Bri had spra›ed, him and some of the boys in the cashies3 who we used to say had gone aw soft wi the ravin, it was all fuckin true and so much more. It was euphoria ... it was something that everyone should experience before they die if they can truly have said not to have wasted their life on this planet [Marabou Stork Nightmares, 239].

The fact that soccer hooligans have gone “soft wi the ravin” is stated more than once in Welsh’s novels and short stories and in this text it is obvious that Roy Strang blames this change on the use of ecstasy. It is not surprising that ecstasy is often attributed with the power to change lives. After all, the drug first gained popularity in the United States as an aid in psychotherapy. It was used in grief counseling because it enabled people under treatment to get in touch with their own feelings and to empathize with others. This aspect of the drug is important to Roy’s emotional development. While in Manchester he finds a circle of friends with whom he can honestly discuss his feelings and he develops intimate relationships on a level that was previously impossible for him. Unfortunately this sense of empathy is eventually devastating to Roy Strang. Before his contact with club culture he managed to be successful at his career of criminal violence, through avoiding any feelings of empathy for his victims. When Roy begins to use ecstasy regularly he is eventually overcome with guilt and attempts to commit suicide. The suicide attempt puts him in a hospital in a coma where he continues to work through the events that lead up to his eventual self condemnation. The novel ends in an orgy of violence as a victim from Roy’s past murders him in his hospital bed. The moral message of the novel is in sharp contrast to the presentation of Morvern Callar. Although in both texts club culture is presented as a means to selfdevelopment, in Marabou Stork Nightmares clubbing and ecstasy can bring about changes in an individual, but it cannot erase the sins of the past.

Ecstasy: Three Tales of Chemical Romance Welsh’s ¡996 collection of short stories entitled Ecstasy: Three Tales of Chemical Romance served to cement his reputation as the foremost of the Chemical Generation writers. Each of the three stories in the collection focuses changes in the lives of the protagonists that are often tangentially related to the use of ecstasy. The stories are closely related to the theme 58

2 • Crime and Club Life

of crime, but in most cases it is mainstream culture that is guilty of criminal or morally reprehensible acts. Club culture, in this collection, serves as the champion of natural justice and a sort of rough and ready moral balance that transcends the legal processes of mainstream culture. The first story in Ecstasy, “Lorraine goes to Livingston: A Rave and Regency Romance,” is a tale of cross-generation friendship in which a young nurse, Lorraine, aids her older patient to break free of the influence of an abusive husband. The patient, Rebecca Navarro, is a writer of popular romance novels and her husband, Perky, takes advantage of her success to live a life of private debauchery. Lorraine and her colleague Yvonne turn the tables on Perky by having Rebecca write an unpublishable sex story that uses the framework of her romance genre fiction. When he reads the manuscript Perky is terrified that his wife will no longer be able to support him in the manner to which he has become accustomed. Welsh sets up a contrast between the engaging young nurse friends and Perky and his friends; the former are a part of the drug-using club generation and the latter are sexually deviant (necrophiliacs, sadists, etc.) members of the mainstream establishment. The rich, older people in this tale are represented as morally bankrupt, while the clubbing generation are willing to go to great lengths to aid their friend Rebecca. It does not matter to the clubbers that Rebecca is substantially older than Lorraine and her friends; in fact, in the final scene of the novel Rebecca is represented as a fully integrated member of club subculture: Rebecca was having the time of her life in The Forum. The drug was taking her to new heights with the music. She took it easy, sitting in the chillout room, enjoying the waves of MDMA and sound inside her. She looked at Lorraine, dancing away to the crazy apocalyptic sounds of the car horns and sirens blaring, crazy urban nightmare FX over a seductive, irresistible break-beat. Rebecca had accompanied Lorraine home to Livingston for a break [72].

Welsh’s representation of club culture in this story is of a positive social force that enables people to break out of their restrictive patterns of behavior and escape from the corruption of the dominant culture. Like Marabou Stork Nightmares it depends heavily upon the history of ecstasy as a therapy drug. The self-generated myth of inclusiveness is maintained with the acceptance of the older woman into the circle of younger friends. In this 59

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short story the connection between crime and club culture is the reverse of what one might expect. Criminal activity and moral depravity are presented as inherent in mainstream society and club culture is a positive alternative. “Fortune’s Always Hiding: A Corporate Drug Romance,” the second story in Welsh’s Ecstasy collection, is a tale of vengeance. The plot revolves around a young woman, Samantha, who has been born with no arms because her mother used a corporately produced prescription tranquilizer while she was pregnant. Although the name thalidomide4 is never used, the drug tenazadrine is an obvious parallel. Welsh sets up a strong polarity between the cold evil of the corporate managers responsible for selling a dangerous drug and the hot desire for retribution expressed by the young victims of this corporate “oversight.” In ¡979 Samantha is a punk living in London when she encounters Andreas, another victim of the drug. They develop a friendship and then plan and execute a series of atrocities against the executives involved in the marketing of the drug that crippled them. The story is constructed in a complex fashion with chapter headings alternating between a location and date, and tag lines from the mind of Dave, a London football hooligan who falls in love with Samantha and takes up her fight. The chapters headed with a date and location focus on the objective reality of the campaign for revenge and the chapters with tag-line titles are first person narratives by the truly perverse and violent Dave. He is completely infatuated with Samantha and has no trouble transferring his thuggish proclivities from random acts of violence to her quest for vengeance. He aids her in the kidnapping and murder of an executive of the company that produced the drug that is responsible for her deformity. The story spans the period from ¡979 until ¡99¡ and incorporates scenes from punk, football hooliganism and club culture. The subcultures are clearly intended to provide a positive contrast to the corruption of mainstream corporate culture. The bloody and violent revenge of Samantha and her lovers is represented as just, but ultimately destructive to those who allow themselves to be consumed by it. Although ecstasy and dance culture are thematically important, as in “Lorraine Goes to Livingston,” Welsh seems more interested in denigrating mainstream culture than in celebrating the joys of club culture in this story. “The Undefeated: An Acid House Romance,” the last story in Welsh’s 60

2 • Crime and Club Life

Ecstasy, is more focused on the theme of club culture than “Fortune’s Always Hiding.” Like “Lorraine Goes to Livingston,” “The Undefeated” is a tale of liberation through ecstasy and club culture. It is the story of Heather, a respectable woman with a job, husband and mortgage, who gives it all up and develops a relationship with Lloyd, a working class man in his early thirties who has been a regular in the club and party scene in Edinburgh for a bit too long. The story develops with parallel first-person narratives in chapters headed with the narrator’s name. The wildly divergent plotlines show Heather dropping out of her mainstream workaday life and Lloyd moving towards some semblance of maturity. As their social paths converge, they meet and fall in love, split up, then reunite at the end of the story. Welsh develops a story that has ecstasy act as an operator moving Heather to break away from her life as a virtual chattel to her husband. However, Welsh does not represent the drug as an absolute solution for life’s problems. At the end of the story Lloyd has decided to stop taking ecstasy and “get his life in order.” When Lloyd first starts to have serious feelings for Heather he has a heart-to-heart discussion with his friend Nukes: Ye meet this bird whae’s oot fir the first time since she’s escaped this straightpeg, she’s taken her first ever ecky, you’re E’ed up and yir talkin love? Sounds a wee bit like the chemical love tae me. Nowt wrong wi that, but see if it lasts the comedoon before ye start thinkin aboot churches, limos and receptions [259].

Lloyd accepts this rational advice to wait and see if the feelings last past the period of drug induced euphoria. In an uncharacteristic burst of adult responsibility he begins to work at developing a mature relationship. “The Undefeated” has the most detailed representation of the dance music scene of the three stories in Ecstasy. Lloyd drops the names of superstar DJs like John Digweed5 and Roger Sanchez, and makes comments about club culture and music magazines Mixmag and New Music Express. Lloyd is an amateur DJ and the story has numerous instances of his commentary on music styles that also serve to identify “Undefeated” as a work of club fiction intended for a participant audience. Nevertheless, this story does not delve so far into the behind-the-scenes aspects of club culture that it would alienate a non-clubbing audience. Neither Lloyd nor any of his companions are represented as serious promoters or DJs. In this story 61

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Welsh is only interested in club culture as an alternative to what he calls straight-peg lifestyles, an alternative to the mainstream which was vilified in the first two stories of this collection. Club culture in this story is bereft of any political motives or overt social project. In fact, at least in the case of Lloyd and his companions, it is more a state of suspended youth than a political statement. Lloyd still enjoys club life after he has fallen in love and started his “vacation from drugs” but his actions outside of the club become substantially less dissipated and fall more in line with mainstream notions of maturity. Welsh is popular among advocates of UK club culture because of his rather negative representation of the mainstream. Trainspotting begins with an extended comparison of the evils of mainstream life and the praise of existence in the subculture of heroin addicts. The monologue is centered on the rhetorical device of the repeated refrain “Choose Life!” which comes from a UK advertising campaign intended to convince youth to avoid the evils of drugs.6 Of course, Welsh’s representation of the negative aspects of mainstream life are not one sided. His protagonists usually discover that life in an alternate cultural milieu is often nasty, brutal and short.

Glue Welsh’s 200¡ novel Glue is one of his most ambitious works to date. It follows the lives of four friends who grew up in the Edinburgh low-rent housing schemes from their childhood in the ¡970s until 2002. These four drift through most of the countercultural movements of the late twentieth century in Scotland and arrive in the new century much older and wiser than most of Welsh’s previous subjects. Welsh even manages to incorporate some of the characters from Trainspotting in this novel. The four friends have diverse lives and careers. Terry Lawson remains in Edinburgh working at small jobs and petty larceny; Billy Birrell is an amateur boxer who gets into club management; Andrew Galloway is incarcerated for a crime he did not commit and becomes addicted to heroin and kills himself after discovering he has AIDS; and Carl Ewart is a world famous DJ. Welsh’s representation of Carl’s career is directly related to the subject of this book and he makes a number of comments on club culture that point out the attitudes of both members of the subculture and those 62

2 • Crime and Club Life

who observe it from the outside. Carl’s father, Duncan, makes one of the most telling assessments of club culture’s association with Margaret Thatcher’s economic policies in the following: But Duncan was far more concerned with what he saw as the poor quality of music today. That’s no music, it’s nonsense. Stealing other people’s stu› and selling it back tae them. Theft, Thatcherite music, that’s what it is. Thatcher’s bloody children, right enough, he grumbled [¡56].

Duncan Ewert is a working man, a staunch union member and big rock and roll fan who has no problem with the drug culture that surrounds the new club culture. However, the postmodern technique of sampling that underlies a great deal of electronic dance music appears to be a sign of moral decadence to him. His comments above seem directly related to Bill Drummond’s principles of music as outlined in The Manual. Duncan’s son is a DJ who makes his living playing other people’s music on records rather than creating his own music and Duncan cannot resolve his unease with this artistic model. He feels that this new club culture reflects many of the negative aspects of the change in the UK’s economy from an industrial producer to a service economy. One of the innovations that Welsh incorporates into Glue is a brief look at the relationship of UK club culture to the phenomenon in continental Europe. The four friends from the slums of Edinburgh plan a trip to Munich in ¡990. By this time Carl is a successful DJ and Billy Birrel is an up-and-coming boxer. They bring along their less successful old school chums and there is a conflict of culture between socioeconomic status within the Edinburgh contingent as well as the more familiar strife between the Scots and Germans. Carl’s professional interests lead him to browse record shops and there he meets with some Germans who invite him and his friends to their expensive suburban home; Carl reflects on the fact that as he matures he is more interested in his musical profession than hanging out with his childhood companions: Wir talking tunes n the boys [people in a German record store] aw seem as genuinely interested n what’s gaun oan wi us back hame ah ahm aboot what’s gaun oan doon here. The truth ay it is, and ah feel a bit guilty aboot it, but this is what ah like the maist now, crackin oan wi some heads about sounds, checkin oot what cunts are listening tae, sussin oot what’s gaun doon. Apart fae bein oan the decks, this is the highest form ay enjoyment for me.... 63

Dance, Drugs and Escape So ah spend maist ay the day in the shoap. That’s the thing aboot music, if yir really intae it, you can go anywhere in the world and feel like you’ve goat long-lost mates within a couple ay hours [232].

Carl is reflecting on the international aspect of club culture and he realizes that his friends’ more parochial interests do not travel as well across the English Channel. The final words of the chapter describing the adventure in Munich are “...aw I can wish is that they weren’t here right now; him [Andy Galloway], Terry and Billy. Because they don’t belong here. Ah do. Ah belong everywhere” (290). However, this is not simply a tale of the success of one man and the failures of his friends. Carl’s success as a DJ has its drawbacks and at the end of the novel he realizes that he needs to maintain his contact with his home, friends and family. Welsh’s image of club culture is a path to economic success for talented people from impoverished circumstances. Although Carl is very aware of the alternate social aspects of the culture, in the end, it is just a way to escape the restrictions imposed upon him by his social status: They didnae like Carl Ewart, white-trash schemie. But they liked N-SIGN [Carl’s DJ stage name]. N-SIGN’s played at warehoose perties in London, raised funds for anti-racist groups, aw sorts ay deserving community organizations. They love N-SIGN. They’ll never, ever get thir heids roond the fact that the only di›erence between Carl Ewart and N-SIGN is that one worked liftin boxes in a warehoose for nae money while the other played records in one fir tons ay it. That they choose tae treat the two sae di›erent tells ye a loat mair aboot thaim than it does aboot Carl Ewart or N-SIGN [279].

The representation of drug use and criminal activity in Glue is tightly linked to the modification of social status of the individuals who form the locus of the tale. Terry Lawson, who is, of the four, most comfortable with the idea of remaining in the social and economic situation of his birth, does not indulge in ecstasy. Welsh constantly reiterates that alcohol is the drug of choice of lower class Scots and that alcohol is a primary cause of their social and economic di‡culties. In Glue ecstasy and the club culture that it engendered is something of a savior, as it keeps the young men from falling into the patterns of alcohol abuse that has ruined the lives of their elders. The one anomalous character in this pattern is Andrew Galloway, who experiments with heroin and contracts AIDS as a result. He represents a generation of lost Scottish youth who are the subject of Welsh’s 64

2 • Crime and Club Life

previous novel Trainspotting. Criminal activity like heroin use and theft are a symptom of poverty in the ethical framework of Glue and the protagonists move further away from it as they become more successful. Throughout the novel, hard-drug and alcohol abuse often result in situations that invite response from the police; as the friends move away from their lower class roots they find this sort of attention makes them uncomfortable. Glue represents an almost complete break with the countercultural traditions of club culture. The individuals involved in the culture do not exhibit any form of idealism or a desire to reform the established economic order of the world. Club culture, like boxing, is just another way for an individual to make enough money to raise himself above the souldestroying circumstances of a poor Scottish background. Although the DJs represented in the text are true enthusiasts, their interest is in purely aesthetic and professional matters. They do not exhibit any desire for or belief in a new world order. This results in a rather cynical yet somehow mature tone that is quite unlike the in-your-face radicalism that exemplifies other works by Welsh. The narrative style is less experimental and instances of sensationalist violence and horror are not nearly as common in this novel. Although Glue is more mellow than Welsh’s other work, it is also more readable and perhaps, in its own way, typifies the transition of club culture from counterculture to mainstream.

“The State of the Party” Welsh’s contribution to Champion’s Disco Biscuits collection is consistent with his rough view of lower class life in urban Scotland. The story follows the adventures of two friends, Calum and Crooky, in a night of horrifying debauchery reminiscent of the film Weekend at Bernie’s7 (¡989). The two meet a childhood friend, Boaby [Bobby as pronounced in their dialect], in a bar one night while trying to find some ecstasy before they proceed on to a club. Boaby is a heroin addict and floats along passively with the pair after they acquire some LSD and head towards a house party. At the party Boaby dies of a heroin overdose and Calum and Crooky feel obligated to take the corpse along with them as they leave. The story is a masterpiece of black humor, but it does not reveal a great deal about club 65

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culture except the general attitude of disdain that the clubbers have for heroin addicts. Boaby serves to highlight the fact that, to the clubbing pair, a dead heroin addict is not a lot di›erent than a live one. The drugs that Calum and Crooky ingest enhance their perceptions of the world and they spend the night in an ecstasy of paranoia and self examination, while Boaby just becomes more and more distant from the world until he dies.

Late Night Sessions This ¡999 independent film was produced in Vancouver, Canada, directed by Joshua B. Hamlin and written by Hamlin and Stephanie Siefert. Late Night Sessions follows the established pattern of documenting club culture’s move from an idealistic subculture to its absorption by established economic forces. However, unlike most of the texts and films discussed in this chapter, Late Night Sessions attempts to maintain the possibility of a pure, communally motivated club culture movement in which promoters, DJs and patrons all come together to produce parties for the pure joy of the experience. This is a low-budget film and the writing is not of the highest quality, but it is interesting to see a project that was apparently produced by active members of club culture in order to celebrate their movement. Late Night Sessions opens with Nina (Caterpillar MacLaggan) and Manni (Kimani Ray Smith), a DJ, driving home to Vancouver from a weekend of clubbing across the border in Seattle, Washington. The van that Nina is driving has a decal in the front window with the message “Only Users Lose Drugs,” which is a play on the antidrug campaign message “Only Losers Use Drugs.” Manny is teasing Nina in a rather adolescent fashion and Nina asks him when he will grow up. He replies that he will when he “finds the right woman, gets a place in the ’burbs and has 2.5 children.” They agree that will never happen and thereby a‡rm their loyalty to countercultural values. Manni and Nina are good friends and used to have a romantic relationship which has ended because Nina now has a lesbian relationship with Anne (Eliza Murbach). The close and accepting relationship between club culture and gay culture is clearly represented in this film although there is an edge of tension between Nina’s girlfriend, Anne, and Manni. When she arrives to find Manni cuddling with Nina 66

2 • Crime and Club Life

under a blanket she growls, “Keep your hands o› my girlfriend, Breeder.”8 In general, however, the potentially di‡cult situations of Nina’s ex-lover and her current lesbian lover are maintained cordially. Manni is black, but in keeping with the original ideals of club culture, race is never an issue in this film. The rave production collective to which these characters belong is intending to have an event in the near future. Manni was supposed to provide the space for the event, but when he returns from Seattle he discovers that he has been locked out of his loft for nonpayment of rent. He attempts to make a deal with his landlord, Micky ( Jim Shield), a sleazy slumlord who says that he will provide a space, but he has agreed only to make sure that the collective will not obtain a real venue on time. Mickey’s plot to disrupt the event is based on the fact that his girlfriend, Candy (Alisen Down), is the sister of local drug dealer Danny (Zak Santiago), who is attempting to start a dance club. Danny is the paradigm for all that is wrong with the club culture. He is presented in several situations arguing with the members of the collective about the economics of the scene. He believes that the party the collective is intending to throw on the same night as his club is to open will seriously a›ect his profits and therefore he is willing to do anything in order to prevent the competition. He constantly tries to have the collective move their party to his club so that he can get the audience and piggyback on the good reputation of the altruistic clubbers. As the situation develops, Danny’s diatribes against club culture’s “hippy” political philosophy are presented as obviously wrongheaded. The economic verities of a capitalist culture are represented by Nina’s experience as a waitress (barrista) in an international co›ee chain. She mocks the pseudo-intellectuals who go there for designer co›ees and eventually loses her job because her boss cannot deal with her free-spirited reluctance to wear the prescribed uniform. The film incorporates several fantasy scenes in which Nina actually fights back against the oppression of this job, but like most clubbers her fight against the system must have its ultimate expression in the weekend. One of the reasons that club culture is so attractive to youth is its alternative to the cycle of despair; giving up a low-paying humiliating job only results in the necessity of finding another, equally bad job. 67

Dance, Drugs and Escape

Another typical aspect of club culture that is represented in this film is the transcendental drug user Shaggy (Michael Nyuis). Shaggy spouts a lot of half-absorbed Eastern philosophy and takes a lot of drugs in his search for enlightenment. He is attempting to go without sleep for seven days in some sort of vision quest and on the day before the rave is supposed to take place he falls asleep in the newly decorated venue. The antagonist, Danny, and his Asian sidekick Dax (Terry Chen) set fire to the venue, in the belief that it is empty and will not cause any personal injury to their economic rivals. Unfortunately this is not the case, and Shaggy is killed. In a marvelous example of the ethical structure of club culture the collective and their patrons have a free party on the beach to celebrate Shaggy’s life. The villains are imprisoned and the true club culture spirit is triumphant in the face of the evils of economic pressures. The spirit of the club collective is perilously close to the kind of “can-do” attitude that inspires young people to put on shows in Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland films — drug use, homosexuality and anticapitalist theories aside. Although this film lacks in production values and plot subtleties, it is one of the clearest representations of the subcultural underpinnings of club culture. The economic motivations of a club owner are pitted against the free spirits of the warehouse rave in a fashion that clearly represents the actual progression of rave culture to club culture in the UK and U.S. Addictive drugs like heroin, speed and crack cocaine are contrasted with the positive bonding e›ects produced by ecstasy and marijuana in a series of scenes that accurately reflect the theoretical statements of people like Terrence McKenna and Nicholas Saunders. What is remarkable about this film is its lack of critical distance from its subject material. The director and writers seem to be unaware that it might be viewed by an audience unfamiliar with or unsympathetic to their point of view. For this reason Late Night Sessions has a simplistic, unsophisticated air that is completely in keeping with the rather naive philosophy that was the heart of club culture in its earliest expression. The American film Groove and the UK production Human Tra‡c are both similar in their intent to promote the subcultural values of club culture; however, these other two films have a better sense of how this culture would appear to the outside and never descend into the rather missionary zeal that we find in Late Night Sessions. Like other examples of club fiction in this chapter, the interaction of club 68

2 • Crime and Club Life

culture and the mainstream in this film pivots upon the negative influence of money and violence upon the idealistically inclined clubbers.

Sorted Alexander Jovy’s 2000 film Sorted is based around a murder mystery, in which Carl (Matthew Rhys), a young conservative lawyer from Yorkshire, comes to London to settle the a›airs of his brother Justin (Tim Vincent), who has died in an “accident.” Upon arriving at his late brother’s flat he meets Justin’s girlfriend, Sunny (Sienna Guillory), and they start to research the details of Justin’s death. The murder mystery is a plot device to unify the scenes in which Carl is introduced to club culture in the big city. Carl is clearly unaware of his brother’s involvement with the club scene and he stands out among his brother’s circle of friends by reason of his Yorkshire accent, conservative clothing and his unfamiliarity with the drugs, sexual license and music that are a part of his brother’s clubbing. The title of the film comes from the UK club culture term “are you sorted,” which means do you have any drugs. In one of Carl’s first club experiences he is asked by a dealer if he is sorted and he replies that he does not know what the question means. Damien Kemp (Tim Curry) is a sinister older club owner who has a penchant for quoting Shakespeare. Curry’s choice of acting style for this role combines with an over-the-top script to provide a rather melodramatic performance. He archly manipulates the young men and women who frequent his club in an almost Fagin-like manner. The apparent reason for the character of Damien is to focus the blame for all that is wrong with club culture upon individuals who take advantage of the essentially goodhearted young clubbers. The plot structure also includes a romantic involvement. On the apparently positive side is Sunny, who works in an antiques auction house. She does not take drugs and appeals to Carl’s conservative nature. On the other side is Ti›any (Fay Masterson), who works for Damien. She drugs Carl and seduces him in order to acquire a computer disk full of incriminating evidence that Justin has hidden in his flat. At the end of the film we discover that Sunny is also working for Damien to acquire the disk because she was accidentally responsible for Justin’s death. Sunny and Carl 69

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are saved by Damien’s chemist, who has substituted ketamine for a lethal drug with which Damien attempts to kill the pair. The symbolic import of the evil drug dealer literally forcing poison down the throats of innocent young clubbers is less than subtle. Although Sorted uses the hoary plot device of bad drugs sold by morally bankrupt villains, there is also some attention devoted to the verities of drug use. One of the most prominent aspects of Sorted as an example of club culture fiction is the accuracy of its representation of the drug experience. Carl takes ecstasy for the first time at his brother’s memorial service. This event is held at a club and after a few brief testimonials to Justin’s character it becomes simply another night of clubbing for Justin’s friends. Carl’s objective experience is shown as he begins to enjoy the music, dance, sweat, and flirt with his brother’s girlfriend. As we have seen elsewhere this is quite normal for club fiction. However, Sorted goes a step further as it attempts to represent the subjective experience of ecstasy. The filmic special e›ects are understated and consist of subtle rippling of the visual fields combined with some mild enhancement of color; the temporal e›ects are more prominent. The transitions from scene to scene during Carl’s drug experience are jump-cuts prefaced by a speeding up of the film combined with a whooshing sound. This e›ectively emulates the memory lapses and auditory and visual distortions that are common e›ects of ecstasy. The club scenes are usually shot from a low angle with a colored filter and show patrons with their hands in the air. Dance scenes in club fiction almost never show the feet of the dancers, as the problems with synchronizing foot movement to music is much harder than simple hand movement. These club scenes are used like punctuation in the film, with extensive use of cross-cutting between non-club locations. This technique a›ects the pacing of the film as the music and frenetic movement of the club scenes slows almost to a crawl in the non-club scenes. The only exception to this rule is during the climax when Carl orchestrates the downfall of Damien. In general, non-club scenes are used to represent the seamy side of club culture in which drug deals and violence take place, while most of the actual dance scenes are quite positive representations of the camaraderie of the subculture. Sorted, although it uses murder and criminal activity to carry its plot, is actually a pro-clubbing film. The scenes of club life and the represen70

2 • Crime and Club Life

tations of club culture leave the audience with the impression that clubbers are generally good people who are abused by older criminals because of the clubbers’ naiveté. For example, Sorted’s representation of club culture includes a transvestite named Martin ( Jason Donovan). Martin befriends Carl and introduces him to a style of dress more appropriate to the club culture environment. Martin is also involved with Damien’s drug smuggling and production network, but like the other “real” clubbers he is represented as a positive figure. The attention to detail in the representation of drug experience is clearly an attempt to attract a club culture audience while the crime fiction aspects of the plot may be an attempt to interest a broader audience.

Strong Language Strong Language is a British independent production by writer/director by Simon Rumley that was released in 2000. The film is structured as a series of on-camera interviews with young people who talk about a number of subjects, from money to Brit-pop bands to AIDS. The topics of the interviews are prompted in a stream of consciousness fashion by a tragic master-narrative delivered by a character known only as the narrator (David Groves), who at first is seen only in long shots that do not allow us to see his face. As the narrative progresses the camera moves in and we see more and more of his face, but it is never fully revealed. His story is that he meets a woman in a club, falls in love and then loses her because she is raped, infected with AIDS and eventually commits suicide. One day, while riding on the “tube” he encounters one of the rapists and follows him home. He goes out and gets a gun, waits until the rapist meets his accomplice in a club and kills them both. During the course of the interviews we discover that this widely divergent group have a common interest in London club life. Other than this one common element the characters are as diverse a group as one could imagine, excluding the fact that they all live in London and they all are in their twenties. At the end of the film we discover that they are linked by the fact that they were all witnesses to the narrator’s revenge murder. It is clear that many of the secondary characters are members of club culture and the discussion often turns to the subject. One character, 71

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Phillipa (Kelly Marcell), says, “Well, everybody’s saying now that the whole club scene’s dead now; which surely pisses me o›. It’s probably bigger now, more commercial than it’s ever been. It’s just that, you know, everyone’s been doing it, you know, going out, taking drugs since eighty-nine, ninety ... but, you know, now there’s this younger generation coming up and they’re experiencing it for the first time and they’re having just as much fun as everyone did the first time round” (Strong Language). The characters complain about the rise of commercialism, criminal activity, violence and the change from ecstasy to cocaine as the club drug of preference. This pseudo-documentary style allows the film to directly approach common topics of discussion in club culture without the encumbrance of filmed plot structures to carry the narrative. The discussion of ecstasy is prompted by a single word in the master narrative of crime and retribution. All of the secondary characters have tried ecstasy and the general impression is that they are no longer interested in the drug. As in most of the club fiction in this chapter, Strong Language uses the story of a violent crime as a plot device to carry the club culture elements. This technique is especially noticeable in this film, as the apparently unrelated master-narrative that connects the interviews is quite contrived. Although the tragic story of rape and retribution is quite engaging on an emotional level, the fact that the film is all reported action makes it less than fascinating. It is one of the few club culture films that does not include a single scene in a club. The narrative technique is obviously based on economic exigencies, but it does not make for riveting fare.

CONCLUSION In the club fiction represented in this chapter it is clear that the requirements of an interesting plot often drive the interaction of crime and club culture. Although many of the writers and directors seem quite interested in presenting club culture as a viable alternative to a conservative mainstream lifestyle, it is also important to note that nothing carries a story along as e›ectively as a good villain. In these fictions the altruistic and self aware protagonists who are involved in club culture tend to su›er at the 72

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hands of the rich and powerful. The audience is invited to become involved in their struggles and cheer for their victories over the forces of mediocrity, moral bankruptcy and simple evil. However, in many of these works the “happy end” is not to be found, as the ultimate futility of club culture’s ideals when confronted by the “real world” is apparent. One of the reasons for this rather standard representation is the fact that club culture — through its self-reflexive fiction — is aware of its own transformation. As it becomes more popular and moves from the aesthetic underground of its early days, club culture becomes integrated into the establishment, be it criminal or simply boring.

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3

Whose Club Is It Anyway? Ethnicity and Club Culture It is a cliché to mention that the implosion of the British Empire has resulted in a startling degree of ethnic diversity in the formerly homogeneous population of the United Kingdom. Nevertheless, it is well worth discussing the social e›ects of this transformation as they are reflected in the artistic productions of the late twentieth and early twenty-first century. The e›ect of this ethnic diversity on musical subculture in the UK is fascinating and particularly prominent in publications focused on club culture.¡

CULTURAL DIVERSITY

AND

CLUB MUSIC

Club culture has always demonstrated a certain degree of pride concerning its essentially pan-national, or perhaps post-national, nature. The electronic dance music which is at the heart of this movement is derived from a wealth of ethnic backgrounds, and club culture celebrates its rejection of national borders in a number of significant ways. For example, clubbers revel in dance music tourism, with destinations like Ibiza, Goa, Thailand, Miami, and Australia: “The explosion in [international] clubbing cultures over the last ten years has thus been accompanied by — and undoubtedly further fuelled through — the ever widening horizons of some of the clubbers themselves” (Malbon, 6). As the electronic dance music scene has progressed from its begin74

3 • Whose Club Is It Anyway? Ethnicity and Club Culture

nings in the late ¡980s, there has been fracturing of the music into sounds that often claim to be based upon various ethnic foundations and preferences. One of the earlier blanket names for electronic dance music was techno. In Generation Ecstasy Simon Reynolds states: To say “I like techno” became a meaningless claim by ¡993, since the original black American sound had mutated, under pressure from various British and European subcultures, into three main genres: hardcore and its ultrafast Dutch variant, gabba; jungle, a bass-heavy hybrid of hip-hop, reggae, and techno; and Teutonic trance, with its metronomic beats and cosmic imagery. Each of these began to fracture into numerous subgenres and subsubgenres [7–8].

At first glance the term “jungle” might lead one to believe that the music is fracturing along racial lines. “Junglist” is a term used in the scene to describe aficionados of jungle. However, as the following quotation indicates, it also has further historical significance: Junglist is used in Jamaica to describe: ... a native of Trenchtown, the ghetto area of Kingston from where Bob Marley came.... [Jungle] is a music widely perceived to be created by and for black people who are disa›ected with the sound of “white techno” (another anomaly considering that all of techno’s originators were themselves black) [Virgin Encyclopedia of Dance Music, ¡76].

The rapid evolution of music and terminology in the dance music scene is apparent in the fate of the term jungle. Since jungle was perceived as a racially coded expression another was found that could be applied to the style. The term drum ’n’ bass was a more acceptable term than jungle as it appealed to the shifting demographic of the genre’s audience. These were “white, middle class youths who sought to disassociate jungle from its ragga2 roots” (Osborne, 76). Despite the tendency to fracture into subgenres most aspects of rave and club culture demonstrate also a clear movement toward reintegration and homogenization. As musical styles become distinct and are identified with a certain subgroup of youth culture, they are often embraced by nonmembers. Angela McRobbie insists that despite the multiracial backgrounds of the musicians the music maintains its ethnic heritage: However, live exposure to this music reveals its fully black aesthetic. Listening to Grooverider, behind the decks, or to MC Nathan Haines it is possible to hear the full force of the improvised tradition of jazz, combined 75

Dance, Drugs and Escape with the reggae sounds and the toaster voiceover of the Jamaican dancehall, with the hip-hop tradition of the rapper, now souped up by technological means to produce a thunderous and uniquely black and British underground sound. But there is no crude ethnic absolutism inscribed in this form, instead its openness and fluidity and serious, indeed scholarly, concern with the music celebrates the movement between black, white and Asian mixes which is such a hallmark of this musical style. The DJs who form the inner circle around Goldie’s Metalheadz label are young black and white Londoners [McRobbie, ¡6].

Although she recognizes the ethnic diversity of the musicians producing the music, McRobbie is convinced that the paucity of black scholars has resulted in the low profile of the drum ’n’ bass movement in critical circles. She says that it is because “there are so few black scholars, intellectuals and critics who have made their way up through the ranks of the academy or into journalism that there are virtually no voices of representation, never mind debate, except those that come from other, largely hidden spaces” (McRobbie, ¡9). This lack of racially diverse scholarly representation may be true in the UK, but it is certainly not true of the United States. However, like most forms of electronic dance music, drum ’n’ bass has a very low profile in the U.S. The intense pressure of hip-hop, rap and R & B has more or less occluded the place of electronic dance music in the U.S. despite the fact that important branches of the music, like techno, originated in that country. The ethnic movement of drum ’n’ bass is paralleled in the branch of music sometimes called Asian underground,3 which incorporates elements of traditional Indian music with reggae and modern electronica. Despite its ethnic roots, this sort of music is widely popular among many communities in the dance music subculture. Not surprisingly, the apparently contradictory phenomenon of diversification combined with homogenization in the club culture scene is characteristic of most literature and film about the culture.

NICHOLAS BLINCOE As mentioned previously, some elements of club culture are in the final stages of moving from a relatively popular form of subculture to the 76

3 • Whose Club Is It Anyway? Ethnicity and Club Culture

high profile of pop culture. This transition is marked by the appearance of popular forms of literature, film and television on the subject.4 Acid Casuals (¡995) and Jello Salad (¡997) are two popular novels set in the UK’s club culture scene that are representative of the current wave of mass market publications concerned with this topic. Despite the fact that he has a solid academic background, the author of these texts, Nicholas Blincoe,5 is adamant that these novels should be enjoyed as crime fiction. This deliberate definition of his audience suggests that he is interested in developing an audience of young, hip participants in the club culture that he uses as background for his fiction. In these two novels Blincoe has managed to graft his interest in the subculture onto an existing genre of crime adventure novels, creating a witty combination that is interesting to a broader audience than writing that focuses on one of the two component categories alone. By selecting crime fiction as his mode of expression, Blincoe is able to experiment with concepts and structures that would not find immediate approval in what is generally accepted as serious fiction. His two club culture novels are set in Manchester and London respectively and clearly represent the darker side of club and rave culture in the UK. The central characters of both of these novels are members of the ethnic populations of these cities and their experiences exemplify both the inclusive and exclusive aspects of the club scene. Blincoe represents the interaction of race, economic status and musical tastes in a way that foregrounds the tensions in a postcolonial United Kingdom. In Acid Casuals, the black, Asian, and white populations in Manchester are locked in a struggle over drugs, guns and the money earned from clubs. Jello Salad, which is set in London, incorporates similar topoi, including a rave scene. However, Jello Salad is not so overtly concerned with the tensions between racial groups in the UK. Although there are representations of Asian gangster activity, in his second club culture novel Blincoe uses the background of club culture to present a darkly comic vision of international relations in a postcolonial world.

Acid Casuals Acid Casuals is a crime story set in Manchester in the mid–¡990s. It tells the tale of a transsexual hit man/woman, Estela, who returns to her 77

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childhood home on a murder contract. She has been living in Brazil since fleeing Manchester years ago and has not been home since her sex-change operation. For this reason, she is able to remain essentially unrecognized, even by her childhood friends. On her first night back in the city she is robbed of her gun and her hormone pills by a young man she picked up for a brief sexual encounter. Her mission is further complicated when the boy is accidentally killed with the stolen gun in a club owned by his employer, the man Estela has been sent to kill. In order to rectify the problems caused by this incident, Estela reconnects with one of her old friends, Michael Cross, an important man in the West Indian underground community. Blincoe immediately sets the theme of race in Acid Casuals. The first narrative voice is Amjad, a middle-aged Pakistani taxi driver in Manchester, and he is musing about the identity of his current fares. A woman of indeterminate race is in the back of his cab kissing and fondling a young white boy: “The boy was definitely white. Amjad wasn’t sure about the woman. She probably wasn’t black, though. She didn’t look Pakistani — nor Bangladeshi, whatever” (2). In any case, Amjad is certain that the woman is not English because of her accent and the skillful way that she applies her makeup. As the novel progresses, we discover that Amjad is wrong on a number of counts; the woman is Estela, who was born and raised in Manchester. However, his/her mother was from Surinam. By making his central character a transsexual Blincoe has managed to incorporate yet another marginalized group in his cast of characters. Although the race and sexual orientation of the characters is, on one level, important to the structure of the novel, Blincoe constantly emphasizes that the more significant aspects of these people are their youth and entertainment habits: Cozy’s [white young man] friends were a mixed group, girls, boys, a couple of them black and one who was probably Pakistani. They were mixed but fairly homogeneous, ranging from fairly strung out by teenage angst and weekend drug taking, to totally strung out and near total lunacy [37].

Acid Casuals does not make many moral judgments or promote stereotypes based upon race or sexual preference. It does, however, present an image of the seamier side of club culture and the individuals who become involved with this branch of Manchester’s entertainment industry. Mem78

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bers of all ethnic communities and age groups represented in the novel range from hard-working “straights” to full-out gangsters. Blincoe also attempts to show the movement away from the initial unifying subcultural rave movement into the more diverse and racially segregated world of club-culture. The following passage from the novel rather elegantly summarizes the transformation of the club scene in Manchester. Theresa, a white girl, enters a club primarily frequented by blacks: Theresa felt over-dressed and heavily white.... She had been to the Passenger club before, a few years back she was as likely to go there as to the Gravity [a primarily white club] but recently the city had begun to redivide, like an amoeba that can’t flow in two directions without splitting its heart open. Techno and its derivatives, musical and chemical, had got paler. Her friends, acid casuals and ravers, had begun to shun hip-hop. It was a question of space; other-worlds against the inner-city. When ragga re-ignited the dance halls, they left that alone, too. It was too, too heavy. Let its bass heavy lines work on the asphalt, techno’s electronic bleeps were communication with the solar system; black holes and white space [¡68].

In this passage Blincoe has reiterated widely held notions concerning the diversification of the music scene in club culture. Of course, the racial stereotypes about dance music which are indicated above are not necessarily true of the musicians that create them. Sarah Thornton comments on these distinctions: “For white youth, black musical authenticity is rooted in the body, whereas Euro-dance authenticity, like white ethnicity, is disembodied, invisible and high-tech” (Thornton ¡995, 72). Her argument is that despite the racial associations of the genre divisions the associations are more theoretical than visible in the race of musicians that produce the music. This is a relatively concise analysis of an important aspect of the short history of club culture. The racial split — perceived or real — in the music has resulted in clubs that are predominantly white as well as those which cater to other ethnic populations.6 This leads to the problem of segregation in a society that o‡cially rejects the concept. Not surprisingly, predominantly white clubs are often accused of enforcing racial quotas by means of bouncers.* *“In addition to enforcing judgments about coolness, bouncers ‘on the door’ at clubs can also reinforce wider societal prejudices.... ‘Black’ men in particular, find themselves barred. Or, more usually, subject to maximum quotas. This ongoing fact should not be forgotten in the face of the utopian ‘Everybody welcome’ discourses in which dance clubs are intermittently enveloped” (Malbon, 64).

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In Acid Casuals Blincoe represents the black club as a sort of haven for the ethnic population and as such it caters to a broad spectrum of the black community of Manchester. Blincoe seems to indicate that as this divergence from other branches of club culture continues the dance subculture tends to become integrated into the broader life of the ethnic communities: The spread of ages in this upstairs bar [over a predominantly black club] surprised Estela. Mostly men, some of the older ones could have been sitting in a West Indian social club and not a ragga dance hall. Some that she guessed wore gray dreads underneath the crochet of their caps. The atmosphere was mellow, humming with good natured laughter, fragrant with grass and rum [¡79–80].

Although the white couple, Theresa and her friend, gain entrance to the club, they are uncomfortable. There are numerous factors in the creation of a sense of space and belonging in dance music culture (Malbon, 5¡). The press in the UK tends to focus on the exclusionary practices of the predominantly white clubs and ignore possibility that the splintering of the club scene into ethnic populations can also have an e›ect of tightening bonds within ethnic communities. Whites are not comfortable in black clubs and tend not go to them. In predominantly white clubs the reverse situation is enforced with quotas.7 The tendency of clubs to promote racial segregation may be attributed to a desire to carve out a space that is free from the conflicts and tensions of the outside world. Blincoe’s club culture novels constantly reiterate the theme of escapism. This is, of course, a return to the roots of dance music subculture. Hillegonda Reitveld clearly expresses this in her commentary on “The House Sound of Chicago”: For a group of mainly urban African American youths, who wanted to transcend the oppressing boundaries of a racist, homophobic and sexist world, these parties and clubs were a haven, a night time church, if you like, where a sense of wholeness could be achieved.... In this specific cultural space, an idiosyncratic language in dance music developed which is now called house music [¡¡¡].

Blincoe’s characters all seek to break away from some aspect of their lives and club life is often a symptom of this dissatisfaction with their current mode of existence. In fact, hedonism, futurism, drug use, and inter80

3 • Whose Club Is It Anyway? Ethnicity and Club Culture

nationalism combine to make escapism a primary element of most fictional representations of club culture. Clubbers like those represented in Blincoe’s novels hope to escape from the mundane world into a “special” place that tends to be racially homogenous. The splintering of the early rave music scene along racial lines is also mirrored, to some extent, in drug use. Illegal drugs are representative of the club scene’s attempt to define a private space separate from the rest of society. In Acid Casuals Blincoe has his characters comment on the perception that the drugs used to aid in escape from mundane reality are, like music and venue, selected according to race. Michael Cross, former leader of a black Manchester gang, presents this theory to Estela: You don’t get brothers trying acid more than once, unless they’re already crazy. You know what it means to be black. You’re scared of insanity. Maybe white men get it too — I wouldn’t know, maybe some of them. Half of them are already mad. The reason they’re not scared of it — they are mad already. Let them fry on acid, they can relax and enjoy it. But a brother knows what its like to be terrified of going insane [¡04].

Blincoe tends to have characters wax philosophical in the course of his novels and many times the theories that they espouse are the near-paranoid fantasies typical of long, drug-fuelled conversations at clubs and afterhours parties. This sort of pseudo-intellectual pronouncement is a common topos in film and literature based on club culture and Blincoe uses this technique to take a humorous look at many of the popular myths of youth culture. The above passage represents a common explanation of one of the drug preferences of a cultural community. By natural extension, the drugs used by the various communities are thought to have an e›ect on the type of music that they prefer. The escapist e›ects of LSD, ecstasy, cocaine and marijuana all tend to be enhanced by di›erent types of music. Blincoe continues with a variant on this theme of drug ethnicity in a scene describing cocaine use: Who first thought of doing that, nosing down into a powdery dust? Was Burgess [a club owner] replaying a prehistoric ritual, updating it with large denomination banknotes, but basically re-enacting a part of native South American folklore? Hunched over his desk with a fifty in his nostril, navigating a channel straight from his nasal membranes to his brain, was Burgess 81

Dance, Drugs and Escape putting roots down into an ancient civilization, connecting himself to the shamans and ghosts of Amazonia? [35–6].

This passage represents an important component of the new-age multiculturalism of club culture. Participants often choose to consider themselves part of a long tradition of drug-using shamanism, spiritual explorers in a world that has been forbidden to them by mainstream society.8 However, the historical accuracy of this phenomenon is, at best, highly questionable. Blincoe’s character is using cocaine, a modern chemically created derivative of coca leaves which are chewed (not snorted) by the indigenous population of South America. The practice of using a blowpipe to ingest powders is also from South America, but the drugs were usually hallucinogens like DMT, not cocaine. It is interesting to see that modern dance culture likes to maintain this tenuous connection with multinational traditions of mysticism. As a rule the mystic traditions selected do not match the ethnic background of the new-age reveler. Of course, many commentators on the culture are quite cynical about the value of this aspect. Simon Reynolds states that “[m]ost of the mystical implications read into rave culture ... are simply elaborate rationalizations/spiritualization’s of ‘getting o› your face’” (Reynolds, “Rave Culture,” 9¡). Others believe that these rationalizations of drug use are intended to justify an intensely spiritual experience in more or less traditional terms. Drugs are seen as an attempt to regain spirituality in an essentially secular world. In the context of this discussion the relationship of drug use to ethnicity is of paramount importance. The desire of new-age philosophy to establish a connection with foreign cultures is a prominent aspect of club culture. It is a rejection of mainstream culture in favor of an association with older, and supposedly purer, foreign cultures. The desire of the new-age philosophers of club culture to partake in drug based ethnic mysticism is closely related to the popular tradition of associating drug use with ethnic minorities. In North America the use of marijuana was associated with Mexican immigrants to the United States, and opium dens were thought to be the result of unchecked Asian migration. Marek Kohn’s fascinating article “Cocaine Girls” represents the way in which the popular press focused on the connection between foreigners, women and cocaine abuse in pre–World War II Britain: 82

3 • Whose Club Is It Anyway? Ethnicity and Club Culture Drugs — and especially cocaine — were thus marked as both subversive and feminine; they were Other. They were also alien and said to have been brought to Britain, at this moment in which the external threat was never greater [World War I], by foreigners — the handful of Chinese in the docklands with their opium, Canadians, Continental rogues driven across the channel by the German advance, Americans associated with the entertainment industry [¡20].

This association of racial groups with specific drugs is also reflected in Acid Casuals by means of a subplot. Amjad, the Pakistani taxi driver from the opening scene of the novel, is witness to the destruction of a Pakistani restaurant by black gang members armed with machine guns: Everyone knew that Jab’s windows had been blown out because Jab’s uncle was hiking up the price of heroin. Amjad wasn’t going to get drawn into any drug gang stu›. As far as he knew Jab wasn’t involved either. Just because Jab’s uncle ate at his curry house, now and again, Jab’s whole investment goes up in gunfire. And dickheads like Amjad’s little brother wanted to get involved [85].

Blincoe makes it clear that many of the members of the Asian community do not want to have anything to do with the drug gangs. He also indicates that a misplaced sense of racial solidarity prompts Amjad’s brother to suggest getting more guns and escalating the struggle. This theme is more closely related to the international drug trade theme that was represented in the BBC series Tra‡k.9 It does, however, clearly indicate a close relationship between ethnic communities, the drug trade and the branch of the entertainment trade focused on dance culture. The punters [patrons] in the clubs obtain their drugs from dealers, who may be members of ethnic communities involved with the smuggling trade.

Jello Salad Blincoe’s second club culture novel, Jello Salad, is also set in the club scene of the mid-nineties. Although the primary venue for the action is in London, the characters around whom the plot revolves are originally from Manchester. Hogie, a young, popular ex–television chef, is hired to manage a restaurant which has been financed with funds stolen from a London bank robber who has retired to Spain. Hogie has hired his lifelong friend Mannie as maitre d’. A third friend, Cheb, has just returned from 83

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travels in Thailand and is invited to work at the new restaurant too. All three friends use a lot of drugs, and Mannie’s brief and highly unsuccessful attempt at dealing makes him the target of Naz, a young Pakistani who has found his vocation as “a natural born gangsta” (47). After Mannie’s friends pay o› his drug debt Naz decides to tag along for the adventure in London. In the course of the novel he becomes the heroic focus and his intelligence and audacity manage to save the three non–Asian characters from disaster. This novel does not dwell on the tensions between racial groups in the overt fashion of Acid Casuals. Jello Salad presents the conflicts between age groups as an economic principle that is closely related to the heritage of empire. Naz is the primary representative of racial diversity in this novel, and his actions are perceived as the near-heroic e›orts of an individual rather than as a member of his ethnic group. In a scene that is openly derived from a host of modern gangster films Naz robs a busy dance club and the drug dealer who works from a drinks van outside its doors. Blincoe establishes the connection with his artistic sources by representing Naz posturing like characters from Boyz N the Hood, States of Grace, and Hong Kong action films, After Naz has completed the bloody robbery he tells the club sta› as he leaves: “When I see tomorrow’s papers I want to see that you were hit by a gang of ten men or more, any race, color or creed other than a Pakistani dude” (¡24). When the reports come out the robbery is attributed to “a group of heavily armed Jamaicans” (¡34). Although this scene is, like many others in Jello Salad, very violent, it could be perceived as rough justice on the exclusionary and mercenary practices of a mainstream club. Blincoe focuses on the humiliation of the over-muscled white bouncers by the ultra-cool Asian gangster. That the crime is publicly blamed on another ethnic group that is known to su›er from door policies could be considered to be a sly aside. During the preparation for the robbery Cheb sits in a car with Naz and spouts mad philosophy. During his travels in the East he has come up with several theories that are incorporated as amusing yet significant digressions from the plot during the course of this novel. For example, his conception of the geopolitical significance of London is a fascinating commentary on modern power structures: 84

3 • Whose Club Is It Anyway? Ethnicity and Club Culture Above all he saw a monster fed on global money, tearing chunks out of the digiverse and sucking them down into its hell. London was a blast of the unreal, the last City, the baseline for the entire chaosphere. Landing at Heathrow was like touching down at ground zero. His close reading of the map convinced him. The timelines, the flight arrows, the roads of England and the folds of the map all concentrated on a black spot, a negative space like the shadow on a catastrophe graph where every fact gets flipped onto a new scenario: from cuddly puppy to rabid hound, light sleep to nightmare, pedestrianized strip to riot-zone etcetera and contrapuntally yours, London [9¡].

In this fantastic expression of the reading of the map by a rather insane Northerner, London comes across as the center of a still existing, yet somehow postcolonial empire. This London is a focal point for a non-concrete empire of representation rather than one of fact. After all, Cheb sees it on a map. He intuitively senses the correspondence between the abstract finances of a digital economy, an economy that moves funds around in ones and zeros rather than chests of gold and silver, and the lines and folds on a map. The unreal nature of London’s centrality is of the sort which inspires modern youth protests against globalization. Like the protesters at a G8 summit, Cheb has an intuitive distrust for a new colonial empire that is based in abstraction just as he would reject political action based on gunboat diplomacy. However, Blincoe’s narrative purposes ensure that Cheb’s reasoning goes beyond the logical structures of those who protest against globalization. Cheb is not intended to be a representative of a viable alternative political philosophy; he is a comic foil to the practical activism of Naz. This characterization of the movement is common enough that Tom Findlay of the electronic music duo Groove Armada defined the antiglobalization movement in an interview with Mixmag as “...undefined, such a loose coalition — petulant trustafarian anarchy” (Patterson, 90). The modern empire represented in Cheb’s fantasy is one in which the symbol becomes part and parcel of the means of oppression. Blincoe’s use of this sort of digression has encountered mixed reception. His novels have been the subject of a substantial amount of Internet discussion, and commentaries seem to be split about the quality of his work. Despite the fact that most active participants in club culture are familiar with individuals who combine a penchant for abstract thought with a tenuous grasp of reality, there are also a substantial number of members of the subculture who find the humor of Blincoe’s representation o›ensive. 85

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The drug-addled philosopher Cheb also has a go at defining the great problems of world religion in a discussion with Naz: Cheb said, “Yeah, I tell you though, I got no time for these dust bowl religions, me. The Bible-bashers, Hebes or the Towel-heads. No o›ense.... My problem is, all three are the same, they all got this respect for senility and they’re all based on wheat farming. You’ve heard of the fertile crescent, right? The birthplace of civilization? But the only thing it’s fertile for is wheat.... Yeah, dig it. I was saying. Wheat’s got its disadvantages. But it’s also the healthiest of the staple food crops. Which is why wheat cultures have a surplus of old people. A bunch of crusty old farmers, worn-out, but hanging on” [¡04–5].

Naz is not impressed with Cheb’s meandering and thinks to himself, Now he was saying that religion was the social face of food technolog y (¡06). Cheb continues with his commentary by pointing out that hard- and soft-grained wheat is necessary to make bread and that a combination of the two types necessitates trade: “These fucked up senile farmers know their crop’s traveling all over the world but they’re pinned to their farms. They’re conscious of an expanding world, but they can’t understand it and it terrifies them” (¡06). This discussion can be read as an attack against widely accepted practices of the world economy. The fact that Blincoe incorporates racial slurs in Cheb’s theorizing emphasizes the ridiculous nature of his logic. Cheb states that conservative old men become rich through trade despite the fact that they fear the unknown. One should note that Cheb not only preaches against the global economy, he also manages to be an active participant in the struggle against multinational corporations. He has brought a machine back from the Far East that enables him to imprint valid credit card numbers on forged blanks. Although he never claims to be anything but a thief in this process, it is clearly in line with the political theories that he has espoused. Blincoe uses the character of Cheb to represent radical philosophical and political positions while Naz, the member of a social minority, presents the cynical face of a practical man. Cheb predicts a new age without the economic and religious controls that he has outlined in his argument. He focuses his praise on the economy developed in the Americas based on corn rather than wheat: The beauty of corn is that it is both reliable and flexible. It grows so fast and in such abundance that every corn-based culture grows at an astronom86

3 • Whose Club Is It Anyway? Ethnicity and Club Culture ical rate. One minute, they’re cavemen. The next, they’re building a city of gold in the middle of a fucking lake. Corn breeds, it speeds up the natural life cycle. You reach puberty early, you reproduce early. You die young [209].

This youth culture philosophy is espoused to his middle aged victim in the middle of a particularly grizzly revenge murder. In other words, Blincoe is careful to undermine any possibility of his audience accepting the concepts that Cheb espouses as acceptable intellectual positions.

BLINCOE

IN

SUMMARY

Blincoe’s assessment of his work as popular crime literature is quite accurate. It would be di‡cult to perceive these texts as a call to arms encrypted in an adventure tale, and the characters that he uses to present these rather abstract ideas are clearly selected to circumvent any serious assessment. However, Blincoe has managed to represent many of the theoretical positions and social situations of contemporary youth culture in a humorous and engaging fashion. Both Acid Casuals and Jello Salad represent the conflicts and contrasts between racial groups in a postcolonial UK. Acid Casuals focuses on racial situations in a relatively realistic fashion, while Jello Salad contrasts the three stooges of white club culture with the suave, accomplished and eminently dangerous Asian gangster Naz. Blincoe’s interest in the problems of a postcolonial world is undeniable and finds further expression in his ¡999 novel, The Dope Priest, which focuses on the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. It is also clear that despite his openly expressed desire to write for a popular audience, Blincoe’s academic background allows him to add a level of intellectual humor that provides the reader with more content than the average crime novel.

HANIF KUREISHI Unlike Blincoe, Hanif Kureishi is at least partially a member of the racial subgroup which forms the central topos of much of his writing. His father immigrated to the UK from India in ¡947 and his mother is from England. Kureishi was born in ¡954 in the UK and has a keen sense of 87

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the development of Asian counterculture in his native land. His films, novels, short stories and television productions deal with the tension between the traditional elements of the UK Asian community and the Asian youth involvement in subcultural activities. His work considers topics like squatting and drug use in London Kills Me (¡99¡) and alternate sexuality in My Beautiful Launderette (¡985). Bart Moore-Gilbert describes Kureishi’s work as follows: Among Kureishi’s major preoccupations, then, are the consequences of formal decolonization — in psychological, political, cultural and material terms — for the “native” British population. For much of his career, Kureishi identifies a serious malaise in national life and self-image, which is reflected primarily in the di‡culties that Britain has experienced in adapting to a diminished status in the modern world and in throwing over anachronistic attitudes towards nation, race, ethnicity and cultural di›erence [MooreGilbert, 4].

The Black Album The Black Album (¡995) is the story of a young Asian student, Shaheed Hassan, who lives in London during the late ¡980s. He is torn between his a‡liation with a group of Islamic students and his wild a›air with Deedee Osgood, one of his college instructors. Deedee leads him into involvement with the nascent rave movement — drugs, dancing and sex. He also associates with the Islamic students’ movement, and their militant approach to life leads to protests and burning the works of Salman Rushdie. The title The Black Album comes from a record by Prince, the American rock musician. In ¡987 Prince stopped the release of the Black Album recording and presented a number of explanations for this action to the press. Chief among these was the notion that the Black Album recording was too dark and Prince did not want his audience to perceive him that way. Naturally, the album appeared in a number of bootleg copies anyway, but this decision by Prince seemed to presage his later struggles with the music publishing industry that culminated in his name change to an unpronounceable symbol which was translated in the popular press as “the artist formerly known as Prince” or, in short form, “the Artist.” It is quite significant that Kureishi chose to use this event as a leading theme in his discussion of the fundamentalist reaction to Salman Rushdie’s The 88

3 • Whose Club Is It Anyway? Ethnicity and Club Culture

Satanic Verses since both stories deal with an artist’s responsibility for the e›ect of his work on the general public. In the case of Prince, the artist makes a conscious decision of self-censorship and removes his work from the public eye in order to avoid negative audience reactions; in the second, the artist, Rushdie, is personally condemned by a religious court for his work. In literary analysis the concept of intentional fallacy would suggest that both cases are not pertinent, that the artist cannot be held personally responsible for the e›ects of the work. However, Kureishi depicts a harsher world in which the e›ects of racism and social disparity are presented by Islamic fundamentalists as the result of lack of concern by intellectuals: “‘Good? What do intellectuals know about good?’ Chad was becoming incensed by Shaheed’s naivety. Then he made a show of calming himself. ‘Brother you’ve got a lot to learn. But let’s waste no more time discussing frippery [literature]’” (Kureishi, 2¡). This austere attitude is in sharp contrast to the “loved up” club culture that Shaheed encounters in the company of his non-fundamentalist friends: Shaheed had never heard music so fast; the electronic beats went like a jackhammer. Everyone wore Lycra cycling shorts and white T-shirts imprinted with yellow smiling faces. They hugged and kissed and stroked one another with Elysian innocence [Kureishi, 25].

The novel is structured between the two poles of existence with the Muslim fundamentalists serving as the extreme of self-denial and his college instructor serving as an example of the hedonism of club culture. Kureishi paints a portrait of an almost completely assimilated Anglo-Indian young man whose contact with fundamentalists revives his interest in a cultural heritage that his family has almost completely discarded. His family — brother, mother and especially his father — reject the notion that racism in the UK can have a serious e›ect on their lives. Their wealth seems to isolate them from the severe problems that less fortunate members of their ethnic group su›er. Since Shaheed is a shy and scholarly boy he is consequently not immune to racially motivated harassment at school and is open to the arguments of the fundamentalist support group in his building. London at the end of the ¡980s is represented in this novel as a place of great social upheaval, as it is in many of the other texts in this study. However, Kureishi chooses to represent the organized struggle of Muslims, 89

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adding a level of intellectual complexity to his novel that is not present in many other representations of the birth of club culture. On the other hand, Kureishi represents club culture in London in ¡989 as essentially a white culture. Shaheed notices that everywhere that he goes with Deedee he is the only person of color. Yet, when he discusses the experience of club culture with his white, drug dealing friend Strapper, the image of unity and tolerance that is so important to the mythos of club culture comes to the fore: The raves he’d [Strapper] been to in warehouses and fields last year, the “summer of love”— this is how he’d seen Britain, walking, hitching, sleeping rough, living with the travelers, staying in a teepee. The adventures involved scrambling over the fence and crawling into a space containing three thousand virtually naked, high people, dancing as one without violence, the new acid dream, not over, not yet. The soulfulness and generosity of people he’d met on that scene who, mocked and outlawed by the straight world, would welcome him into their homes on this very day if he turned up, no questions asked, sharing whatever they had, for they understood one another, as if they’d been in combat together; it had been collective love and spiritual oneness [¡97].

If The Black Album simply represented club culture as selfish and white and Muslim fundamentalism as racially tolerant and socially concerned it would not be such a high quality artistic creation. However, Kureishi manages to represent many of the truly complex questions of the two movements. Both of the movements seem to reject the aesthetic ideals that Shaheed, as an aspiring writer, finds so attractive. The Muslim brotherhood views western art forms as decadent and atheistic; the popular culture teachings of his mentor and guide to rave culture seem to suggest that traditional western literature, music and painting are somehow invalid in the modern world. Shaheed is the only true defender of traditional secular western scholarship and aesthetic principles in this novel. This is, of course, one of the reasons that the novel is named for Prince’s Black Album: an aesthetic statement in the face of the economic priorities of the music industry. Rushdie’s problems with The Satanic Verses are tightly integrated with this concept and serve as a backdrop for the movement toward Shaheed’s resolution of his ethical dilemma. In the end of the novel Shaheed sees the weaknesses of the fundamentalist approach to life and opts for existence in a more hedonistic 90

3 • Whose Club Is It Anyway? Ethnicity and Club Culture

framework. He chooses to maintain his relationship with his college instructor and sever his ties with the Muslim brotherhood. Nevertheless, this novel does not trivialize the problems of race conflict that lead young men of Islamic heritage to return to their faith. Kureishi’s novel has particular relevance in the twenty-first century as western society struggles to understand the roots of fundamentalist violence. The initial stages of club culture are revealed as having intrinsic weaknesses, but Kureishi represents it as a more tolerable alternative to violent struggle against mainstream society.

Human Tra‡c As mentioned previously in this study, Human Tra‡c is set in Cardi›, Wales, and represents one weekend of clubbing by a group of friends. One of the central characters of this film is a black man, Koop, and the representation of this character brings out some of the aspects of race in club culture. Koop makes his living as a salesman in a record store that specializes in vinyl. The fact that Koop sells vinyl is significant because in the world of club culture vinyl is the working medium of the DJ. Although most of the rest of the world has converted to digital recordings on compact disk, club culture stubbornly hangs on to the outmoded medium of vinyl and the twenty-year-old technology of twin Technics ¡200 turntables, mixers and cross-faders. One of the advantages of vinyl is that the accomplished DJ can “scratch.” The vinyl record is made into a performance instrument by manually moving the record back and forth with the hand while the needle is on the surface. This is combined with manipulation of the cross-fader and volume controls. Scratching was invented by black hip-hop DJs in New York and to this day DJs who have expertise in this area are highly regarded in club culture. Koop’s job in the record store is to present himself as an expert in all aspects of club music. He is approached with deference by white patrons seeking his insight into the best music of the day. The white Welsh patrons a›ect what they fondly believe to be the accents of black Americans or Jamaicans, and Koop responds in kind. When asked to recommend a hip-hop album Koop puts on a disk by a group he calls “the itchy trigga finga niggas.” He informs the awestruck white Welsh patron that this album must be purchased 91

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immediately or it will disappear from the shelves since the artists have been “locked down” and when they are executed for murder the commercial value of their work will skyrocket. This scene is a wonderful play on the economic factors involved in the marketing of black music to white patrons. Despite the fact that he is almost completely assimilated into the UK mainstream, Koop’s racial identity — second-generation Jamaican — is assumed to give him some sort of special status. He plays up to this by wearing a shirt with the words Junglist Movement emblazoned across the front with the image of a pair of turntables. Although this may represent his taste in music, he is not a musician. The film drives this point home by representing Koop pretending to be a master of the art of scratching. He dances around a pair of turntables, moving his hands with casual skill across the controls as a particularly impressive example of scratching plays. Then, as he spins around with his arms in the air the scratching continues and we realize that he is simply playing a recording of someone scratching. Koop is presented as a character with a host of insecurities that transcend his limited musical talents. His father is in an institution because he has paranoid delusions and the UK version of Human Tra‡c has a scene in which Koop visits him. The version sold on DVD in North America cuts this scene down to a few seconds. This may be because the father has a relatively thick Jamaican accent which could prove di‡cult for a North American audience. Koop also shows signs of mild paranoia in that he is constantly jealous of his white girlfriend, Nina. All of the people in this film have some psychological problems, from Jep’s anxiety-induced impotence to Mo› ’s drug-induced depression, but Koop’s problems have subtle references to his status as a black man living in a predominantly white society. The fact that Koop’s girlfriend is white may exacerbate his fear that he will lose her to another man.

CONCLUSION As club culture mutates and the scene begins to splinter into numerous subgroups defined by taste in music, drugs, sexuality and ethnicity it 92

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would be possible to conclude that the movement is simply returning to the diverse subcultural elements that came together in its beginning. Clubland provides the paying customer with a host of possibilities for entertainment, from Asian fusion/drum ’n’ bass, to dance hall and UK Garage. Yet all of these diverse subcultural groups share certain common identifying aspects that allow us to group them together. They all are youth cultures, despite the fact that the first generation of ravers are now in their thirties. All of them share a taste for certain types of illegal drugs that tend to enhance the experience of music and dancing; and all of these groups consider themselves to be outside of the mainstream of social and political life.

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It’s Raining Men: Representations of Gay Lifestyle in Club Fiction As club culture moves from the underground into the gaze of the general public in the UK and in North America the fictional representation of the alternate lifestyle of “party people” has become more sensitive to mainstream marketing realities. Those who have been associated with the movement for a number of years often lament that the “scene” has deteriorated significantly since it has become accessible to a host of twinkies, wannabes, disapproving parents, and legislators. The core of old skool ravers is reflecting upon the transition from an underground culture to pop culture. This transition has, as one might expect, resulted in a number of distortions and modifications of representation in news and fiction and one of the most prominent of these distortions is the careful editing of the relationship of gay dance club culture to the straight rave and club scene.1 This chapter will explore the representation of gay lifestyles in literature, film and television of contemporary club culture. An important fact of the history of club culture is that its roots in North America and the United Kingdom are closely integrated with the gay dance club scene2: Since the early ¡970s, with the advent of gay pride and the earliest days of disco, there has been a strong association between dance music culture and gay men. Indeed, one can safely say that dance culture as we know it is largely a gay creation [Gilbert & Pearson, 99].

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THE MUSIC A quick survey of texts documenting the genesis of the movement reveals that the origins of the electronic music that forms the backbone of contemporary dance club culture were in gay, black and Latino dance clubs in Detroit, Chicago and New York. Chicago’s famous Warehouse, source of the term “house music,” was essentially a gay club.3 However, the further development of the social structures of raves and subsequently dance clubs is heavily dependent upon the underground straight dance club scene in the late ¡980s in the UK. These social structures gained popularity in North America almost a decade later.4 This bifurcation of the historical development of the culture has resulted in a distinct di›erence in the fictional representation of two branches — gay and straight dance club culture — of what was once a single subculture. One of the most prominent di›erences between gay club culture fiction and straight club culture fiction is the way in which gay men and lesbians are portrayed. Categorizing works of fiction by major thematic elements is a practice that is di‡cult in the best situation. In the case of club culture the selection is made even more di‡cult by the existence of the branch of fiction that revolves around the gay dance club scene. Semiautobiographical works like James St. James’ Disco Bloodbath (¡999), Paul Burston’s Shameless (200¡), and the UK and U.S. incarnations of the television series Queer as Folk 5 represent the dance club scene as an integral component of gay lifestyles. On the other hand, UK novels like Nicolas Blincoe’s Acid Casuals (¡995) and Alan Warner’s Morvern Callar (¡995) and television series like BBC Scotland’s Tinsel Town (2000) and Alexander Jovy’s film Sorted (2000) present the audience with a view of dance club culture that is not exclusively gay, but incorporates gay, lesbian and bisexual characters in significant roles. In the U.S. this approach is shared by the likes of Douglas Rushko› ’s novel Ecstasy Club (¡997) and Greg Harrison’s film Groove (2000). The representation of gay, lesbian and bisexual characters in film and television has always been problematic in that until recently the subject of homosexuality was not approved for discussion by censor boards. For this reason, when gay characters did appear before the ¡960s they were usually 95

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coded as “sissies,” men with feminine gestures and tastes — men with an “artistic” temperament. These characters were a reliable source of humor for screenwriters and representation and were never taken seriously. As the subject became more acceptable, gay characters were still represented negatively, as villains or as sad individuals who were slated to die tragically by the end of the film. Television almost completely ignored the representation of gay and lesbian characters until the mid-to-late ¡990s when series like Ellen and Will and Grace began to appear with gay characters as the primary focus. Other shows like Bu›y the Vampire Slayer and Dawson’s Creek incorporated gay or lesbian characters in secondary roles that were integral to the plot of the series. There is a noticeable di›erence in attitudes towards gay and lesbian characters in film in the UK and in the U.S.6 The UK and U.S. versions of the series Queer as Folk are perhaps the best examples of the variation in the representation of the relationship between club culture and gay lifestyles on both sides of the Atlantic. The original UK series, written by Russell T. Davies, consists of eight half-hour episodes that follow the adventures of a group of gay men in Manchester. The American version is set in Pittsburgh, another postindustrial city, and had five successful seasons of one-hour episodes. Although the U.S. series is set in Pittsburgh, it was actually filmed in Toronto, Canada. The men in both series are part of the gay dance club scene in their respective cities and most of the episodes deal with preparing to go to the clubs, going to the clubs, and what happens, after the club closes, with the men they have picked up. However, the club scene as represented in the UK version varies greatly from the U.S. version. Just looking at the opening credits for the two series gives a clear impression of the di›erence in the club atmosphere represented. The UK version has a hazy backgrounds of blurred lights and rather laid-back theme music prominently featuring marimbas.7 The U.S. version has a much more explicitly sexual opening with scantily clad men gyrating to the track “Spunk” by Greek Buck. Although they are not represented as historical dramas, both of these series hearken back to a kind of pre–AIDS lifestyle.8 Clubbing, drug use and casual sex seem to be the focus of the lives of these men although, as the series progress, the search for a lasting relationship becomes more and more important. In both series most of the characters are on the cusp of turning thirty and adjustments 96

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in lifestyle loom on the horizon, but sex, drugs and dance music still play an important part in their recreational activities.9 One of the interesting di›erences between the two streams of club culture fiction is that the ageing of clubbers is a theme that does not appear nearly as often in straight club culture fiction. One may surmise that this is because the straight club scene has not been around as long or it could be that the gay club scene is more focused on dating than its straight counterpart. It is possible that gay men are more likely to continue to date long past the age when most straight men have developed long-term relationships and willingly (or not) dropped out of the club scene.10 For this reason the span of ages visible in gay dance clubs is much broader than in straight clubs. The story arc of the UK series is built around unrequited love. Vince Tyler (Craig Kelly) and Stewart Alan Jones (Aidan Gillan) are close friends who have shared the experience of growing up gay in Manchester. Vince is a quiet, unassuming young man who works as a manager in a grocery store; Stewart is a strong willed, aggressive advertising executive who has always been Vince’s protector. Vince loves Stewart, but Stewart is completely content to live a life of casual sex without attachment, apparently oblivious to Vince’s deep feelings for him. Stewart’s one concession to mortality and the eventual end of his lifestyle is the fathering of a child. He donates sperm to a lesbian couple. The deep philosophical context of the action is, however, completely negated by the fact that on the night his son is born he picks up a schoolboy, Nathan Maloney (Charlie Hunnam), outside a club and takes him home. The irony of this action is not lost on the lesbian couple and they make pointed references to it throughout the first episode of the series. This is Nathan’s first experience with sex and, quite naturally, he falls in love with Stewart, but manages to press his case with more success than Vince. Vince looks on in dismay as the free and easy Stewart has his first serious relationship with a schoolboy rather than with his lifelong friend. The American version of the series follows the same story line for most of the first season with a change in venue from Manchester to Pittsburgh and a change in all of the characters’ names: the handsome male lead, Stewart, is called Brian Kinney (Gale Harold), Vince is called Michael Novotny (Hal Sparks) and Nathan is called Justin Taylor (Randy Harrison). As the American series progresses the characters branch o› from the 97

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basic structure of the UK series and there is more attention devoted to the lesbian couple, Melanie Marcus (Michelle Clunie) and Lindsay Peterson (Thea Gill), who are raising the baby. Both series represent the process of maturation in their primary characters. However, this does not seriously interfere with the club cultural aspects of the two series. Attending clubs, using drugs and participation in a culture that insists upon occasional suspension of a mainstream workethic based lifestyle is integral to the plot of both the U.S. and the UK versions of Queer as Folk. The first episode of the UK series opens outside of the club Babylon (in Manchester) as the club is closing and shows the characters as they pair o› and depart. The boy-next-door character, Vince (played by Craig Kelly), does a short talking-head session against a simple colored backdrop in which he laments the change of Thursday night at Babylon from seventies night to nineties night. It makes him feel old, thus introducing the subtextual theme of ageing that pervades both series. In sharp contrast, the U.S. series opens inside the club Babylon (in Pittsburgh) and the equivalent character (Michael) does a voice-over against the background of the frenetic club full of dancers, laser lights and smoke machines. He positions the club as an integral component of the sexual life of the gay male. This description of dance clubs as a venue for sexual encounters highlights one of the main points of variation in the representation of gay and straight club culture. Although many accounts of club culture insist that a club or rave is a nonsexual experience there are almost as many that claim that raves and dance clubs are hypersexual environments. Whatever the case, the fact that alternate sexuality is integral to club culture is undeniable: Commonly the women indicate modes of sexuality or eroticism which are “blurred” or otherwise di‡cult to define. Statements like “yes, it’s sexual. No it’s not sexual, but orgasmic” are common. And frequently, sexual attraction and erotic pleasure are seen to operate beyond sexual boundaries. In many cases, heterosexuality simply breaks down as a less definable, containable or even understandable formation comes into play [Pini, ¡64].

This aspect of club culture is, perhaps, one of the most frightening to mainstream culture and is one of the primary reasons — right after the 98

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drugs — why legislators and parents reject the idea that club culture should be allowed to flourish in their hometowns. The dance club scene in the UK edition of Queer as Folk is also extremely important, but it seems to be a di›erent sort of club. The first time that an actual scene from a club appears in the UK series is in episode two. Nathan, a fifteen-year-old boy, goes to a Canal Street11 club in search of Stuart, an older man who picked him up outside of the Manchester Babylon a day or two earlier. The club (not Babylon) is quite di›erent than the club represented in the U.S. edition. It is a relatively quiet locale with amateur performers (male and female) hamming it up for their friends. The slick club-life feel of the U.S. series is not present at all. It seems that the series creators are trying to make a distinction between the gay club scene and the mainstream super-club scene in the UK. Moreover, the music in the two series is quite di›erent. In the UK version house and some retro disco dominate the sound track, music that would seem out of place in one of the UK super-clubs. That does not mean that there are no gay super-clubs in the UK; it simply indicates that the focus of the UK version of Queer as Folk is not on that sort of club culture. On the other hand, the club music in the U.S. version has a faster tempo and some mainstream trance hits give the show a slightly more edgy ambience. This is true of non-diegetic music as well as the diagetic tracks that show up in the club scenes. “Sandstorm” by Darude serves as a non-diegetic love theme when Brian meets Justin for the first time; when Justin strides around the corridors of his private school he is accompanied by the strains of Air’s “Sexy Boy.” These examples of club music were quite popular at the time of production in all dance clubs and would not be surprising in either a straight or gay club. The prominence and flavor of scenes actually filmed in clubs varies between the two series as well. The UK version does not actually show a scene inside Babylon until episode three, and when it does, the music, costumes and patrons are neither nearly as energetic nor nearly as attractive as the U.S. version. Nathan and his female school chum slip in with an ID borrowed from a man in his fifties. The man on the door comments ironically upon the age discrepancy (“Birth date ¡946. Looking good, Bernard!”) and then allows the two obviously underage patrons into the club. When they finally enter Babylon, the diegetic house-music gives the 99

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place a nonthreatening air even though Nathan and his friend are obviously somewhat intimidated by the unfamiliar environment. This event highlights the fact that the U.S. version is generally more concerned with moral and ethical issues. The young boy, Nathan, is fifteen in the UK version. His counterpart, Justin, is seventeen. Of course, this two year di›erence in age may have to do with the age of consent in the two countries, but it also has a definite e›ect on how the audience perceives situations that are otherwise identical. In both cases the dangerous nature of the boy’s behavior is mentioned but not emphasized. In both cases he meets and goes home with a man nearly twice his age that he has encountered on the street late at night outside of a club. In the U.S. version the use of condoms in this encounter is emphasized and when the older man o›ers the boy Special K (ketamine) he is treated to an antidrug lecture from the boy. This relatively basic level of overt moralism is not present in the UK version of the show. For example, in episode three of the UK series Stuart and Vince are shown snorting cocaine o› a toilet tank in Babylon. The camaraderie of the UK pub location where the friends meet and discuss things over a relatively quiet pint has been replaced in the U.S. version by a café in which Michael’s mother works. As Michael says in the U.S. version, the club is a focus for sex and it seems that the corollary is that there must be another place for nonsexual companionship and social bonding. In the UK version other nonsexual social bonding aspects of gay life are also covered by club life; there are just di›erent venues for di›erent functions. The U.S. version also has a number of scenes that take place in a quieter club with billiard tables, stage shows and no dancing, but the diner seems to be more important to nonsexual socializing (Queer as Folk: U.S., ¡.7). Another important element of club life covered by these twin series is the use of illegal drugs. Although there is a tradition of “dance drugs” in the straight world — especially in the UK — the origins of the practice are usually ascribed to gay subculture: Mods and northern soul fans may have danced all night on speed, but dancing all night — with the aid not just of speed but a range of stimulants and psychedelics — to a continuous mix of music made with the latest recording technology, has always been the preserve of gay culture [Gilbert and Pearson, 99]. 100

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There are aspects of drug use that are not glossed over in the UK version that tend to get a moral spin in the U.S. version. In both series a character in his thirties goes home with a younger man and takes an unfamiliar drug. In the UK version the man, Phil Delany, dies from snorting heroin by accident; in the U.S. version, Teddy is given GHB rather than heroin (Queer as Folk: U.S., ¡.3). In the UK version the mother of the overdose victim is quite bitter and pointedly asks Vince if he thought that her son would have died in such a fashion if he were straight. She asks if a thirtyfive-year-old man would go home with a strange woman and die from taking heroin with her (Queer as Folk: UK, ¡:4). In this scene, drug use is identified by Phil’s mother as typical of gay lifestyle rather than clubbing in general. A quick look at any of the publications concerning club life in the UK will convince one that drugs are a mainstay of heterosexual as well as gay club life. However, heroin is not generally perceived as a club drug on either side of the Atlantic. Heroin is mentioned briefly in Human Tra‡c when clubbers mock nonclubber’s misconceptions of their drug use. In Irvine Welsh’s short story “The State of the Party” and his novel Glue the use of heroin is represented as completely incompatible with clubbing. On the other hand ecstasy and amphetamines appear with some regularity in both the UK and the U.S. versions of the series. In the U.S. version methamphetamine abuse (crystal meth) is considered important enough that it is given a plot line that lasts for several episodes. Teddy, the U.S. analogue of the UK’s Phil, befriends Blake Wyzecki (Dean Armstrong), the attractive young man who gave him the GHB that caused him to be hospitalized. He tries to maintain a relationship with Blake, but finds that this is impossible because he is, as Teddy’s friend Emmett puts it, “a total crystal queen” (Queer as Folk: U.S., ¡.¡8). In season three, Teddy himself becomes addicted to crystal meth and the problems inherent in abuse of this club drug are documented in further detail. Although they have a moralistic tone, these plotlines, like the death by accidental overdose in the UK edition, accurately reflect some of the pitfalls of club culture in both the straight and gay contexts. The important di›erence between gay club fiction and straight club fiction seems to be the significance that love interests play in the addiction. In Queer as Folk— both versions — drug addiction is connected to dating; people take drugs because of their lovers or they lose their lovers because they take drugs. 101

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Since the U.S. series has had a much longer run time —five seasons comprised of between fourteen and twenty-two one-hour episodes each — it is able to deal with aspects of the lifestyle of the gay club scene that are not covered in the UK series. There are a number of scenes in the U.S. series that establish the club Babylon as not only a place to pick up sexual partners but also as a venue for sexual acts. The “back room” at Babylon in the U.S. version of Queer as Folk and the public toilets are regularly shown full of men having sex. The UK version has its “Shag Tag” game in which strangers are matched up through the use of sticky labels with matching numbers, but the anonymous, spontaneous sex of the American Babylon is not quite the same. The idea of nearly anonymous, on-site sex at dance clubs is also occasionally present in fiction representing the straight club scene, but it is not nearly so pervasive. Almost all clubbers have a story or two about seeing couples having sex in public toilets, but very few admit to being the participants. It is quite possible that since gay dance clubs have evolved from locations for “safe” dating in gay subculture gay dance clubs are more likely to serve as a place for sexual liaisons. The U.S. version of Queer as Folk maintains an up-to-date clubbing focus through the judicious selection of diegetic and non-diegetic music. The non-diegetic music that plays beginning slightly before and while the closing credits roll is of particular interest as it tends to be chosen to sum up the general themes presented in the episode, rather like the couplet at the end of a Shakespearian sonnet. Since the closing music has such an important function contemporary club hits are often selected to increase the impact. Moreover, this final piece of music is usually played in its entirety rather than following the customary practice of cutting the music to fit the credits.12 The use of music in this way is an important signifier of the true club-cultural a‡liation of the series. Music is, after all, a defining feature of club culture and its importance in Queer as Folk is undeniable, especially in the U.S. version of the series. Queer as Folk on both sides of the Atlantic incorporates a major character who is an advertising executive: Stuart in the UK and Brian in the U.S. In the U.S. version of the series advertising’s equivocal relationship to the gay and lesbian market is the subject of a number of plotlines. Brian is important to his firm because he has insight into the gay market share, yet at one point he is fired because of his political stance against an anti102

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gay mayoral candidate. It is often true that in gay and lesbian club culture fiction political statements stray quite far from hedonistic pro-drug and antiestablishment statements outlined in our first chapter. As this story line indicates, Queer as Folk advocates social activism on a more engaged and mainstream level. Although both versions of Queer as Folk are clearly examples of club culture fiction they have strong economic and political motivations that go far beyond other club culture fictions discussed in this book. Marketing experts have obviously seen the advantage of the unexploited market share of gay men and lesbians in the U.S. version of Queer as Folk. In “Prime-Time Television in the Gay Nineties” Ron Becker summarizes this trend: When asked why their companies are targeting gays and lesbians the responses of company spokesmen dramatically illustrate how widely accepted and influential the demographic picture of the gay market has become. C.J. Wray, a marketing vice president, believes “It’s a market that has money.” Virgin Atlantic Airlines’ ad executive asserts, “They’re an audience that we believe will give us a great return on our advertising investment” [Becker, 396].

Unfortunately, this sort of marketing decision is not always the simple equation that the above quotation would seem to indicate. When Queer as Folk first aired on the UK’s Channel 4 it did so under the sponsorship of Beck’s Beer. However, because the first episode of the series included a graphic sex scene between an adult man, Stuart, and a fifteen-year-old boy, Nathan, which prompted considerable backlash from the viewing public, the popular beer producer withdrew their sponsorship immediately after this episode (Billingham, ¡¡¡). When first released on Canadian cable television (Showcase) the commercial breaks in the U.S. version of Queer as Folk had advertisements that were clearly designed to appeal to gay men interested in the dance club scene. There were advertisements for gay male phone sex services, Bacardi Coolers with a very club oriented format, Pride Vision (a Canadian cable channel dedicated to gay and lesbian themes), Sony and HMV music, and Circuit Party CDs.13 Some of the most e›ective advertisements are for condoms showing two men on a saddled horse with a message discouraging “bareback riding,” slang for unprotected anal sex. 103

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The audience demographic for the U.S. version of Queer as Folk surprised many media analysts because of the number of straight young women who watched the show. It resulted in a distinct shift in the type of advertising that appeared during the episodes, as women-oriented products began to show up as well. Internet discussion groups abound with female commentary on the “hot men” who star in the series and many of these women also demonstrate an interest in the music and club scenes that are pivotal to the show. This phenomenon demonstrates an aspect of the open attitudes towards sexuality that have accompanied club culture as well as the potential for a crossover market between gay and straight club fiction. Unlike the sexual liberation of the ¡960s,14 which did not include the mixing of gay and straight culture, contemporary club culture has developed a much more open and accepting attitude towards intermingling of gay and straight subcultures. Venues like the Paradise Garage and the Warehouse opened up the idea of “mixed clubs” that catered to both gay and straight patrons and this pattern continues today even though there are more conservative elements obvious in some of the literature, film and television that are the subject of this chapter.

Groove The American film Groove is set in an illegal rave held in an abandoned warehouse in San Francisco. The characters are primarily straight, but the central characters include one homosexual couple, Neil ( Je› Witzke) and Joe (Aaron Langridge), and one bisexual character. The bisexual Anthony Mitchell (Vincent Riverside) is represented as predatory, disruptive and unworthy of the PLUR (Peace Love Unity and Respect) ethic of the club culture movement that seems to be the dominant characteristic of most of the other characters in the film. The gay couple provide comic relief as they wander from place to place looking for, but never quite finding, the rave. Although Groove is innovative and quite liberal in its representation of club culture and drug use, it is extremely conservative in its representation of alternate sexuality. In fact, Groove falls in line with the patterns of gay clichés that were common in films in the ¡950s and ¡960s. This relatively conservative point of view is rather disappointing for a film set in San Francisco in the ¡990s. 104

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The plot of Groove follows the induction of a neophyte into club culture. A young man, David Turner (Hamish Linklater), who works at a boring job writing manuals for the software industry, is convinced by his brother Colin (Denny Kirkwood) to deviate from his normally conservative lifestyle and join his brother at a rave and to try ecstasy for the first time. Colin is intending to propose marriage to his girlfriend, Harmony Stitts (Mackenzie Firgens), at the rave and he wants his brother to attend as well to celebrate the occasion. While nervously sitting in the chill-out room15 waiting for the ecstasy to take e›ect David encounters Leyla Heydel (Lola Glaudini), who guides him through the drug experience and the social rituals of the rave experience. The attraction that develops between the two is rather clichéd and constantly reemphasized by camera angles and plot structures reminiscent of standard Hollywood love stories. In contrast to the budding relationship between David and Layla, the long-term relationship between Neil and Joe provides a running gag. Neil and Joe want to attend the rave to celebrate their first anniversary as a couple. They feel that this is important because the headlining DJ, John Digweed, was also featured on the night they met. Scenes filmed inside the rave venue are crosscut with scenes showing Joe and Neil driving around the abandoned streets while squabbling. Although one might argue that this is a fairly accurate reflection of long-term relationships in general, it is slightly disturbing that the only couple represented in Groove with this particular problem is gay. Although Harmony and Colin, the only other long-term relationship represented in Groove, have problems of their own, their di‡culties are not played for laughs. Moreover, the gay couple never actually make it to the rave. They drive around San Francisco all night trying to find the rave and in the end they just drive to the beach and play a tape on the car stereo. Although their domestic harmony is restored, this is a de facto exclusion of the gay element from the rave as well as playing on the long tradition of film using gay characters for comic relief. The slightly negative representation of the gay couple mentioned above is reinforced by the plot function of Anthony, the bisexual character. He is represented as mildly physically unattractive and he sports a rather dangerous looking tattoo on his neck. Although tattoos are a prominent feature in rave culture and in certain gay circles, the positioning of 105

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the tattoo on his neck is more appropriate to gang culture. At the beginning of the rave Anthony is shown soliciting attractive females for a free massage booth that he is running in the back. When a woman takes him up on his o›er he makes her uncomfortable by constantly massaging her buttocks. He tells her that she would not be tense if she were more a e›ective yoga practitioner, while it is clear to all she is tense because Anthony is making inappropriate sexual advances. Later Anthony comes upon Colin, who is very stoned and su›ering from anxiety; Anthony takes advantage of Colin’s distraught state to initiate a necking session. In a rather ponderous plot development, Colin’s fiancée, Harmony, stumbles upon Anthony and Colin, sees the infidelity, and is very flustered. Colin is also very distraught and breaks away from Anthony’s embrace. The heterosexual couple reconcile and celebrate the fact by having sex in an empty room. When Anthony approaches Colin at the end of the rave to get his phone number, Colin awkwardly indicates that he is not “that way” and Anthony responds, “Neither am I.” Although Anthony is not a murderer or a violent criminal, in the context of club culture fiction, his actions are reprehensible. His predatory sexual behavior is presented as completely incompatible with the social mores of club culture as they are defined in Groove. The moral structure of club culture in Groove is quite close to that of mainstream America; fidelity and long-term relationships and welldefined sexual orientations are privileged in this film. On one level, the representation of same-sex relationships is reasonably positive in Groove; however it is clear that the heterosexual relationship is the narrative center of this work of club culture fiction. It is possible to symbolically interpret the fact that the gay couple never actually make it to the party, and the predatory actions of Anthony also put a negative spin on the function of alternative sexuality in the context of the club culture movement. This is further complicated by the impression that the happily engaged Colin moves towards sexual experimentation with another man only while extremely stoned — not that this is a completely novel theme in the literature and film of club culture, but the negative outcome of his experimentation is not consistent with the bulk of the texts that represent this sort of interaction. In this brief discussion of one aspect of Groove it might be easy to forget the positive representation of club culture that dominates the film. 106

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Apart from its rather conservative take on sexual relations, Groove is a good representation of the ethical positions of a certain kind of club culture. It represents an altruistic desire to provide others with a safe and enjoyable venue for their club cultural pleasures. The general atmosphere of the rave is positive and there are few indications that club culture is harmful to its participants.

Ecstasy Club As mentioned above, the notion that drugs can have a liberating e›ect upon sexual orientation is a consistent aspect of much club culture fiction. The sexual relationships that are developed in Douglas Rushko› ’s novel Ecstasy Club are as interesting as the representation of the underlying economic and political concepts of club culture discussed in chapter one. The first person narrator, Zach, is infatuated with Lauren, who is the girlfriend of Duncan, the collective’s leader. Although Zach does not consider himself to be bisexual, in one scene of the novel he performs oral sex on Duncan to keep him from taking Lauren away while she is doing the same to him. The scene is carefully constructed so that it is clear that drugs are responsible for Zach’s walk on the wild side: She [a woman named Naomie] started making the orgasm sound from her CD, as if to seduce us all into a sex trance. Between that, the pot, the NO2, and the music, our giddy mood transformed itself into something entirely more erotic [Rushko›, ¡¡2].

When Zach describes this incident to a drag queen a few days later the response is a reassuring a‡rmation of his own perception of his sexuality: “You’re in love, dear Zach,” she said. “You’re in love and it’s one of the most beautiful things in all of this world. The fact that you would suck another man’s dick just to be with her [Lauren] moves me so” [Rushko›, ¡¡7].

Despite this somewhat ironic heterosexual spin on these events, it is clear that Zach has a very complex emotional relationship with Duncan. Moreover, Duncan is shown to use his sexuality as a tool to develop dominance over the rest of the group; in this context Zach’s actions were a sort of submission ritual to his leader. The rave collective in Rushko› ’s novel holds raves and parties in the 107

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abandoned piano factory in which they squat. These parties have di›erent themes that often are not really part of the collective’s own aesthetic. For example, they have Goth nights and gay nights. The music and décor is tailored to the client audience; on gay nights the music is “seventies disco with some good Detroit garage” (Rushko›, ¡¡6). Rushko› ’s representation of the rave collective is not of a dominant aesthetic movement but rather of a new-age political movement that attempts to use San Francisco’s alternative music subcultures as an economic substrata for their own ends. This attitude is reflected in Zach’s individual approach to the gay men. He tries to give the impression that he is bisexual when talking to gay men who help out with some of the parties. The fact that he has exhibited bisexual behavior with his leader does not seem to be a factor in Zach’s belief that he is simply taking on the appearance of his clients. There is a general sense that the rave collective represented in Rushko› ’s novel approaches other subcultures in a chameleon-like fashion; they change their external characteristics in order to attract patrons to support their own agenda. Although this may seem to have the same e›ect as the inclusiveness that is an essential component of club culture myths, Rushko› represents it as essentially di›erent because of its selfish motivation. This is in keeping with Rushko› ’s jaded approach to club culture; he does not lament for the purity of motivation of the “old days,” he simply represents a rave culture that is flawed from the beginning. Ecstasy Club is a novel that attempts to come to grips with the essentially diverse nature of club culture. It presents the club cultural environment in San Francisco as a mosaic comprised of numerous musical and social subgroups ranging from Goth to gay with only a tenuous communal interest in late-night dancing and drug use holding them together. In Rushko› ’s image of club culture in this particular time and place there is no true unification of gay and straight club culture.

Tinsel Town The BBC Scotland series Tinsel Town (2000–200¡), directed by Stuart Davids and written by Ed and Martin McCardie, lasted two seasons and consisted of ten forty-five-minute episodes in 200¡ and ten thirtyminute episodes in 2002. The plot revolves around the lives of a number 108

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of young people who go to the fictional Tinsel Town club in Glasgow. The series is included in this chapter because a major portion of the plot deals with gay love relationships. The Tinsel Town club is owned by a transvestite named Stella ( Jim Twaddale) and the club has a reputation as being friendly to both homosexual and heterosexual patrons. The story line is gritty and quite realistic; drug use, violence and sexual activity are all depicted in a forthright manner, with very little overt moralism. Although the show is not directed at an exclusively gay audience, the representation of gay characters is very positive. Stella is an avuncular transvestite who counsels and assists his employees through advice and direct action when necessary. One of the major plotlines follows his e›orts to protect a female DJ, Lex (Kate Dickie), from her abusive ex-lover. Stella confesses to Lex that before he realized he was gay he too was an abusive husband and now feels that he must atone for his misdeeds by helping people like Lex. Although the representation of Stella’s character borders on the melodramatic, he is nevertheless a very positive gay character with a major influence on the plot. This is in significant contrast to the rather more negative representation of alternative sexuality in the film Groove, despite the fact that both Tinsel Town and Groove represent a form of club culture that does not have definite boundaries between gay and straight clubbing environments. It is consistent with the di›erence between the portrayal of gay characters in UK mainstream film and U.S. mainstream film. Stella is a positive role model in a rather didactic fashion and if he provides any humor to the plot it is only because of his habit of having serious discussions while putting on makeup and a formal gown. Another major plotline in Tinsel Town follows the love a›air between a police constable, Lewis Reid, who is in his mid to late thirties and, Ryan Taylor, a seventeen-year-old schoolboy. Lewis is played by Stevie Allen and Ryan is played by David Paisley, a relatively popular openly gay actor. This a›air is handled by the older participant in a more responsible fashion than the parallel a›air in either the U.S. or the UK Queer as Folk. When PC Lewis discovers that he has slept with someone who is still in school he reacts with horror and attempts to end the a›air. As in Queer as Folk the younger man is the pursuant. The constable’s ethical dilemma is based upon the age of his lover and the fact that he feels that his job makes it impossible to “come out.” In both the U.S. and the UK versions of Queer 109

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as Folk the older man deliberately picks up a very young man just for the thrill and then drives him to school the morning after their first encounter and rather crudely “outs” him to his schoolmates. Queer as Folk, U.S. and UK versions, indicate that the older man is initially interested in casual sex and only later develops a romantic interest in the boy. This may also be the case in Tinsel Town, but the magnitude of the situation is enhanced by Lewis’s position of responsibility in the community. His responsible actions are in sharp contrast to the negative representation of gay men in intergenerational relationships common in mainstream fiction. Tinsel Town is structured to show the relationship between the gay and straight community in Glasgow through the medium of a club that has no overt sexual imperatives. On the other hand, both versions of Queer as Folk focus on a gay community that has only limited contact with the straight world. The scenes inside the Tinsel Town club represent a homogeneous mix of gay and straight patrons. The distinction between the two groups is not clearly demarcated and the writers have some fun with the idea that this might result in some confusion. When we first see Lewis at Tinsel Town he is sitting at the bar having a drink by himself. A woman about his own age comes up to him and tries to pick him up. As he is politely trying to extricate himself from the situation Ryan, the young man who will become his lover, brushes past and a significant glance is exchanged along with an apology. Lewis claims to be married in order to ditch the persistent woman but this just encourages her as she is also married. Ryan comes back and rescues Lewis by asking him for a dance. At first the older woman thinks she is being asked, but she soon catches on to the real situation. As Ryan and Lewis are dancing their conversation leads to a kiss and they eventually go home together. The scene is treated lightly and there is no sense that the mistake about sexual orientation is an extremely awkward situation. The fact that two men are kissing each other on the dance floor is also represented as a normal part of this club’s environment. Although humor is derived from the gay/straight contrast in this scene it is clear that the straight woman is the butt of the joke rather than the gay men. This is a refreshing contrast in perspective to the traditional use of humor to mock gay and e›eminate characters in mainstream film and television. Tinsel Town represents relatively open use of drugs in the club as well 110

4 • It’s Raining Men

as heterosexual sexual encounters in the toilets. Most patrons seem to be using ecstasy and the cinematography is designed to accurately reflect the ecstasy experience. In this series ecstasy is often represented as an incentive to sexual activity. There are also numerous scenes in which the characters smoke pot and snort cocaine or amphetamines. Except for the police constable, illegal drugs seem to be a normal part of these characters’ lives, showing up both inside and outside of the club. It is interesting to note that the gay characters in Tinsel Town are more abstemious with regard to drugs than the straight patrons. This is not consistent with most representations of the relative frequency of drug use among straight and gay members of club culture. The music used in the soundtrack of Tinsel Town is authentic popular dance music by artists like Leftfield and Underworld, most of which is recognizable to an audience familiar with the UK clubbing scene at the time this series was filmed. Unlike the UK version of Queer as Folk, the music in Tinsel Town is not predominantly house music of the sort found in gay dance clubs. This fits in with the representation of the club as a venue frequented by patrons of all sexual preferences and further serves to seamlessly integrate the gay and straight club world. Although Tinsel Town tends towards melodramatic plot structures and simple presentation of characters, its depiction of the interaction between gay and straight communities within UK club culture is more evenhanded than many works of fiction with higher artistic values. The series is closer to the original sense of inclusiveness that is promoted by memoirs, descriptions and fiction about the foundations of UK rave and club culture. The fracturing of the subculture into divers specialized subgroups of race, sexual preference, age, musical taste, and socioeconomic status is not important to Tinsel Town and for this reason one might consider the series as closer in spirit to its origins in rave culture than some of the other television, film and literature discussed in this book.

Shameless Paul Burston’s 200¡ novel Shameless is focused on the life of a thirtysomething gay man in London. The narrative follows Martin, his friends and his lovers on their nightly excursions through London’s gay club scene. 111

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Much of the attraction of the novel is based on Martin’s wry observations about the gay club scene as he transforms — Bildungsroman fashion — from a relatively conservative person to an active member of London’s gay cub culture, at home in the environment of drugs and sex and late night dancing. Although Shameless is a work of fiction, Burston does not shy away from providing explicit commentary on a number of London’s more famous gay clubs. Early in the novel, before he has truly embraced gay club culture, Martin rather disparagingly describes the club “Trade” as follows: The music was too hard and he could never see the attraction of clubs where everyone was o› their face on drugs. If you needed to fry your brain with Ecstasy in order to have a good time, then surely there must be something missing somewhere [Burston, 7].

The gay clubs Trade and Heaven in London were two important venues for the introduction of club culture into the UK. Burston’s description of Heaven in Shameless traces its development from a relatively exclusive gay venue to a club popular to the general public as well. Burston’s narrator, Martin, also comments on the change in drug use at the club: “Back in the days when he used to hang around at Heaven ... the only drugs you saw were poppers.16 Now everyone was on E” (Burston, 35). Burston’s novel highlights the contradictory tendency of bodybuilding combined with excessive drug use in the gay club scene. He comments that bodybuilding has become fashionable since the AIDS crisis because gay men want to look healthy (uninfected) and to be fit just in case they have to fight o› the ravages of a wasting disease (Burston, 36). This fashion in physical culture is also prominently displayed in the American version of Queer as Folk— gay men meet at the gym and discuss friends, relationships and work. Curiously, this concern for physical fitness is not a part of the UK version of Queer as Folk or of the gay characters in Tinsel Town. The use of multiple drugs by otherwise conservative men seems to be contradictory in a culture that places a high value on fitness. However, the drugs that are selected have a limited e›ect on the physical health of the user although they can be quite psychologically damaging. Poppers, ecstasy, cocaine and ketamine are the drugs of choice represented in gay club culture fiction. The e›ect of poppers is brief and does not damage 112

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people who have a healthy cardiovascular system; ecstasy is a physical stimulant, but is considered relatively safe if one takes care to keep hydrated; and, aside from its stimulant e›ects, cocaine has the added advantage of being an appetite suppressant. These drugs are more or less the same as those that appear in club literature that focuses on heterosexual audiences. However, the similarity between the two streams of club culture is not complete. There seems to be no corresponding movement towards bodybuilding in the straight club world. In both subcultures men are represented as dancing with their shirts o›, but in the fiction of gay club culture the ideal of massive chest muscles (disco tits) is important as a sexual attractant. In straight club fiction, dancing shirtless is usually represented as a side e›ect of overheating caused by trance dancing and ecstasy. Burston’s novel also deals with other aspects of the separation between gay and straight dance cultures. Although contemporary gay clubs are often frequented by straight clubbers, there is a tradition of exclusion of women that is mentioned several times: He could still remember the first time that he took Caroline to a gay bar — the Brief Encounter on St. Martin’s Lane. Some old queen in a tuxedo who had stopped o› for a quick drink on his way to The Coliseum announced very loudly that he could smell fish in the room and it was making him feel sick. Martin had felt sick too, not to mention angry that another gay man could even think like that, let alone talk like it [55].

This is rather di›erent than the tightly integrated gay/straight scene that is presented in Tinsel Town. Perhaps this is due to the di›erence in the target audiences of the two works or the distinctly didactic component of Tinsel Town. Whatever the case, the exclusion of women in Shameless presents gay dance club culture as less than welcoming to women and heterosexual men.

CONCLUSION The history of club culture is rife with the names of influential clubs that defined styles in music, drugs, clothing and social behavior and a large number of these clubs were gay or “gay friendly” dance clubs. For example, the style of music popular in Chicago’s The Warehouse — home 113

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of the ground-breaking DJ Frankie Knuckles — resulted in the name House Music, and the term Garage Music comes from Larry Levan’s New York club The Paradise Garage (Bidder, vii). The debt that club culture owes to gay dance club culture is undeniable, but it is also clear that there are some points of variation. The major di›erence between gay club culture fiction as represented in this chapter and the club culture fiction in the rest of this book is that gay clubs seem to be viewed as places to meet potential sexual partners. Gay clubs developed as a venue where gay men and women could come together in a relatively safe environment, protected from harsh social and legal consequences of expressing their sexual preferences in mainstream clubs and bars. The gay and lesbian subcultures flourished in the protected environment of gay clubs, and common tastes in music, dress and social rituals developed. In the environment of an exclusively gay club men and women could freely approach each other without fear of rejection on the grounds of sexual preference. When club culture began to develop in the UK and North America it borrowed from the already highly developed subculture of gay clubs for many of its musical tastes, fashions in drugs and, to a lesser extent, clothing. However, in heterosexual dance clubs, the focus on dating was much less important; after all, there are a lot of other venues available for straight couples to meet. Although it is impossible to assert that club culture does not have a highly sexualized component it is also true that the sexual aspects of heterosexual club culture are hardly ever so overtly displayed as in fiction focused on the gay club scene. There are, of course, certain exceptions to the general tendency for straight club culture fiction and nonfiction’s relatively low key approach to sexuality. In the UK there are a series of television specials set in Ibiza that purport to show the rest of the world the naughty things that young vacationers get up to in the clubs of “the white isle.”17 As Burston phrases it: “[T]hose ‘Ibiza uncovered’ type programmes, with lots of sex crazed straight people on holiday, behaving the way most gay men behaved every week of the year” (3¡). As well as nonfiction there are vacation novels, films and television series that cater to an audience interested in tales of drugs and sex and late-night dancing.

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5

Drugs, Sex and Disco Dancing Club fiction has a strong underlying theme of drug use that has led some critics of the culture to assume that it is nothing more than a later incarnation of the hippy drug culture of the ¡960s. There are, naturally, a number of similarities between the two movements, considering the fact that some of the people who were young members of the counterculture of ¡960s and ¡970s were instrumental in the development of club culture. Bill Drummond,1 Terrence McKenna2 and Nicholas Saunders3 are prime examples of this phenomenon. However, it is also clear that, like the hippie movement, only an outsider would mistake the secondary phenomenon of drug use for the primary impetus for the culture; drugs were integral to both countercultures, but were not the sole reason for their political and social manifestations. Of course subcultures which incorporated the use of drugs have existed from time immemorial, and they have had a significant e›ect on the arts. The French impressionist painters were reported to indulge in absinthe and hashish and Romantic writers Coleridge and De Quincy were not secretive about their use of opium.

CLUB DRUGS Ecstasy The club drug that was instrumental in the development of the phenomenon of club culture as defined in this book is MDMA, or ecstasy. It is know by a host of variant names, depending mostly upon location and 115

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time frame. The pills themselves are usually produced in illegal factories and batches are imprinted with logos that are used to identify the quality and strength. Therefore, ecstasy, although generically referenced by terms like e, x, or eccies, is also identified by the shape of the pills or the logo printed on it. Sarah Champion’s short story collection Disco Biscuits includes the following list on the flyleaf: Doves, Playboys, Dollars, Apples, Swans, White Burgers, Brown Burgers ... Dennis the Menaces, Rhubarb & Custards, White Callies, Pink Flamingos, Snowballs, Kinder Eggs, Energizers, Hammer and Sickles, Disco Biscuits....

Ecstasy is an interesting variant upon the psychoactive chemicals favored by the preceding generation of youth culture. It is a mildly hallucinogenic amphetamine that not only enables the user to “dance all night,” but also engenders a sense of empathy and well being that is often described as being “loved-up.” This is not to say that the ecstasy user is exceptionally sexually active; in fact the drug seems to decrease sexual aggression in males. In some ways, it may be said to promote an experience more like the Christian concept of agape in which love for everyone supersedes love for an individual. However, unlike agape, there is a strong physical overtone to the experience in which touching, stroking and cuddling replace more overt forms of sexual activity. Two of the most active promoters of ecstasy as a positive influence are the chemist Alexander Shulgin and the counterculture author Nicholas Saunders. Shulgin was a research chemist for Dow Chemical who used his freedom to research to develop or test a large number of psychoactive chemicals. Ecstasy (MDMA) was originally patented in ¡9¡2 by Merck, but it was not widely used until much later. In the ¡950s the U.S. Army did some inconclusive animal testing and in ¡965 Shulgin made MDMA and tested it on himself. He was not particularly impressed with it but later read other reports on the drug and tried it again. He introduced it to a psychotherapist who was so happy with the e›ect that he began to use it in his practice. It became quite popular in Texas between ¡977 and ¡985 before it was outlawed. The fact that MDMA was used for both therapy and recreation was probably the reason that it was outlawed. Psychotherapists liked the drug for its empathy enhancing characteristics,4 and the fact that it was used to help heal psychological damage only added to the mythological properties that are integral to club culture’s concep116

5 • Drugs, Sex and Disco Dancing

tion of drugs as a positive influence. One of the most remarkable aspects of club culture is the way that it has completely rejected the element of shame that was the earmark of may earlier drug cultures. Club culture Web sites like hyperreal.org and organizations like Dancesafe publish chemical analyses of popular ecstasy pills and provide a forum for clubbers to publish their personal accounts of drug experiences. Most of these accounts are sadly lacking in literary quality, but they demonstrate the pervasive attitudes toward drug use that are inherent in club culture. Nicholas Saunders published three books in praise of ecstasy entitled E for Ecstasy (¡993), Ecstasy and the Dance Culture (¡995) and Ecstasy: Dance, Trance and Transformation, with Rick Doblin (¡996). The books are an interesting mélange of historical material, factual and statistical studies of drug use, and — in what appears to be filler — personal accounts of drug experiences that seem to have been randomly selected. They are published by a number of small independent presses and also released on the Internet — samizdat fashion — in much the same manner as Hakim Bey’s works. Shulgin and his wife’s (Anne) personal and technical account of his experiments with psychoactive chemicals is published under the title PIHKAL (Phenethylamines I Have Known and Loved): A Chemical Love Story (¡99¡). The book includes extensive technical descriptions on how to make ecstasy and other drugs. It is published by a small press and the technical sections concerning the synthesis of drugs are published on the Internet. Saunders and Shulgin are treated like patron saints by club culture for their advocacy of drug use. Ecstasy was first adopted as a dance drug by gay club culture in New York and from there it made its way to the UK by way of Ibiza. An interesting side note is the rumor that followers of a popular Indian guru were said to use ecstasy as a way to enlightenment.5 The use of ecstasy in a religious context is still a persistent myth in club culture and enhances the idea that it is a drug with positive spiritual e›ects.

Speed There are a number of other drugs that are considered by club culture to be “dance” drugs. Amphetamines have a long tradition in the UK stemming from their use by the Mods and Northern Soul subcultures. However, UK amphetamine use is usually rather di›erent than North 117

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American usage. In North America the amphetamine of choice is crystal meth or methamphetamine. It has traditionally been a drug produced and used by motorcycle gangs and popular among lower social classes, but it has been gaining in popularity among club culture because of its e›ectiveness as a stimulant. One of the most popular North American electronic music groups goes by the name the Crystal Method, and in case the audience did not get the allusion, one of their most popular compact discs is titled Tweekend. (The slang term for being high on crystal meth is to be tweeked or tweeked out.) Crystal meth has not been very popular in the UK, so much so that the dance culture magazine Mixmag (May 2002, 39) ran a short article summarizing a BBC documentary on crystal meth which described its properties and mentioned that it came to the UK from Southeast Asia.6

Ketamine Ketamine is another drug that has substantial popularity in rave and club culture. Originally developed as a battlefield anesthetic during the Vietnam War, its use on humans was discontinued when it was discovered that it had psychedelic side e›ects. Outside of the club world ketamine is only used in veterinary applications; apparently animals do not complain about the hallucinations. The drug induces a disassociative state in which the body and mind feel unconnected and there is a concomitant sense of euphoria. Ketamine seems to be more popular in club literature about gay clubbing where there are often extensive descriptions of the e›ects of “Special K.” In Paul Burston’s novel Shameless the narrator is given ketamine for the first time while in the toilet of a dance club. His musings on the subject last for about four pages: The wonderful world of K... He had lost all concept of time from the moment the powder had shot up his nose, so he wasn’t sure exactly when it had started, but something very peculiar was happening.... He could even visualize it, could actually see the process by which layers and layers of half realized thoughts and disconnected ideas were physically unfolding and changing shape, before regrouping into a new and unfamiliar pattern which, however strange it seemed at first, nevertheless made complete sense [¡49].

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Ketamine, LSD, marijuana and GHB are psychedelics that tend to go against the general trend of dance drugs like ecstasy, amphetamines and cocaine in that they do not particularly promote all-night dancing. The psychedelics are more conducive to contemplative activities and this is reflected in the literature. Characters who indulge in psychedelics tend to gravitate to chill-out rooms and listen to dub and ambient music. In fact, one of the major causes for the divisions in club culture may be di›erent tastes in drugs.

GHB GHB (gamma hydroxybutyrate) is another puzzling club drug. Its e›ects are quite similar to alcohol, but it is very easy to overdose and pass out while using GHB. It is also used as a dietary supplement by bodybuilders and this may be how it came into the gay dance club scene. From there it would logically progress to the rest of the club culture. GHB is a powder that is dissolved in water, which makes a colorless, slightly salty solution. The fact that it is, therefore, much easier to disguise than alcohol may make it attractive to underage clubbers. Because GHB is so easy to disguise it has had a lot of exposure in the popular press as a “date rape drug,” that is, a drug that when ingested by a woman without her knowledge, could lead to sexual exploitation. Use of GHB in this manner is almost completely unknown in club fiction.7

THE HISTORY

OF

DANCE DRUGS

Club culture in the UK developed from a number of sources, Mods and Rockers, Punk, Northern Soul, gay club culture and Ibiza tourist culture, to name just a few. All of these subcultural entities had some relationship to drug culture and each had their own preferred intoxicants. When club culture—as it is described in this book—began to develop, a new term came into being: the dance drug. These were, for the most part, stimulants that allowed participants to enjoy a whole night of dance without noticing the inevitable e›ects of fatigue. Northern Soul fans and the Mods were famous for their use of amphetamines to allow dancing all night: 119

Dance, Drugs and Escape The Mods had grown out of a split in the late fifties between trad jazz fans (who were mainly middle class) and the modernists who favoured the modern jazz of Charles Mingus and the existentialist philosophies of Jean-Paul Sartre. Their initial constituency was Jewish, East-End and working class. As the cult spread from its arty origins, the mods became known for an obsessive attention for fashion and a predilection for necking amphetamines. They also loved dancing to Jamaican and black American records [Brewster and Broughton, 66].

In London and Manchester in the ¡960s Mods were the dominant precursor to club culture. They listened to recorded music and danced all night on drugs. Quadrophenia— appearing first as an album in ¡973 and then as a film directed by Franc Roddam in ¡979 — was The Who’s epic tribute to Mod culture. The film represented the downfall of a young man, Jimmie Cooper (Phil Daniels), through a combination of amphetamine use and teenage angst. The fact that Quadrophenia has a negative representation of drug use highlights one of the most puzzling aspects — to outside observers — of the club culture phenomenon: its generally positive outlook on the use of drugs. Club culture and its literature abound with references to the improvements in society and in the lives of individuals that are the result of the use of drugs. For example, in the UK the idea that the increasing popularity of the drug ecstasy was the downfall of soccer hooliganism is so prevalent that one can find references to the theory in both academic and fictional works on club culture.8 Nevertheless, club fiction also has a considerable representation of the more conventional attitude that drugs are not a positive influence. In fact, in club fiction there tend to be finer degrees of shading in the representation of drug use than one finds in mainstream fiction. To clubbers certain drugs are bad and others are good; moreover, in club fiction the degree of drug use is also a determining factor. A clubber who uses a drug once or twice a month will be represented as a positive figure, while addictive behavior is usually frowned upon.

CLUB CULTURE

AND

SHAMANISM

One of the determining factors in the positive or negative representation of drug use in club literature is the influence of neo-tribalism or 120

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shamanism on club culture. Worldwide interest in the traditions of shamanism have combined with neo-tribalism to provide a renewed interest in the positive aspects of various traditional aboriginal cultures’ drug use. It is fair to say that to many outsiders, and a large number of insiders, club culture is a drug culture and interest in some sort of historical connection to drugs as a path to spirituality is simply a moral justification for hedonist behavior. The writing of Terrence McKenna is so popular among participants in club culture that he was asked to provide a narrative voice-over on “Re : Evolution,” a dreamy chill-out track by the Shamen. 9 In this combination music and drug manifesto McKenna espouses his theory that drug use by shamans, both ancient and modern, will give rise to a new phase in human evolution. McKenna’s theories fit in well with the new-age linking of traditional aboriginal and native practices and science fiction theories that link environmentalism and the use of hallucinogenic drugs: The suppression of the natural human fascination with altered states of consciousness and the present perilous situation of all life on earth are intimately and causally connected. When we suppress access to shamanic ecstasy, we close o› the refreshing waters of emotion that flow from having a deeply bonded, almost symbiotic relationship to the earth. As a consequence, the maladaptive social styles that encourage overpopulation, resource mismanagement, and environmental toxification develop and maintain themselves [McKenna, Food of the Gods, xix].

The notions of drug use and a return to tribal forms of society are very popular with participants in club culture. A common image found in the primary subculture expressions of club culture and the secondary phenomenon of club fiction is the metaphor of the DJ as a shaman. The DJ is seen as leading the participants in a search for spirituality through ritual dance and drug use. This is foregrounded by the fact that people at raves and many clubs do not usually dance in couples as in earlier dance cultures in industrialized countries; they instead tend to face the DJ or the speakers. A good rave or club DJ controls the emotions of the crowd, bringing them up to an ecstatic frenzy and down to a cool, rather contemplative state through judicious selection of music. This is comparable to the control that the shaman has at tribal rituals. Neo-tribalism has had a great e›ect on fashion and music styles in club culture. Of course, many 121

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of these trends are directly descended from innovations in hippie culture in the ¡960s. Terence McKenna himself was born in ¡946 and was as much a part of hippie culture as he is a new-age saint for clubbers. Piercing, tattoos and dreadlocks are common in North American new-age ravers. In the UK the new-age “travelers” seized upon rave culture and formed collectives like the Spiral Tribe, a collective of DJs and supporters who owned a portable sound system and operated under collectivist principles. These groups traveled about the countryside living in tents and caravans, throwing impromptu parties with a minimal entrance fee that covered the cost of the event. This branch of club culture shows up in literature in Martin Millar’s witty short story “How Sunshine Star-Traveller Lost his Girlfriend” and Ian Banks’ novel Whit and in some sections of the film It’s All Gone Pete Tong. These club fictions represent the neo-tribalist cultural attitudes toward drug use and their connection to club culture.

“How Sunshine Star-Traveller Lost His Girlfriend” In Millar’s story the title character is a DJ who is performing at a makeshift club in Brixton called Cool Tan: It’s packed, with a lot of dancers, and thundering trance shaking the crumbling old walls, and lasers picking up the dust and the smoke, illuminating the heads of the crowd, and reflecting o› the silver bangles in their dreadlocks, and the rings in their ears and noses and lips, and even their tongues, if they open their mouths at the right time [Millar, 83].

Neo-tribal body modification and decoration set the scene and present the reader familiar with this branch of club culture with clear indicators of the social parameters of the story. Sunshine Star-Traveller’s assistant, Gus, and his girlfriend, Azrobel, are presented as typical of this “scene” as well: “...the two main planks of Gus and Azrobel’s relationship are an astonishing capacity for drugs, and never having any money at all...”(83). Millar’s story contrasts the new-age moral paradigms of the characters with their rather conventional social behavior: jealousy, infidelity and irresponsibility. Sunshine Star-Traveller uses his new-age philosophies and his position as an entertainer (DJ) to further his sexual purposes with women attending the events. His girlfriend, Starlight, is aware of this and accuses, “I know you told Tulip you once made love beside a pyramid in ancient 122

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Egypt in a previous incarnation” (83). Sunshine Star-Traveller loses his girlfriend when she catches him having sex with another woman at the club. The slapstick humor of the story pivots around the intoxicated antics of Gus and Azrobel as Gus attempts to take over the duties of DJ while “Sunny” is o› having sex in the ladies toilet: Gus ... dropped his spli› on the record, causing a huge lump of burning ash to send the needle skittering wildly over the record, and making a really terrible noise.... “This acid is really kicking in,” says Azrobel, stumbling to her feet. “I just saw the record smoking a joint. I’m going outside for some fresh air” [88].

As the audience becomes more irritated with Gus’s abysmal performance as a DJ he begins to fear for his life and comments that he no longer believes that ecstasy always puts “you in a good mood.” Millar’s story is typical of much of the secondary artistic phenomena of club culture. It assumes knowledge of a certain aspect of the culture — in this case neo-tribalist/new-age pseudo-spiritualism and drug use — and parodies it for the insider audience. Much of the humor is dependent upon the intended audience’s familiarity with the scene, and the market for the fiction is therefore limited to the initiates of club culture.

Whit Ian Banks’ comic novel Whit tells the tale of a young girl, Isis, who is raised on a religious commune in Scotland. The novel provides delightful and humorous insights into the countercultures of the UK in the ¡990s: as Isis travels about the UK in search of a long-lost relative she comes in contact with everything from Rastafarians to skinheads. Because Isis has been raised in a nonconventional environment of a new-age religious compound she provides a naive perspective on contemporary UK society that is ideal for social satire. In one section of the novel Isis falls in with a group of new-age travelers and spends some time in their squat. The group living in the squat make some money from selling hashish and Isis has her first experience with the drug while there: “Hey Isis, child; you want to try the holy Ganja instead?” (¡39). The terminology is significant, as cannabis is referenced by the Rastafarian term “ganja” and the ostensibly spiritual e›ect is Isis’ goal rather than simple recreational indulgence. 123

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Banks includes a scene in which Isis is traveling with a group of youths who are on the way to what appears to be the famous Glastonbury festival. Again, their clothing and other indicators present the youths as new-age travelers: She was dressed like the others, in layers of holed, ragged but colourful clothes; she wore sensible-looking boots that had obviously seen a few fields in their time. The six young men all had dreadlocks ... and the four young women all had part or all of their heads shaved [¡90].

The group is stopped and harassed by the police, who make reference to the criminal justice act, and Isis spends a night in jail. Although Whit does not focus on club culture it provides a detailed representation of the new-age traveler culture that was so important to the development of club culture in the UK. Moreover, it represents drug use as relatively benign and not nearly as detrimental as neo-fascism and overblown capitalism. Although Whit— like Millar’s short story — is social satire, the butt of the criticism seems to be mainstream society rather than the counterculture.

It’s All Gone Pete Tong It’s All Gone Pete Tong (2004) is a Canada/UK coproduction written and directed by Michael Dowse and starring Paul Kaye in the lead role of Frankie Wilde, a world famous DJ who makes his home on the clubbing paradise island of Ibiza. The title of the film is cockney rhyming slang for “It’s gone all wrong” and references the name of real life DJ Pete Tong. The style of the film is a mock documentary in the tradition of Rob Reiner’s ¡984 classic This Is Spinal Tap and traces the final stages of the career of Frankie Wilde. When we first see him, Wilde is at the peak of his career, enjoying a life of drug-fuelled excess and married to Sonja, an actress from one of his rock videos. Sonja cuckolds Frankie regularly, evinced by the fact that although they are both white they have a black son. Frankie’s career as a DJ and producer of dance albums starts to slide when he discovers that he is going deaf from his years of performing loud music. At first he attempts to follow his physician’s advice and cuts back on his drug use and uses his hearing aid sparingly. Unfortunately a recording studio accident leaves him totally deaf so he opts for a nontraditional method of healing. He locks himself in his palatial estate with plenty of drugs. He 124

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stays in a soundproofed room with wads of cotton taped over his ears and uses all of the drugs that he can get his hands on. In one interesting scene he is shown on the floor of his soundproofed room having drugs blown up his nostril with a blowpipe by a dark skinned man in what appears to be native costume. One of the methods of ingesting the South American hallucinogen ayahuasca (also known as yagé10) is to have a powder blown up one’s nose with a blowpipe. As Terrance McKenna says of the drug, “Immigrants into the Amazon Basin have also accepted ayahuasca and have created their own ethnobotanical-medical system for using the psychedelic visions it imparts to promote healing” (McKenna, 225). The film is clearly referencing the neo-tribalist concept of positive drug use. At this point Wilde has let his hair and beard grow and, although he is living in a tropical resort, he has taken to wearing a parka with beach shorts and looks like a mentally deranged new-age traveler. He spends most of his time lying in the arms of a coke-badger. This mythical beast looks rather like a sports mascot and represents Frankie’s addiction to cocaine. When this strategy of excess does not work Frankie symbolically murders his coke-badger, cleans himself up and finds a school that teaches lip reading. This strategy is successful and he is able to produce another album and even perform live again with a combination of wave form monitors and the physical vibration of sound monitors. In the end he gives up the club scene and devotes himself to teaching deaf children with his new wife Penelope (Beatriz Batarda), his lip reading teacher. An interesting point of this film is that although it generally represents drug use in club culture negatively, alcohol remains an important part of Frankie’s social life. Penelope, although represented as a kind of savior for Frankie, also seems to enjoy drinking a lot. It’s All Gone Pete Tong represents drug use in a relatively negative fashion. The audience is presented with a character who exemplifies a simplistic notion of the ideals of club culture : excess, self indulgence and dissipation. Through adversity and the love of a good woman Frankie Wilde is able to return to his position of ascendancy in the world of club culture, but he chooses to give it up in favor of more mature pursuits. The film ends with a rather anti-club culture, antidrug message.

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DRUGS, RAVE CULTURE

AND

SCIENCE FICTION

The attraction of shamanism and traditional cultures to club culture is paralleled by an interest in science fiction themes, which tend to incorporate drug use. The reasons for this relationship are manifold: club culture science fiction may be a way for contemporary youth to combine two aspects of their taste in entertainment, or it may be an extension of the clubbers’ desire to transcend the quotidian world. The tradition of science fiction involvement with dance music stretches back as far as George Clinton’s Parliament/Funkadelic, and the KLF’s sly references to the science fiction–fantasy Illuminatus! trilogy of Robert Anton Wilson. Masks with oval shaped silvery alien faces with huge black eyes abound at North American rave and club venues and, as one might suspect, club fiction has definite science fiction streams.

JEFF NOON One of the most prolific and popular writers of club culture science fiction is the Manchester-based novelist Je› Noon. His novel cycle Vurt (¡993), Pollen (¡995) and Nymphomation (¡997) and short stories like “DJNA” develop a postapocalyptic urban wasteland in Manchester in which the themes of drug use and dance music figure heavily. Noon’s science-fiction approach to club culture is not designed for audiences who wish to have a realistic representation of the phenomenon. However, his writing is very attractive to an audience interested in literature that draws upon themes of escape from a near-intolerable reality through the avenues of drugs and music. Therefore, Noon’s writing fits well with the demographic of club culture. In his fiction Noon exaggerates the existing problems of postindustrial northern England. His characters share the paranoia of some participants in club culture who feel that mainstream society intends to hunt them down, imprison them or cut them o› from the music and drugs that are essential to their particular brand of countercultural existence. Science fiction has traditionally been a means for social satire and radical writing in politically oppressive environments. It is, therefore, not surprising that some members of club subculture in the UK should 126

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opt for protest literature in this mode. After all, the Criminal Justice Act and legal prohibition of their favorite drugs combined to make early participants in club culture feel unwelcome in their own country.

Vurt Vurt is the name of a futuristic virtual reality drug which is activated by the user sticking a feather down his or her throat. The plot of the novel follows the narrator, Scribble, and a group of his friends who cruise around Manchester in a van with an alien creature: Thing-from-Outer-Space wasn’t really from Outer Space. Mandy just called him that and we’d all latched onto it. Well then, what would you call a shapeless blob that didn’t speak any known language and had come into your world by a bad accident? [¡7].

The companions are looking for the mythical “black feather” called English Voodoo. The drugs of the Vurt feathers seem to share some characteristics of video games and television shows. Elements of the Vurt appear to leak into the reality of users. Although the dance club environment is not recognizably present in Vurt there are close analogies to the subcultures of drug users, new-age travelers and squatters to make the novel attractive to members of club subculture. The positive representation of drugs as a means of accommodating a postapocalyptic UK is particularly attractive to the club culture audience.

“DJNA” Noon’s short story “DJNA” is more explicit in its relationship to club culture. It is the story of an outlaw DJ, Helix, and his girlfriend, Fig, set in a burned out postmodern urban Manchester landscape similar to the setting of his novel cycle. Noon posits a religious revival that co-opts dance culture, replacing the DJ with a mechanical music programmer called Jesusboom and ecstasy with a drug combination known as communion wafer and wine. The old style DJs of this science-fiction world are hunted down by the authorities and when captured are imprisoned or reprogrammed. Helix is captured and reprogrammed; having lost his soul he commits suicide by overdosing on communion wafer and wine. 127

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“Electrovoodoo” Michael River’s short story “Electrovoodoo” from Disco Biscuits is thematically similar to Je› Noon’s writing. It is set in a burned out landscape in which nature is dying and members of a futuristic club culture are attempting to do something about the coming apocalypse. The members of this club culture find their way to rave-like events with the help of drug impregnated advertising flyers that change the users’ perception of reality enough to enable them to find hidden clues to the location. It is easy to see the relationship of this literary device to the actual process of finding raves in the early years of the phenomenon. Because raves were illegal, the organizers would print flyers with a phone number that was only active just before the event or a location that was to be a gathering point. Participants would call the number or go to the gathering point and receive further instructions on how to find the event. The representation of drugs as a way of enhancing perception in order to find a hidden path is completely in keeping with pronouncements of subcultural gurus like McKenna and Saunders. “Electrovoodoo” is the story of futuristic club cultural rituals in which a “chosen” member of the underground cult is placed into a huge circuit board drawn on a stage. Through the use of this device they hope to bring to life a “mech” world that will replace the dying natural world of Gaia with a mech-world which combines man and machine. When current is applied to the circuit board the wired-in individual usually dies; the participants flee the police and hope for success another day. The ritual is performed by a group of adepts called “The Cable”: The Cable stalked out of the wings and they sprang out of traps. They wore clingfilm cauls, they were scarified and bleeding. White welts and red glistening red cuts in rough designs, spidery electroglyphic circuits. All of the crew were there: the Inductor and Telegram Sam, Ray-X and Mother Baud, the Raster Man ... and one other, who waited still in the dark unseen, whose hands whispered over the decks11: the Undergod [¡04].

The Undergod who presides over the ritual is obviously the shaman–DJ in this neo-tribalistic collective. This science-fiction world’s desire for salvation through the combination of drugs, technology and human beings is very similar to the club cult represented in Rushko› ’s novel Ecstasy Club. In both cases this sort of technological experimentation is presented 128

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as dangerous to the experimenter, but hope for enlightenment leads them on.

“The Acid House” Irvine Welsh’s short story “The Acid House”12 (¡994), published in the collection with the same title, tells the tale of Colin “Coco” Bryce, who is struck by lightning while taking LSD in a park in Edinburgh. The story follows a fantasy format of the Todorovian13 variety in which the reader is never sure whether Coco’s supernatural experiences demonstrate a true deviation from the rules of the normal or if they are the delusions of a mind addled by drugs and severe injury. Coco’s body is taken to a local hospital where he lies kicking and screaming like a young baby while his “soul” is transported into the body of a newborn baby. The baby is the child of a young, middle-class couple, Jenny and Rory. As the baby begins to exhibit the characteristics of the spirit of a young clubbing football hooligan, Rory is increasingly suspicious of his infant son, much to the dismay of Jenny. Of course, the fact that a new father is jealous of his newborn son is as normal as the infantile behavior of the “brain damaged” body of Coco Bryce that is lying in the hospital. Coco’s friends come in and regale their vegetative companion with accounts of their fights with rival football gangs and the drug-fuelled sport at local night clubs. Andy, one of Coco’s friends, seeks to encourage his friend to get better with the following comments about the quality of ecstasy currently available in Edinburgh: Mental. I couldnae dance, bit this cunt wis up aw night. I just wanted tae spra› tae ivray cunt. Pure gouchen the whole night, man. Some fuckin good Es aroond the now, Coco, ye want tae git it the gither man, n will git sorted and git some clubbin done... [¡66–7].

In his novel Marabou Stork Nightmares, Welsh seems to indicates that “loved up” football hooligans will reform and stop their violence, while in this short story the characters talk about fighting with rival team supporters in the same conversation as the above quotation. This is in direct contradiction to the oft repeated myth that ecstasy made the hooligans stop fighting. The truth or fictional nature of this claim would be extremely di‡cult to ascertain, but it is interesting to see that even in the works of a single author the myth is not consistently repeated. 129

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When Coco’s former girlfriend comes to visit the adult body with the soul of a baby in the hospital she is not very sympathetic about his plight: His heid’s finally fried. It’s that acid, they Supermarios. Ah telt um, bit that’s Coco, livin fir the weekends; raves, fitba. The week’s jist something tae git through fir him, and he’s bin daein too much fuckin acid tae git through it [¡70–¡7¡].

Living for the weekend and excessive drug use are common topics in club fiction. As indicated in the detailed studies in this chapter, the approach to drug use varies from the extremely positive to the negative. Welsh’s short story is of the latter approach; it is a cautionary tale. Although Welsh’s texts are often seen as a justification of drug use and alternative lifestyles, we see in this short story, as in many of his texts, that there is a quite moralistic antidrug theme present. The fact that it is presented in the mode of the fantastic makes the message a bit less direct, but we still see that Coco’s lifestyle is lacking in substance. His return to an infantile state is appropriate in that the life he leads before the accident is utterly self indulgent. On the other hand, the middle-class lifestyle of Coco’s new parents, Rory and Jenny, is mercilessly parodied. As soon as the “problem child” enters their life their politically correct attitudes and practices are seen as a hollow sham and self interest overcomes most of their scruples.14 Welsh does not seem to favor either side of the equation — irresponsible lower-class behavior or self satisfied middle-class artificiality. Despite this apparent conflict of message — or perhaps because of it — Welsh’s writing is attractive to members of club cultures as well as the intellectual class. In “The Acid House” the antidrug message is also equivocal; Coco the baby begins to have a new attitude towards life and begins to take on many of the positive aspects of the middle class. He, in fact, returns to his childhood and takes up a more conservative lifestyle appropriate to the home in which he now lives. On the other side of the equation the adult body of Coco is reeducated by his girlfriend Kirsty; he withdraws from his association with the football casuals (hooligans) and becomes engaged to her. One could see the story as a pro-drug message in a strange, apocalyptic way. As in Marabou Stork Nightmares drug use precipitates a life-changing experience. However, in “The Acid House” the change allows Coco a new lease on life and he gives up his drug-taking ways, while in Marabou Stork Night130

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mares Roy Strang may gain moral salvation, but his life is definitely over. Welsh’s attitude towards drug use in this story is rather close to the approach of psychotherapists who advocate drugs as a means of reforming ingrained patterns of behavior that are detrimental to the patient’s social and physical well-being. Drugs, when used appropriately, are claimed to aid in the reformation of alcoholics and abusive personalities. In this case, Coco Bryce, football hooligan, becomes two characters: Tom, the middle class infant, and Coco, the aspiring solid citizen and husband.

The Acid House (Film Version) In ¡998 The Acid House appeared as a film directed by Paul McGuigan with a screenplay written by Irvine Welsh. The film consists of a trio of short stories selected from The Acid House collection: “The Granton Star Cause,” “A Soft Touch,” and finally, “The Acid House.” Although the other two stories are set in the gritty streets of lower-income urban Scotland, only “The Acid House” deals with the interface of rave and drug culture with other branches of society. In the filmic version of this story Welsh and McGuigan make a few of the points more explicit than they are in the short story. For example, the film version opens with Coco and Kirsty in a bar discussing a club night called Resurrection. The conversation tends towards metaphysical double entendre which introduces the intellectual foundations of the concept of Coco’s rebirth as a middle-class child. It also sets up Kirsty as a woman with a plan — to take Coco away from his life as a clubber and hooligan and make him over into a husband and father. Coco’s negative reaction to a family with children in the pub sets up the conflict between Kirsty’s vision of Coco and his own desires and this conflict serves as primary plot motivation in the film version. In contrast, the short story opens with Coco in the park just before the lightning strike and the reader is left to draw his own metaphysical conclusions about the ensuing transmigration of souls. The visual medium of the film allows for some aspects of the story to be immediately apparent to the audience. The short story does not go into any details concerning Rory, the middle-class husband’s appearance, but as soon as he appears on-screen we see that he is neither a clubber nor a “football casual.” Rory has long hair, a cardinal sin for UK youth at the 131

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time of this film’s production. The fashionably shorn pate of the “chemical generation” is a theme that often appears in Welsh and his contemporaries. Men with long hair are considered hopelessly out of date “hippies” and are usually treated with contempt by clubbers. Rory’s accent is middle class, with no trace of Scottish dialect and his manner of dress is completely out of step with the street fashions favored by Coco and his companions. Coco appears on the screen in clubber chic, with baggy sweat top, close shorn hair and running shoes (trainers) on his feet. The class struggle between Rory’s type and Coco’s subcultural group is continued in various ways throughout the film and culminates when the baby convinces his mother to enter a pub full of football hooligans warming up with alcohol and chants before a match. She is obviously out of place by reason of her clothing, accent, and discomfort with the actions of the young men around her. Through a brief scene in a club, the film also emphasizes the rather di›erent notions that Kirsty and Coco have of their relationship before Coco’s transformation. They are sitting on a couch in what appears to be a chill-out room bathed in the silvery light of a mirror-ball, both obviously under the influence of ecstasy. Coco turns to Kirsty and says, “I really like you”; she responds in kind and as their blissful smiles widen they move on to the classic protestations of love so common among those who indulge in ecstasy. For this reason the film version emphasizes its club cultural connections more than the short story. However, the idea that the drug experience has actually had a positive e›ect on both versions of Coco is not so obvious in the film. In fact, it would appear that Kirsty is something of a villain in the film — she uses Coco’s vulnerable state to take him away from his companions and his beloved football. It is clear that she wants him to give up his subcultural a‡liations and become a “solid citizen.” While this theme is also apparent in the short story, Kirsty’s role is not so obviously manipulative and the resulting change in Coco’s lifestyle is not seen is such a negative light. The baby Coco in the film is equally bereft of true development and in the end of the film we see the transmigration of souls is reversed, with no positive outcome for either party. Therefore, the possibility of interpreting the film as a metaphorical representation of the positive e›ects of rebuilding a personality through the use of drugs is not present. Although the film version of “The Acid House” 132

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is more obviously a work of club fiction, it emphasizes club culture’s disdain for middle class existence at the expense of fondly held notions of the “healing” powers of drug experience.

DRUG TOURISM Like their parents before them, many generation X clubbers make the “Journey to the East,” heading for places like Goa in India and the beaches of Thailand in search of cheap drugs and communities of party-minded tourists. Goa trance is a branch of rave music made popular by those who sought spiritual enlightenment at the outdoor parties in the land of cheap hallucinogens and stimulants. The desire to find a simpler life in a warm country, a place with traditions of spirituality, easy access to psychoactive drugs and a good exchange rate for U.S. dollars and pounds sterling, has resulted in commercialization and extreme exploitation of resort areas like Goa, parts of Thailand, and the more easily accessible beach resorts of Spain. Naturally, there is a kind of club literature that follows. Rather than a concern for spirituality and neo-tribalism these drug tourist texts tend to focus on the drug smuggling and the excesses of the tourist as well as the dangerous nature of the resentful indigenous populations. Some stories focus on the economic disparity that gives rise to the resentful attitudes of the locals to these comparatively rich foreign “hippies.” Others present the local regimes as essentially arbitrary and extremely dangerous to the innocent tourists who are often quite unaware of the draconian antidrug laws in these countries. It is rare to find a positive representation of shamanism and traditional drug use in drug tourist literature. Hippie literature in the late ¡960s and the early ¡970s had the novels and ethnographic research of Carlos Castaneda15 but club literature concerned with drug tourism is surprisingly cynical on this topic. These works of fiction tend towards cautionary tales warning of the dangers of becoming associated with drug use in foreign lands. This would seem, at first glance, to be contradictory to the neo-shamanistic thread of club culture, but most of the writers of club fiction are quite grounded in the legal and social realities of their chosen subcultural movement. The rave or techno club is, in many ways, a cocoon that protects the participants from the harsh world 133

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of economic exploitation, dull, meaningless jobs and selfish people. It is not surprising that artistic expressions centering on this idyllic respite from the mundane world should deal with the concept of betrayal. In contrast to the safe world of the club, day to day existence is dangerous; trust must be doled out sparingly. Although the desire to transcend the restrictions of mainstream culture is a strong theme in club fiction it is balanced by a healthy respect for the power of the establishment (both o‡cial and criminal) to disrupt the pleasures and principles of their subcultural group. This is in contrast to the more idealistic notions of the counterculture of the ¡960s. Perhaps the sad example of the co-opting of the counterculture baby boomers by mainstream culture serves as a warning to club culture.

ALEX GARLAND Alex Garland may be the most popular writer of the club culture drug-tourist novel. Although the topoi of dance clubs or raves are not the primary focus of his works, the young backpacking expatriates who populate his works are identifiable members of the subculture. His first novel, The Beach (¡997) and Danny Boyle’s film adaptation (2000) which was based on the novel deal with the drug and dance culture of expatriate youth in the Far East. In the beginning of the novel the narrator, Richard, is given advice concerning the best places to go for dance parties: A few years later as I checked my passport and confirmed my flight to Bangkok, a friend telephoned with advice. “Give Kok Phangan a miss, Rich,” she said. “Hat Rin’s a long way past its sell by date. They do printed flyers for the full moon parties. Koh Tao. That’s where it’s at” [49].

Hat Rin, on the island of Ko Phangan (there are a number of alternate spellings), is the place where the full moon dance parties are said to have originated. These trance dance parties take place every full moon and were originally relatively small events; however, they have become quite popular and, like most aspects of club culture, succumbed to the pressures of commercialization. The fact that the “rave flyers” for the full moon parties are now printed rather than simple hand-lettered leaflets is an indication that the island is no longer so exclusive. After all, if there is enough 134

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money to use a printing press then the event has become commercialized. The Beach is the story of a young man, Richard, who finds an idyllic commune on a hidden beach on a remote island in Thailand. He finds the island after engaging in a rather elaborate search involving a hand drawn map (no printed flyers for this special place) and a French couple. The essence of the story is a subcultural desire to escape the mundane world. If the raves are too popular then the clubbing tourist seeks a place that only a select few have seen. This “special” world of the beach, like the cocooned environment of a club, serves to insulate its inhabitants from quotidian existence. The perfection of the tale is disrupted by violence when the tourist commune comes in contact with local drug dealers who use the same island for growing marijuana. On many levels The Beach is a cautionary tale of the inherent dangers of drug tourism for clubbers. Garland’s short story “Blink and You Miss It” is also cautionary in its tone. In it, a young traveler is betrayed by an older member of the expatriate beach raver community. The older man is simply known as “the beach guru”: Pushing forty, perhaps past it, though all you could do was guess, because being stuck in a young person’s world, he was pretty coy about divulging his age. Encyclopedic knowledge of substances. Receding hairline, number one all over to hide it, nineties version of the comb-over. A keen eye for any of us that he suspected he could get into bed. Or being a beach guru, sheet, laid out on the sand [230].

This brief description represents the parasitic older man who preys upon the expatriate members of the subculture. He is presented as too old to be a natural member of the culture, yet attempting to fit in through hairstyle and his knowledge of drugs. Since there is a full moon party coming up the seventeen-year-old narrator is sent by the beach guru to purchase drugs from the local police. He discovers that is it is a matter of collusion between the beach guru and the local chief of police; they need to have someone to arrest, so the narrator serves as a sacrifice. The theme of these stories has been around for as long as there have been youthful tourists interested in drug culture,16 but club culture narrative appear to be slightly more paranoid.

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Bangkok 8 An interesting variant on the theme of club culture drug tourism is the concept of extreme tourism. Extreme tourists travel to dangerous places or take part in dangerous events. One of the most common forms might be the tradition of tourists taking part in the annual Running of the Bulls in Pamplona. The motivation for this sort of behavior can be found in Hemingway’s novel The Sun Also Rises. However, contemporary club culture has developed a rather horrifying variant that ties in with the generally confrontational attitude that regional authorities take to drug tourists. John Burdett’s 2003 detective novel, Bangkok 8, is set in Thailand and tells the tale of Thai detective Sonchai Jitpleecheep’s search for his partner’s murderer. During the course of his daily work Sonchai is asked to translate for a fellow o‡cer who has apprehended a young American tourist who was caught with a pocket full of marijuana in the police station. His colleague is at a loss to understand how anyone could do something so stupid and Sonchai responds: It’s like extreme sports only sillier. Kids get themselves into jams in faraway countries, nail-biting situations which could land them in a Thai jail for five years, or get them stoned to death in Saudi Arabia ... but there’s always a first-world safety net of course, which makes it all quite safe really.... Getting caught with ganja in Krung Thep17 is a favourite [¡74].

Sonchai tells his colleague that the boy expects to bribe his way out of the charge and then write about the experience on the Internet. The other policeman is incensed and forces the tourist to smoke all of his marijuana and then burns the boy’s money in front of him before throwing him into a makeshift dungeon. Burning the money removes the first-world safety net. The hallucinogenic properties of the drug serves to enhance the terror of the experience. The strong admonition against the practice of extreme tourism fits well with the general tone of club culture fiction’s view on the dangers of drug tourism.

“The Snow That Killed Manuel Jarrow” Although it is not, strictly speaking, an example of a drug tourism story, Douglas Rushko› ’s short story “The Snow That Killed Manuel Jarrow” is a cautionary tale about the dangers of drug excess that is wrapped 136

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in an elaborate parody of “The Snows of Kilimanjaro,” a short story by Ernest Hemingway originally published in ¡938. Hemingway’s story is a series of flashbacks recounting the life of an American writer named Harry, who is remembering his life as he lies dying of gangrene in Africa. Rushko› ’s narrator is Manuel Jarrow, who lies dying on the floor of a club in New York, far from his California home. Although both characters are creative, Manuel is an aspiring filmmaker rather than an author like Harry in the Hemingway story. Manuel has passed out at a New York club, overdosing on a combination of ecstasy and cocaine. Because cocaine is often called snow, Rushko› has worked a horrible pun into the title of this story. To Manuel and his girlfriend, Bess, New York symbolizes the palpable degeneration of the club culture scene through its location and the attitude of the promoters: And, to Manuel Jarrow, this place seemed to symbolize it all. A much-tooshiny New York nightclub pretending to be a rave venue. No matter how late it was — two? three?— or how many of the Day-Glo kids pressed together in the room, the whole place reeked of business, grime and scamartists. New York really was a terrible place to throw a party. It was a nightmare to get anywhere. In the UK a rave meant a road trip. In SF it meant a hike to the beach. But in NYC it meant a subway ride (with two transfers) through rat-, and bum-, and cop-infested tunnels that smelled like human piss — just to stand in line in the cold and wait for a fat guy with a walkie-talkie to decide whether you were cool or rich enough to be let inside [¡92].

Rushko› is repeating the old mantra that “clubs just aren’t any good anymore.” Most of the people who take part in club culture for any length of time become disillusioned. Some ascribe the e›ect to the diminishing returns of repeated use of ecstasy; the drug cannot replace depleted stores of serotonin so the e›ects become less and less noticeable with each subsequent experience. Rushko› ’s narrator tries to blame the change in his experience on the venue, but it is clear that he only decides to combine cocaine with ecstasy because the e›ect of the ecstasy is somehow diminished, and cocaine is blamed for the whole misadventure: “Coke is the total ego drug. It covers up everything in bullshit, personal pride. Coke is so ... New York City” (202). At the end of the story Manuel feels the ecstasy take over again and this “good drug experience” moves into some pseudo–Buddhist afterworld as he slips into death. 137

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“The Snow That Killed Manuel Jarrow” is a story about the fall of club culture, about the introduction of commercialism, of drugs that do not promote cooperation, and of personal ambition into the peace and love atmosphere of the early rave scene. It is in many ways a more concise version of Rushko› ’s novel Ecstasy Club; however, in the short story the e›ect of changes in venue and especially drug use are blamed for the deterioration of club culture, while in the novel club culture seems to fall apart as the participants mature. Rushko› is fascinated with the movement away from idealism towards capitalism and much of his work reflects this interest. Unlike other stories in this chapter that posit a renewal of the human spirit through use of the appropriate drugs, “The Snow That Killed Manuel Jarrow” sees the future as contaminated by inappropriate drugs that give rise to a bad attitude.

LIFE WRITING Club culture, perhaps more than any other cultural phenomenon to date, has given rise to a large number of texts and films that are considered under the modern rubric of life writing or, more traditionally, biography or autobiography. Although the primary purpose of this book is to discuss the secondary phenomenon of club culture fiction, it is clear that a number of biographical and autobiographical texts, memoirs and personal historical writing, as well as several film documentaries, deserve to be included in this volume. These works provide an image of club culture that has been reformatted to fit the conventions of various forms of “realistic” writing and filmmaking and in the process they aid in the process of reconfiguring club culture to a new, more popular contemporary audience. Stories about individual experiences in the beginnings of the club culture movement are instrumental in the transformation from a relatively small subcultural audience to a highly popular and economically influential popular culture. We have already discussed Bill Drummond’s witty and highly literate autobiographical text, 45, which details his life as a member of the KLF. Although Drummond’s text is influential in popularizing club culture while protesting the mercenary motivation of the contemporary movement, it remains relatively silent on the subject of drugs 138

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as an active element in the transformation of club culture. This is not true of all examples of life writing on the subject of club culture and the following section will examine a few of these works that focus primarily on the drug related aspects of club culture.

24 Hour Party People As mentioned earlier, the music used at raves and in rave type dance clubs in the late ¡980s in the UK was primarily composed of foreign imports. However, nearly a decade before club culture as it is defined in this book appeared, in the early ¡980s, a brand of electronic dance music coalesced around Alan Erasmus and Tony Wilson’s Factory Records and their Manchester club, the Haçienda. Wilson, Erasmus and Factory Records’ influence on the UK Indie dance movement is undeniable and gave rise to the film 24 Hour Party People (2002). Wilson later produced an autobiography of the same name which was based on the film. This highly fictionalized autobiographical take of the history of Factory Records is a very special example of the transition between fiction and fact and the author makes no bones about its relationship to history. On the copyright page of the text the following note appears: “24 Hour Party People is in part a work of fiction. Most of the people in this book exist, but some of the events and conversations are fictitious.” In the text the narrative voice uses the third person rather than the first person to refer to the actions of Tony Wilson, and many of the descriptions of events in Wilson’s life are accompanied by narrative commentary expressing puzzlement, frustration or even anger at the actions of the character. One of the reasons for this is the strange genesis of the novel: Apparently, I need to explain that this is a novelization, the turning of a fine movie screenplay into a book. Apparently, novelization is the lowest form of art which is right up my street. Being a novelization means that (a) a lot of what follows is pure bloody fiction and never actually happened and (b) the little genius who made up the series of lies and filth contained in the 24 Hour Party People movie script is responsible for all the good lines, good jokes and good dialogue that follows hereafter. This Gentleman is a good Catholic boy from Liverpool called Frank Cottrell Boyce [5]. 139

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The novel is a move from a biographical piece by Boyce to a bastardized form of autobiography by Wilson and the narrative voice is appropriately disjointed. Wilson relates the tale of his own career starting from his work as a television presenter for Granada TV in Manchester in the ¡970s. At this time he was greatly impressed by the burgeoning punk movement and chose to get in on the ground floor by starting the independent record label Factory Records. Wilson represents himself as a child of the sixties, smoking pot while all around him had moved on to other drugs, yet as a man with his finger on the pulse of the new movements in music. The character of Tony Wilson as represented in this book is actually one of a type that we have discussed earlier. Like Bill Drummond, Hakim Bey and Terrence McKenna, Wilson’s aesthetic sense and attitudes towards the politics of art were all the product of an earlier era, a time before the development of club culture. Nevertheless, these men all have provided a historical link to the philosophies of the sixties — despite the contempt that many clubbers have for old hippies reeking of patchouli and pot. Wilson obtained a degree in literature from Cambridge and 24 Hour Party People is overburdened with references to situationalist art strategies and Boethius’ concept of the wheel of fortune. In this respect Wilson’s overtly literary and intellectualized writing is thematically similar to Bill Drummond’s 45; however, Drummond is a much more accomplished writer and unlike Wilson he refrains from digression into intellectual reference for its own sake. On the other hand, there is evidence that Factory Records’ agenda was actually informed by Wilson’s intellectual leanings — especially his admiration for French Situationist art and politics. For example, the name of Factory Records’ world famous Manchester club, The Haçienda, comes from a situationist text entitled Leaving the 20th Century: The Incomplete Work of the Situationist International 18 (Wilson ¡¡8–9). Factory Records’ first great success came with the Manchester band, Joy Division, who were instrumental in the move towards unifying the raw power of rock music with the electronic rhythms of disco music. When the lead singer of Joy Division, Ian Curtis, committed suicide, the remaining members of the band reformed under the name New Order. Both band names have a connection with the punk proclivity for shocking their elders through association with the Nazis. The Joy Division took for their band name the Nazi term for Aryan women recruited for eugenic programs; 140

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New Order is an English translation of a term that appears quite often in Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf. These references were not really based around an anti–Semitic program — they were simply a way to shock the older generation and followed the fashion of punk styles of dress and decoration which abound with this sort of gratuitous reference. Club culture has completely renounced this sort of shock value and returned to the softer methodologies of the hippies — shocking through simple rejection of economic and aesthetic principles. The drug references in the first part of the novel 24 Hour Party People are relatively low-key, but in the second section of the book, dealing with the late ¡980s when the Happy Mondays become the most prominent of Factory Records musicians, drugs and drug abuse become a prominent theme. Shaun Ryder, lead singer of the Happy Mondays, is characterized by Wilson as a poetic genius on the level of W.B. Yeats, although he admits, “Everybody else thinks he’s a fucking idiot” (2¡6)— this, despite the fact that Wilson makes no bones about the fact that Ryder is a heroin-addicted lout who is a constant thorn in the side of his handlers. The narrative voice and the character of Tony Wilson as he appears in this text seem to have a very high tolerance for the drug abuse of his colleagues and band members. The reaction to the popularity of ecstasy and the Manchester development of electronic dance music is a bemused amazement at the good luck that seems to have brought these wildly unlikely elements together in an economically profitable combination. He attributes this to the essentially cosmopolitan nature of the city of Manchester, which despite the fact that its heyday as a center of manufacturing and foreign enterprise is long past, continues to embrace things that are new and di›erent. Wilson truly appreciates the value of electronic music to the new rave culture that swept Manchester and the rest of the UK at this time. However, he cannot seem to resist a few ironic comments about the origins of the style. For example he claims that the foundation of New Order’s seminal electronic dance track, “Blue Monday,” was the band’s reluctance to play encores at concerts. They are said to have developed the computer generated track so that they could just switch on the machine and “it can just go on and on until they’re [the audience] are all bored to death and fuck o› ” (¡48). 141

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When the first ecstasy-related death in Britain takes place on the dance floor of the Haçienda, Wilson’s constant promotion of the new youth culture — read that as club culture in its early stages — is identified as dangerous to the continued existence of the club in that he was perceived as advocating drug use. Wilson points out that ecstasy was not an economic savior for the club since none of the profits from this new recreational activity came back to the owners of the venue. The point that Wilson makes is considered by some to be the true impetus behind the Criminal Justice Act. The UK’s entertainment economy has traditionally been based upon the sale of alcohol and when, in the late ¡980s, young people began to use a drug that precluded the consumption of alcohol, the great economic powers of breweries and nightclubs got together to put a stop to it. Of course, this was only marginally successful and the trend away from alcohol consumption is now the subject of a modified and slightly more subtle marketing strategy of selling “alcopops,” or coolers — fruit flavored drinks with a mild alcohol content that justifies their exorbitant price while making them relatively safe to consume while ingesting other drugs. Wilson clearly and concisely reports how the black economy of drugs at the Haçienda resulted in the escalation of violence and how the Haçienda finally had to close for a period of time in order to dissuade the drug gang contingent from firing guns in the club. The oft-told tale of drug-fuelled idealism dissipating under the intense pressure of easy money and violence is repeated once again in this almost biographical text. In some ways this semiautobiographical tale of Factory Records and Tony Wilson is an ethnographic study of the city of Manchester, and the change from ecstasy culture to cocaine culture is pivotal. Wilson ends his book with the sad tale of the Happy Mondays’ disastrous recording session at Eddy Grant’s (of “Electric Avenue” fame) studio in Barbados. Crack cocaine finally put an end to the career of the Happy Mondays, an apparently indestructible group who had survived the stress of ecstasy culture and heroin abuse. The narrative of 24 Hour Party People ends with the failure of Factory Records and the Haçienda. Wilson, the Happy Mondays and his partner, Allan Gretton, share a joint and discuss a vision of God on the roof of the Haçienda emphasizing the fact that pot is a major theme in the narrative. All of the other drugs come and go along with the brilliant musi142

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cians, engineers and entrepreneurs associated with Factory Records, but Wilson clings to the drug of choice of the sixties.

Freaky Dancin’ Freaky Dancin’ is a mirror image of Tony Wilson’s 24 Hour Party People; it is, more or less, the same story told from the perspective of one of the other participants. Wilson represented himself as one of the responsible parties who managed to herd groups like The Joy Division and Happy Mondays into international fame — if only for a brief period. Freaky Dancin’ is the same tale told by one of the least active participants that can be imagined, Bez from the Happy Mondays. The Manchester club culture movement was immensely popular and gave rise to fashions in clothing and music and social behavior that had long-reaching e›ects on club culture. The musical style was labeled “scallydelia” (Generation Ecstasy, 94), with reference to the transition from football hooligans (Liverpool scallywags) to club subculture. As mentioned above, one of the more successful of the Manchester Indie bands, or baggy bands,19 signed to Factory Records was the Happy Mondays (¡985–¡992). Tony Wilson’s book title comes from their Factory Records album Squirrel and G-Man Twenty Four Hour Party People Plastic Face Carnt Smile (White Out, ¡987). The Happy Mondays were unabashedly thuggish and more than one of the members had a criminal record. Their open advocacy and public use of drugs identified them with a social class that was entranced with the new acid house music and rave parties. The members of the band are listed as Paul Ryder, Shaun Ryder, Gary Whelan, Mark “Cow” Day, Bez, and Paul Davis. Bez is the nickname that Mark Berry used both onstage and o›. One of the amazing characteristics of the Happy Mondays is that everyone but Bez added something to the music. Bez’s function was to dance around the stage in an obvious state of drug-induced ecstasy and shake a maraca. In his “autobiography,” Freaky Dancin’ (¡998, written with Deborah Faulkner), he claims that he only went onstage the first time on a dare while he was under the influence of LSD. His performance became an established part of the group’s stage act and has been the subject of a wealth of club culture mythology and humor. Simon Reynolds characterizes Bez’s dancing as follows: 143

Dance, Drugs and Escape Onstage, he shook maracas, and danced, a listless moronic traipse that resembled a peasant crushing grapes. Bez’s real function was to incarnate the band’s debauched spirit, like a Keith Richards relieved of all instrumental duties. For the fans Bez became a role model and a stand-in: proof that any one of them could have been up there if they’d lucked out, enjoying all the drugs and ardent groupies [Generation Ecstasy, 96].

Tony Wilson’s impression of Bez’s influence and function varies radically from Reynolds analysis above. In the following passage Wilson recounts Bez’s first stage appearance: “Dance, you fucker, and shake those maracas,” said the boss [Shaun Ryder, leader of the Happy Mondays] to an alien [Bez] who was already well maracca’d [sic]. And he started to move. Fuck, did he move. Arms outstretched, slow wings feeling for the air in an undulating fashion hallucinogenic t’ai chi. And the shoulders, pressing forward beyond the alien’s centre of gravity, always the shoulders. And the audience swaying and wondering what they were watching, found out what they were watching in watching Bez. Rock as Dance, Dance as Rock. Bez [Wilson, ¡77].

The two contrasting opinions on the function of Bez in the origins of club culture point out one of the major points of di›erence in the analysis of the phenomenon. Reynolds’ rather cynical assessment of Bez as an inebriated lout who exemplifies the least likeable aspects of club culture contrasts sharply with Wilson’s rather lyrical description of Bez as a symbol of the participatory nature of club culture. Wilson identifies the movement away from stadium rock that isolates the audience from the band toward club culture’s culture of involvement. The first half of Freaky Dancin’ tells the tale of Bez’s youth in the Salford district of Manchester and only begins to discuss his “musical” career on page ¡36 of a book roughly 300 pages in length. The phenomenon of a nonmusical rock star publishing an autobiography would be astounding if one were to forget that Freaky Dancin’ is actually a history of the Baggy dance movement seen from the view of someone who was symbolic of the whole shift in the perspective of club culture. Before the advent of club culture rock music and rock bands were essentially focused on the performance aspect of the music. The group would get up on a stage at the front of a room and everyone else sat or stood and listened to the music. Attention was directed towards the front of the room and one could eas144

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ily transpose the procedure to a political rally or a dramatic presentation with a passive audience and active entertainers. On the other hand, club culture is based around participation. If you do not dance you stick out like a sore thumb at a rave or at a dance club. The Happy Mondays and their ilk were a transition from the familiar realm of rock musicians to the participatory democracy and recorded music of the rave and dance club. The DJ can still be a star, but the individuals at the event do not passively take in the show; they dance. Bez was, to the nascent club culture movement, the embodiment of this shift in paradigm. He did not just stand there and listen to his mates; he got up — on the stage — and danced his heart out. His reflections on the impetus for the club culture movement are worth mentioning in that they explain some of the features that were important to its development in the north of England: Why did thousands of people take to poppin [sic] a pill and ravin [sic] the weekend away in a field? Because they had no serious expectations of gettin anythin better out of life: it took the monotony out of bein on the dole or sinkin under the pressure of tryin to cope on criminally low wages in a desperate bid to maintain dignity [x].

This justification of club culture is often repeated in the literature and is actually quite similar to theoretical statements by Hakim Bey. However, Bez goes on to state that the possible detrimental e›ects of ecstasy use — memory loss, depression, anxiety, panic attacks, insomnia, violent outbursts (xi)— are exactly the same as the e›ects of poverty. The notion that the side e›ects of drug use are exactly the same as those of poverty is new and an interesting justification for subcultural behavior. In mainstream literature, both fictional and scientific, there are standard arguments that addiction to drugs is a way of alleviating the pressures of poverty, but the notion that the side e›ects are the same as those of poverty is an innovation on the part of club literature. Bez’s role as the “everyman” of early club culture puts him in the unique position of presenting the reader with some of the underlying causes for the phenomenon. His analysis, in the form of an autobiographical narrative, allows us insight into the economic impetus for the development of club culture in the UK. Club culture fiction often maintains the countercultural notions developed in the ¡960s that drug use is a positive influence on individuals and on society. Even a text like Freaky Dancin’ that chronicles the down145

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ward spiral of an individual who suddenly has unlimited access to drugs abounds with positive references to drugs. The first page of the book consists of a list of equivalences; the left hand column is the word “drugs” repeated twenty-six times, in the center is an equals symbol and the right hand column consists of a series of words that show both positive and negative e›ects of drugs. The first row is: DRUGS = life; the second DRUGS = stimulated life; the third DRUGS = simulated life (xiii). The equivalence of drugs and sex is followed immediately by broken families, social circles by antisocial circles. The bulk of this autobiography is made up of anecdotes that reflect the general principal of this table: drugs are responsible for the best of times and for the worst of times.

“Confessions of a Middle-Aged Ecstasy Eater” The title story of the 200¡ summer issue of Granta: The Magazine of New Writing (74) is “Confessions of a Middle-Aged Ecstasy Eater” and the front cover sports a picture of a man conservatively dressed in black, sitting in an armchair. The head of this figure has been replaced by a yellow smiley face of the sort found in rave flyers and T-shirts in ¡989 in the UK. The story, accredited to “Anonymous,” is written almost entirely in the style of Thomas De Quincey’s Confessions of An English Opium Eater.20 The following extracts from the two texts demonstrate the degree of stylistic similarity: I here present to you, courteous reader, with a record of a remarkable period in my life: according to my application of it, I trust that it will prove, not merely an interesting record, but in a considerable degree, useful and instructive [De Quincey, ¡]. To the reader. I hereby present to you with a record, of sorts, of a remarkable period in my life. According to my application of it, I trust, as I likewise hope, that it may prove not merely interesting, but, to a considerable degree, useful and instructive [Anonymous, 9].

The modern story begins with reference to its literary antecedents in drug related literature; the author denies that he is “Thomas de Quincey (or Coleridge, Baudelaire, Cocteau, Huxley, Paul Bowles, Carlos Castenada, William Burroughs, Ken Kesey or Hunter S. Thompson)” (9). The author defines himself as a man of letters “approaching his fiftieth year” who has lived most of his life “on the right side of the law” (¡0). The nar146

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rator insists that, although he attended university during a period in which drug use was not uncommon, he did not indulge in psychedelics in the ¡960s and ¡970s. His path to the use of ecstasy was through his son, who is described as a gifted child who took to juvenile delinquency in his teen years. The problems with his son destroyed the narrator’s work life as an author and broke up his marriage. When his son became a “raver”: [H]e seemed for the first time in years — he was seventeen by then — happy. Not giddy or euphoric, but content, at peace with himself, within himself. I do not mean to invoke images of Zen and Buddha — my son is roughly as Zen-like as Eminem — but the transformation was as striking as it was palpable, this sea change [20].

The son claims that it is ecstasy that has caused this change in his approach to life and the narrator indicates that he was encouraged to experiment with the drug as well. The text then enters into a substantial philosophical digression on the evils of drug prohibition. Then the narrator sings the praises of ecstasy and recommends that everyone who can should try it. His first experience is described in some detail and the positive e›ects on his and his son’s lives are extolled. The story has a confessional and evangelical air that brings to mind the original use of the drug as an aid in psychotherapy. The narrator uses the terminology of club culture (rolling, E-tarded, etc.) and indicates that his son, who incidentally no longer uses the drug, has become a DJ. However, the narrator’s own experiences of the drug are not in any way related to the dance music scene. In fact, he indicates that he was listening to the sixties rocker Van Morrison during his first ecstasy experience. “Confessions of a Middle-Aged Ecstasy Eater” is a highly literary and allusive example of life writing which indicates the pervasiveness of club culture at the time of its writing. In a reversal of the standard flow of subcultural property, a member of an older generation has been influenced by the younger. Ecstasy, which came into popular culture through the influence of club culture, is represented as a saviour for an ageing, depressed man. The representation of drug use in this short story is consistent with the highly positive view that we have seen in much of the club fiction presented in this study. Significantly, however, “Confessions of a Middle-Aged Ecstasy Eater” is a narrative from a person closer in age to members of the counterculture of the ¡960s. 147

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Raving Lunacy Dave Courtney has published a number of autobiographical books; in the first, Stop the Ride, I Want to Get O›, he writes about his life as a criminal in London, and in the second, Raving Lunacy: Clubbed to Death: Adventures on the Rave Scene (2000), he indicates that wants to “tackle another taboo subject: drugs on the club scene.” Courtney’s writing style, much like Bez’s, is informal and attempts to mimic the rhythms and structures of conversation, with numerous excursions in which he directly addresses the reader. The text consists of a series of anecdotes centered on Courtney’s career as a manager of a security firm that provided bouncers for raves and clubs in the late ¡980s and early ¡990s. Courtney claims that when the club scene first began he and his fellow “villains” (organized criminals) were not interested because they felt that drug use was uniformly bad and dangerous. Moreover, ecstasy was considered especially dangerous because it promoted the “loved up” behavior which was antithetical to the circumspect demeanor so important to successful criminal life (6). However, when organized crime in the UK discovered how much profit was to be made in the drug trade, they rapidly threw all reservations to the wind and wholeheartedly entered the rave and club scene. Courtney was older than the generation that started club culture and he reflects on the di›erence in culture between contemporary club life and pre-rave clubs. The camaraderie of pre-rave clubs was stronger because the people involved in the industry had time to get to know one another and develop real friendships, while in the modern rave-style club the use of ecstasy meant that everyone was a chemically induced friend and real connections between people became less likely. Nevertheless, Courtney claims that rave culture was a positive influence on his life: Having said all that, though, raving definitely did far more good than bad. And if you were the right age when you got into it then you just got fucking blown away, mate. I was older than most but still youthful in my attitude to having fun, so I got it with both barrels [8].

Courtney’s representation of his first experience with ecstasy is quite positive. He was expecting something quite di›erent, but by the end of the night he realized that he just had a good time and danced all night. Although this was not in keeping with his previous “cool” gangster behav148

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ior he describes it as a revelation in more than one sense, since he not only enjoyed the experience on a personal level but also started plans to become a club promoter as a result. Courtney’s text makes clear the relationship that developed between club culture and mainstream organized crime early in the history of the subculture. He also attempts to demonstrate that there was a certain degree of cross-pollination of ideas between the two otherwise distinct cultural entities. To this end, Raving Lunacy incorporates a number of philosophical digressions from the basic round of humorous anecdotes about Courtney’s life of excess as a club promoter. He theorizes that the rave movement provided a release from the pressures of day to day life that was entirely similar to the football hooligan movement, except that it was much less dangerous to both the individual and to society (53). He also subscribes to the notion mentioned elsewhere in this book that the violent and socially destructive subculture of football hooliganism was defeated by the “loved up” feeling of ecstasy: “You’d actually see two blokes in opposing team shirts hugging each other on the dancefloor!” (73). One of the underlying themes of the series of anecdotes that make up Raving Lunacy is Courtney’s development of a relationship with his second wife, Jen. The fact that this woman is black would have caused a lot of problems for Courtney in his pre-raving days. He claims that club culture put an end to many of the racial problems in the UK by breaking down the localized and segregated neighborhoods. Since people began to travel much farther to go to clubs, the racial divides were less apparent and the use of ecstasy alleviated the kind of racial aggression that was the source of so much violence in the UK before the popularization of club culture: But Raving forced people to get together, to get integrated. Then once they were there, they saw how much that stereotype stu› was bollocks. So the white bloke would end up having a blinding time sharing a joint and dancing next to a black geezer [57].

Of course, in this more contemporary study of club culture (see chapter four) we find that clubs have reverted to a more segregated format and the taste in music has splintered along racial lines again (57). Nevertheless, Courtney believes that club culture and ecstasy helped to develop a more positive, less violent culture in the UK. He bases this on his personal devel149

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opment from a man who made his living on the violent fringes of society to a much more tolerant entertainer. Courtney repeats the claim that ecstasy enables white men to dance: “It actually made white guys be able to dance, for fuck’s sake! I always wondered if black geezers got pissed o› about that cos it meant they’d lost an edge!” (74). The number of claims that are made for the positive e›ects of ecstasy in personal accounts of life in the UK in the early days of club culture are quite astounding. We do not find nearly so many claims being made in North American club fiction. It is also possible that this may be because of more rigorous laws and publication policies in the U.S. and it may be because the drug did not have the same ameliorating e›ect on the violent gang culture in the U.S. that it did on football hooligans. The underlying causes for racial disharmony run much deeper in the U.S. than in the UK and the drugs that are popular among minority populations in the U.S.— cocaine, heroin, and crack cocaine — are less likely to promote feelings of harmony and universal love. Raving Lunacy is an interesting example of life writing that does not have pretensions to serious literary merit like “Confessions of a MiddleAged Ecstasy Eater.” Nevertheless, it provides an insight into the motivation of many people involved in club culture to express their experiences in written format. This book leads the reader through the life of Dave Courtney at a time when social standards and accepted forms of behavior were being reformulated and it presents club culture as an extremely positive influence on both a personal and a social level.

CONCLUSION In this chapter the primary tension between club fiction’s representation of drugs and drug use has become clear. Traditions borrowed from shamanism and neo-tribalism developed in the ¡960s have encouraged many writers of club fiction to present the relationship of drug use to club culture in a positive light. Some saw drugs as a means of personal revelation and others saw drugs — especially ecstasy — as the impetus to political activism of a sort. On the other hand, fear of incarceration, abuse by criminals and general observation of the depredations of addiction on 150

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health and well-being have resulted in a branch of club fiction that strays toward a didactic insistence upon the dangers of drug use. The only thing that both formats have in common seems to be a recognition that, on some level, club culture is motivated by drugs.

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6

Take the Money and Run: Exploitation of Rave Culture As club culture becomes more visible to the general public the number of films, books and television programs that exploit the idea of the culture as a dramatic device without intending to cater to an audience of club culture participants become more common. Texts, film and especially television programs that present elements of a subculture in a predigested form to an audience that is unfamiliar with the details of that subculture are relatively common; for example, in the latter half of the ¡960s, hippies, communes, marijuana and LSD began to appear in mainstream entertainment. In this sort of television the hippie was presented as either the sinister villain or the befuddled but generally harmless comic relief. In the late ¡970s punks with brightly colored Mohawk haircuts and poor social skills began to appear — again as villains or confused and immature foils for the adult protagonists in mainstream entertainment. Following this pattern, in the late ¡990s ravers and clubbers began to appear as villains, victims or comic relief in mainstream entertainment. The unifying principle in the examples of popular entertainment that are the subject material of this chapter is that their intended target audience is not exclusively active members of club culture. In many cases, one might argue that they are not actually examples of club fiction because they do not demonstrate an intimate knowledge of the subject matter, and the clubbers, clubs and raves that are represented often serve as two-dimensional foils for the mainstream protagonists. However, fiction of this sort cannot be ignored in any 152

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study of the secondary artistic phenomena surrounding club culture; these pieces have an extremely high profile and help to shape the mainstream opinion of the subculture from the outside rather than reflecting upon its structure from within.

FILM There are a number of examples of films that have appeared since around ¡990 which incorporate elements of club culture but are not intended for a club culture audience. In some cases, these films demonstrate substantial knowledge of club culture on the part of their writers and directors, but it is always clear that the true focus of the film is to present the culture to a nonparticipant audience. In some cases the clubbers that appear in these films are clownish and immature and in others they are obviously dangerous.

Go The film Go (¡999) was directed by Doug Liman and written by John August. The opening scene is set in a Los Angeles supermarket where Ronna Martin (Sarah Polley), a checkout girl at the end of her shift and, apparently, at the end of her rope, listlessly goes through the motions of her dull job. As she attempts to leave work she is approached by a fellow employee, Simon Baines (Desmond Askew), who wants her to take his shift so that he can go to Las Vegas with friends. The film takes great pains to represent the life of a checkout girl as unsatisfying and frustrating. Ronna is verbally abused by customers and other sta›, and her life is generally miserable. We see a clear presentation of the McJob, the bane of Gen X existence. The standard argument presented in club culture film, literature and television is that baby boomers, boring old farts that they are, have all the good jobs and the bright young men and women of Gen X have to live in indentured servitude while waiting for the mass retirement of their elders. Sarah Polley expressively represents this world-weary, hopeless attitude with body language, diction and facial expression. We discover that Ronna is about to be thrown out of her apartment for 153

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nonpayment of rent and therefore feels forced to take the overtime o›ered by her coworker. This ennui and general air of a repressive environment is a pervasive topos in most forms of club fiction, both exploitive fiction and fiction intended for a club cultural audience. An uncomfortable quotidian existence provides the impetus for escape into the alternate environment of club life with its bright lights and chemically induced joy and camaraderie. However, Go, like many examples of mainstream fiction that superficially represent club culture, does not convincingly present the club or rave as the safety valve that makes the tedium of the clubber’s daily existence acceptable. Ronna’s chance for escape comes as she is working her overtime shift at the till. She is approached by two handsome young men, Adam (Scott Wolf ) and Zack ( Jay Mohr), who are looking for Simon because he is their regular drug dealer. They are a gay couple who are attempting, with less than resounding success, to appear straight and one of the running gags of the films is that they are constantly recognized as gay by admiring, yet disappointed, young women. The two men want to buy twenty ecstasy pills for a rave and Ronna sees this as an opportunity to make enough money to pay her back rent. In other types of club fiction, the economic motivation for drug dealing is usually an opportunity to get more drugs for personal use or to obtain access to a club. In Go, however, Ronna sees this as a way of making her non-clubbing existence more palatable, so she quickly agrees even though she has no experience with dealing drugs. In fact, she knows Simon’s drug source, Todd (Timothy Olyphant), only by hearsay. Nevertheless, after her shift is done she goes with her friends Manny (Nathan Bexton) and Claire (Katie Holmes) to Todd’s house to make the deal. The shabby car that Ronna and her friends use clearly represents their poverty in an expressively Californian context. Ronna’s desire to extricate herself from her financial problems through the risky proposition of drug dealing is an e›ective plot device that engages the audience as Ronna attempts to solve one set of problems while involving herself in a di›erent — yet equally, if not more, di‡cult — set of situations. Ronna is quite appropriately terrified of the infamous Todd and he is menacing, yet somehow attractive. She acquires the ecstasy from him on the promise of prompt repayment and leaves her friend Claire as a human security deposit. 154

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As one might expect, the deal goes sour because Adam and Zack have been co-opted by a detective. Fortunately Ronna suspects that something has gone awry and flushes the ecstasy down the toilet before she can be arrested. It is important to note that the attitude towards drug dealing in this film is a very mainstream North American conception. Characters in Go deal drugs to strangers because they feel that without the money obtained from this practice they would be unable to partake in the advantages of life that mainstream culture o›ers. In other words Ronna and Todd both deal drugs in order to get money that they would not otherwise have. This strategy has obviously worked for Todd, as he has a nice apartment, an expensive stereo and a car. Neither of the two principal characters sees club culture as the teleological endpoint; club culture is just a means to obtain items of material wealth. Ronna is excluded from the good life in California because of her socioeconomic status. She does not extemporize about the aesthetic or religious experiences of the drugs; she is happy to sell them in order to escape from her mind-numbing job at the supermarket. In the logical framework of Go, clubbers are a market that has not been tapped by the legitimate economy. The economic bias is reinforced by the fact that the detective, Burke (William Fichtner), is a salesman for a multileveled marketing corporation who pitches products to Adam and Zack while he is blackmailing them into entrapping Ronna. The film parallels the multileveled marketing of consumer products with the marketing structure of drugs: users become vendors and move up the economic chain. The obvious message is that dealing drugs or pushing legal, yet unwanted, commodities on customers are in the same moral category. Both are reflections of the American dream. On one level, Go is not really about a subculture of the club, it is about poor people attempting to partake in the advantages of material wealth and the forces that resist that attempt. The characters in Go do not use ecstasy in order to achieve the Temporary Autonomous Zone of Bey’s manifesto, nor do they use drugs as an adjunct to an aesthetic or artistic experience. In fact, the only person who actually ingests ecstasy in this film is Mannie, Ronna’s friend and driver, who palms two of the pills before they arrive at Adam and Zack’s place. The hallucinations and physical e›ects that Mannie experiences are not particularly accurate representations of the ecstasy experience and appear 155

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to have been modeled on stock filmic representations of LSD experiences. This is one of the primary indications that Go is a film intended to present outsiders with a distorted image of the rave/club rather than to celebrate club culture to its actual participants. Although Go has many features that demonstrate familiarity with club and drug culture, the most telling failure of the film as far as representing clubbers to themselves is the sound track. The music is an eclectic mixture of popular music, but most of it is not recognizably electronic dance music of the sort found in clubs and at raves. On the sound track compact disk there are about four tracks that could be considered appropriate (Leftfield’s “Swords”; Fatboy Slim’s “Gangster Tripping”; Air’s “Talisman”; BT’s “Believer”). However, in the film itself these tracks are given very little airplay; the editors have opted for a combination of hip-hop and heavy metal rather than dance music. Go is very much a North American film, with a few plot structure innovations derived from Quentin Tarentino’s highly successful Pulp Fiction. Although the theme of escape from the humdrum existence of an unrewarding day job is covered, the rave is just a small part of the general plot structure of this film. Go incorporates a road trip to Las Vegas that follows traditional American middle-class notions of escape in the format of a “road movie.” The “road movie” is a very American genre of film in which the protagonists attempt to escape their day-to-day lives through adventure on the road. Films like Ridley Scott’s Thelma and Louise (¡99¡) or Dennis Hopper’s Easy Rider (¡969) follow their protagonists as their characters develop on the physical journey. This is in contrast to most club fiction, which focuses on the weekend escape in the dance club. Most club fiction uses drug dealing as an important element of the plot structure and Go does indeed incorporate a drug deal into its plotline. As mentioned above, the motivation for the drug dealing is quite di›erent from that represented in more sympathetic examples of club fiction. Moreover, the drug experience is sanitized to the extent that only one character actually takes ecstasy and he has an obvious bad time. There are a number of reasons that Manny does not enjoy himself, but the most direct explanation is that ecstasy is known as an empathy drug that increases pleasure in physical activity. It is most often taken to enhance the communal experience of dancing at a club or rave. Manny is alone for 156

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most of his experience and he spends most of his time hiding from pursuit behind a pile of garbage cans and consequently excluded from both physical activity and human contact. Go is a moderately successful film that uses the “look and feel” of club culture without really exploring the essential themes that are at the heart of most club cultural fiction. Perhaps the greatest error on the part of the film’s creators was the decision not to use authentic club music. This choice alienated the potential clubbing audience and identified it as an “outsider” film that used elements of club culture without actually seriously attempting to engage the subcultural participants.

Kevin and Perry Go Large Harry Enfield developed this film from a short television sketch. The film deals with the adventures of Kevin and Perry, two teenage boys from the UK who want to become superstar DJs and lose their virginity — not necessarily in that order. Enfield plays the part of Kevin and his friend Perry is played by Kathy Burke. Not only is Burke female, but Enfield was born in ¡96¡ and Burke in ¡964, thus the physical appearances of the pair stretch the bounds of verisimilitude. Nevertheless, Enfield manages to provide a relatively accurate parody of a teenage boy — he has the gestures, fixations and vocal idiosyncrasies down pat, and Burke manages to present the hermaphroditic qualities of a certain kind of teenage boy in a passable fashion. The plot of the film centers around a number of physical gags; the boys have erections at inopportune moments, the girls (other than Burke) are plagued with all of the physical problems of adolescence in gory detail, and Kevin’s parents have a bad habit of having very audible sex in the next room while the boys are attempting to sleep. The story begins as Kevin and Perry come into some reward money by accidentally thwarting a bank robbery. The pair are presented as pubescent teens who fantasize about the joys and freedoms enjoyed by slightly older teens who “live it large” in the dance clubs of the UK and abroad. When the two get their reward money their first idea is to go o› to Ibiza and partake of the sexual freedoms of club culture. After some negotiations concerning adolescent boys traveling alone, they head o› to Ibiza with Kevin’s parents in tow. While in Ibiza the boys are exploited by a 157

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superstar DJ, Eyeball Paul (Rhys Ifans), and in a triumphant ending they present their home produced dance track to an enthusiastic crowd at one of the Ibiza super-clubs. The rather hackneyed plot takes advantage of the special place that Spain holds in the mythology of UK rave and club culture. By making the Spanish island of Ibiza the location for the culmination of the teenage fantasy of the two lads, Kevin and Perry Go Large acknowledges that the island was the source for many of the identifying characteristics of the club culture that appeared in London in the late ¡980s. Since vacations in Ibiza and other parts of Spain have become extremely important components in the life of club culture in the UK it is almost mandatory that this parody take its two heroes to the spiritual home of the movement. Kevin and Perry Go Large is a member of that branch of club fiction (film television and novels) which exploits the idea of clubbing vacations in Spain. Most of these are relatively trivial works that focus on sex and drugs in a land of eternal sunshine. Novels like Is Harry on the Boat and the television series developed from it, as well as films like Kevin and Perry Go Large, exploit the popular mainstream commercialization of Spanish clubbing vacations. Although Kevin and Perry Go Large is a ridiculous parody, the production pays some attention to accuracy in the representation of UK/Ibiza club culture. The sound track was produced by BBC radio’s superstar DJ, Judge Jules, and includes enough currently popular dance music that the double CD sound track had respectable sales. Much of the humor of the film depends upon contrasting the audience’s knowledge of the real club scene to the boys’ idealized notions. When Kevin and Perry are carrying Eyeball Paul’s record boxes into the club they mention that they are also DJs. He turns on them and asks a series of pointed questions concerning their style of music: EYEBALL PAUL: So you two are DJs, yeah? So what’s your collection? What beats ya into? House or Garage? KEVIN: House? EYEBALL PAUL: Acid House or Pumpin House? KEVIN: Pumpin House? EYEBALL PAUL: Baleric Pumpin or Commercial Pumpin? KEVIN: Baleric? EYEBALL PAUL: Sasha or Chicane?1 158

6 • Take the Money and Run KEVIN: Sash! EYEBALL PAUL: (With a cry of triumph) Boys these blaggars are punts.

The exchange is funny only if you have a good general knowledge of the UK dance music scene; the boys’ final choice reveals that they are not as familiar with the music as they believe. If the audience were made up of complete neophytes then it would not be nearly so humorous to hear Kevin make a mistake in defining genre. Nevertheless, the bulk of the film is risible to anyone who finds the embarrassing predicaments of teenagers humorous. The film is notable in its avoidance of the topic of drug use by clubbers. This exclusion of one of the major topics of all other forms of club fiction would suggest that the film is definitely aimed at a young audience — an audience that listens to the music of older clubbers and reads their publications but has limited experience with clubs in the real world. Kevin and Perry Go Large represents Kevin’s parents as long-su›ering, quite patient and relatively open to the club scene. In one instance they sing a few lines from the song “Wonderwall” by the contemporary Manchester rock band Oasis. Kevin is horrified and orders his parents to refrain from desecrating music that “they know nothing about.” This would suggest that the film is also aimed at an older audience who may be accompanying their children to the theatre. In both cases the audience is on the borderline of the demographic group that actually makes up club culture. The parents are just a bit too old and the children are just a bit too young. Nevertheless, both groups are represented as having an interest in the subculture. Exploitation of this sort moves certain aspects of the subculture directly into mainstream culture while removing many of its “dangerous” aspects — like drug use. In this rather fond look at club culture the general audience is invited to accept it as a positive influence on young men. The only serious danger represented is the possibility that a successful DJ can become self-involved and arrogant — an ever-present danger for most teenage boys whatever their interests might be. Eyeball Paul is the paradigm for this sort of attitude problem and it is suggested in the end of the film that Kevin will also allow his success to go to his head. Although Kevin and Perry Go Large exploits club culture to the mainstream, its humor is focused around the eternal verities of adolescence and its view of club cul159

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ture is an interesting contrast to the tabloid type representation which focuses on the dangers of drugs and irresponsible sex.

The 5¡st State (Formula 5¡) Formula 5¡ (200¡), which was released in the UK under the title The 5¡st State, was directed by Ronny Yu, a veteran of the Hong Kong film industry who has worked primarily in the horror genre since moving to the U.S.2 Elmo McElroy (Samuel L. Jackson) is an American chemist who develops a drug that is fifty-one times more powerful than any other available. The film begins with a flashback to ¡97¡; McElroy is driving along the Pacific Coast dressed in his graduation robes listening to soul music and smoking pot. He is stopped by a state trooper who arrests him for possession and e›ectively ends his career as a legitimate pharmacologist. The scene then jumps to thirty years later in Los Angeles where McElroy is working as a “master chemist” in a place identified as the Lizard’s Lab. He heads o› to Liverpool to make a big score after attempting to kill his associate, the Lizard (Meat Loaf ), with a bomb. In Liverpool McElroy becomes entangled with a pair of UK criminals who complicate the deal. Dakota Parker (Emily Mortimer), known as Dawn before she moved to the U.S., is a professional killer who is hired by the Lizard to retrieve Elmo before he transfers the drug formula to someone else and Felix DeSousa (Robert Carlyle) is an agent for the prospective buyer and Dakota’s former lover. After the first deal falls through when Dakota kills most of the clients, Felix arranges an alternate deal with a criminal named Iki (Rhys Ifans).3 When he first meets McElroy, Iki sings a snatch of a song entitled “The Brothers Gonna Work it Out” as a humorous reference to McElroy and Felix’s partnership; the song was a hit by the Chemical Brothers. The reference, though hardly obscure, does indicate some familiarity with club culture. Iki then proceeds to make a connection between drug use and his own dysfunctional family background. This is, of course, a view on club culture that is not universally held by participants. As mentioned elsewhere in this study, law enforcement authorities had some di‡culty with profiling the patterns of drug use associated with club culture, as the users did not fit the generally lower class, problem family background that was to be found in other drug using communities. After testing the drug at a 160

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club Iki says, “This, Mr. McElroy, is a fuckin’ miracle. Drug use will reach epidemic proportions, revolutions will break out, governments will fall.” The words match up to the idealism of the early years of club culture, but the source of the quotation makes it ironic. Felix and Dakota’s relationship serves to convey the plot through a series of adventures set in the clubs and criminal hangouts of Liverpool. Although this film features a number of well-respected actors it focuses on contrasting the UK underworld with American norms and expectations. The UK title, The 5¡st State, is a play upon the idea that the UK is simply a client state of the United States. As Lizard says during the climactic drug deal double-cross that ends the film, “England ain’t nothin,’ nothin’ but the fifty-first state.” Because the film required substantial knowledge of UK culture, a lot of the humor was inaccessible to an American audience and the film did not do well financially. Although The 5¡st State uses some aspects of club culture to further its plot, they are not pivotal; this film exploits club culture in its UK format as simply another example of the contrast between the U.S. and the UK. The 5¡st State uses contrasting genres of popular music in the same fashion; when Elmo is on-screen the music tends to be hip-hop, a skinhead crew provides comic relief to a background of punk, and club music serves as a leitmotiv for Iki. As evidenced by its title change in the North American release, The 5¡st State was an attempt to hit two distinct markets, North American and UK youth culture. Because of the highly culturally specific nature of the UK elements of the film, it did not do very well in the much larger and more lucrative North American market. Club culture, although a pivotal element in the plot, is not particularly well represented and serves only to cloud the issue to a North American audience.

DOCUMENTARIES A number of documentaries made about club culture are on the border between exploitation of the movement for an outside audience and a highly positive reproduction of the scene for its participants. On one hand, they attempt to show the nature, origins, practices and goals of club culture and the history of electronic dance music to a theatre or television 161

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audience that knows nothing of the movement, and, on the other hand, they lovingly represent the minutia of club culture in a way that only an audience already participating in the culture could appreciate. This equivocal stance has garnered these films a broader audience at the expense of a truly in-depth treatment of the subject from one of the two perspectives.

Modulations This ¡998 film by Lara Lee is advertised as “trace[ing] the evolution of electronic music as one of the most profound artistic developments of the 20th century” (VHS box description). Lee takes the approach of aesthetic music analysis and attempts to demonstrate that modern electronic dance music has its roots in the high culture of the early twentieth century. She interviews Karlheinz Stockhausen, discusses the work of John Cage, and attempts to trace how the sort of intellectual experimentation characteristic of these composers have given rise to the immense popularity of the electronic dance music of club culture. This is accomplished through the use of interviews, film clips and a judicious selection of material from the more intellectually inclined musicians of contemporary electronic dance music. Lee’s intended audience is a bit more cerebral than the crowd “’avin it on the dancefloor” that makes up the rank and file of club culture in the UK and North America. Nevertheless, she manages to include enough scenes of Dionysian excess that the average clubber will also be interested in the film. Moreover, because she interviews the major names in the field of popular electronic dance music, Modulations provides a much more personal view than customary for this relatively anonymous genre. The style of the interviews is consistent with the attempt to balance two audiences: clubbers and a general intellectual crowd somewhat interested in the sociology and aesthetics of the movement. However, this is not always successful. For example, the subjects of the interviews are not introduced either verbally or with a text header. This means that if one does not recognize famous subcultural figures like LTJ Bukem, Moby, or Juan Atkins then their pronouncements on the nature and history of electronic music are without context. To the uninitiated audience they could be a series of random people posed around electronic instruments or in somebody’s back yard. Thus, despite the scholarly tone of the discourse 162

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in Modulations, there is an essential lack of context for the non-clubbing audience. In fact, given the nature of electronic dance music as a medium that de-emphasizes the role of the musician as a personality, even a longtime participant in club culture might have a hard time in identifying all of the subjects of Lee’s interviews. It is possible that this lack of reference points may be a device to maintain the culture of the anonymous artist for aesthetic purposes — to frustrate the desire to categorize the individuals. The general theme of Modulations is electronic music as an artistic force rather than club culture as a subcultural entity. Even when the discussion turns toward the change in music styles precipitated by drug use in the UK it is done in an almost o›hand fashion, as a secondary and almost incidental influence to the postmodern drive to make music from technological sources. This means that the intellectual, non-clubbing members of Modulations’ audience will be much happier with the e›ort than club culture’s active members. Clubbers will not see the film as a chance to reflect their own interests although they might understand it as an attempt to provide an intellectual and aesthetic justification of their movement. The intellectual tone of the discourse in Modulations means that, unlike other films and novels approaching club culture from the outside, this film does not cater to those looking for shocking details of hedonistic excess. It is a balanced approach that is interesting to musicians and students of contemporary culture. Modulations incorporates a number of commentaries on the development of club culture as seen from the perspective of musical genre. For example, Jungle is defined as a UK response to the American genre of hiphop and House music is presented as a development based upon the availability of cheap electronic instruments like the Roland TB 303 and Roland 909 drum machine. Social influences like gay culture, Ibiza holidays and Thatcherism are passed over without comment. Although this is to be expected in a documentary focusing on musical developments, it is somewhat disappointing to see that the synergistic e›ects that have given rise to club culture are, for the most part, discounted in favor of technological and aesthetic aspects of the history of the music. Modulations includes a short section concerning the change in club culture from its altruistic, music oriented roots to the contemporary (¡998) focus on money. The people attending a rave are interviewed in order to 163

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represent their distrust in the new fiscal policies of rave promoters. There are also scenes of a rave being broken up by the police; however, as Modulations was filmed in North America, the e›ect of the UK’s Criminal Justice Act on club culture is not mentioned at all.

Summer Love: The Documentary This ¡999 documentary was produced in Vancouver by the unlikely team of the wife and children of the famous rock and roll star Phil Collins. Joely Collins is the MC for the Summer Love rave event that is the subject of the documentary and her brother, Simon, is one of the live band performers and “actors” in the documentary. Mike Andaluz is coproducer and codirector of this e›ort and is featured as a “partygoer” in this rather stylized documentary form. Although most documentaries are not straight journalism, this e›ort seems quite open about the semi-scripted acting involved in its production. Summer Love: The Documentary is an openly pro-rave production designed to promote the new-age philosophy of some brands of club culture. Since it is shot primarily from the perspective of rave promoters, the film spends much of its time dealing with the immense amount of work necessary to put on a rave with thousands of people attending. Many of the logistical problems of the production seem to be derived from the amateur nature of the work crews who are — as at many raves — working just to get free admission to the event. The filmmakers also interview a host of the hangers-on who run the booths at this outdoor event. These are people who sell rave-related items like hash pipes, glow sticks, cigarettes and rolling papers. The economic verities of a huge production of this sort are never far from the surface of this documentary and it is in many ways close to the fictional account of Rushko› ’s novel Ecstasy Club. However, the rave promoters in this film do not have time to degenerate into disharmony like the rave collective in Rushko› ’s novel. By the end of the show everyone is exhausted but happy with a job well done, and they have resolved all of the conflicts arising from the pressures of this sort of event. Unlike the two other documentaries discussed in this book (Modulations and Better Living Through Circuitry), Summer Love is quite frank about the importance of drug culture to the club movement. There are 164

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numerous shots of people openly smoking marijuana and the e›ects of ecstasy, LSD and amphetamines are a common subject of conversation. This frankness was probably detrimental to the marketing of the film to general audiences, since open acceptance of drug use tends to alienate mainstream audiences. This is not a shock-journalism e›ort designed to warn people o› raving and dance drugs. The theory of Peace, Love, Unity and Respect (PLUR) is dealt with in depth and the rave is presented as a youth alternative to the violence of other sorts of gatherings. If one considers Summer Love as an exploitation of club culture it is definitely a fond exploitation by people who realize that the subculture is becoming mainstream. They are unashamed of their economic motivations, because they feel that raves are a new form of entertainment that must fit into the economic framework of the existing society. This very North American approach is quite unlike the free party rhetoric of UK New-age travelers despite the fact that much of the neo-shamanistic theory is the same. The idea of the rave as a great release from day-to-day existence is also present in this documentary. There are a few specifically Canadian elements in this production — at one point an American with a gun rack on his car is interviewed and at the very end of the film, after the credits have rolled, a French Canadian heavy metal fan is interviewed while he is drinking beer fetched from the trunk of his car. Of course, the bane of every outdoor Canadian event, mosquitoes, are ever present in the film and in the words of the long-su›ering ravers. It is significant that most North American representations of club culture, both fiction and documentary, focus on the culture from the perspective of the organizers. Groove, Ecstasy Club and Summer Love have a strong subtext of praise for the entertainment collectives who make it all happen. Moreover, it is not the DJ who is most significant — the obvious star of the show — but the people who deal with the logistic grunt-work of finding a venue and dealing with the police when they come to visit. UK e›orts that discuss club promoters tend towards the critical and emphasize criminal connections or drug dealing. This may be due to a general North American tendency to favor the independent businessman. It could also be because club culture in the UK has moved into the realm of the franchised super-club — an alien entity for the relatively smaller demographic profile of club culture in North America. 165

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NOVELS Disco Bloodbath Although James St. James’ text Disco Bloodbath (¡999)4 is supposed to be an autobiographical account of a drug-related murder in New York clubland in the ¡990s, it is in fact an extremely exploitative account of the lifestyle of high-profile gay clubbers in the late ¡980s and early ¡990s. St. James introduces the book with a chapter devoted to the nature of the club drug ketamine. His description includes details like the chemical composition, places to purchase its raw materials and the method of converting the liquid form to a powder. This is done in order to introduce the reader to the ludicrous aspects of people using a drug the only legitimate use of which is as an animal tranquillizer. This self-mocking attitude along with the extremely campy style of St. James’ narrative make it clear that the people who were participants in the club scene that is the backdrop for this tale of excess are not his target audience. Disco Bloodbath, from the title on down to the narrative style, is designed to show club culture in the worst possible light to an audience that is extremely unlikely to ever become part of the scene. St. James and his compatriots come o› as addicted clowns who will do anything in order to maintain their “high” media profile in the New York club scene. When St. James ends his preliminary discourse on ketamine and moves on to his narrative proper he presents a scene in ¡996 in which he has taken so much ketamine that he finds himself wandering around Manhattan in a snowstorm wearing only a filmy peignoir and desperately trying to find some place to go. The reader cannot help but feel a sense of pity for someone who could get in such a state no matter what his sexual persuasion or what drugs were involved. When St. James finally finds the home of one of his friends, Michael Alig, he is invited in and treated to a gruesome tale of murder. Alig and his friend, Freeze, have killed another member of their circle, the Hispanic drug dealer Angel, in an argument over money. To avoid arrest for the murder they then cut up the body and dump it in the river. Just to make sure that no one mistakes this for a crime of passion, the narrator remarks that the apartment has been refurnished using Angel’s money. The narrative explicitly connects the murder and the 166

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disposal of the body to excessive drug use on the part of the murderers. Consumption of huge amounts of heroin, cocaine, and, of course, ketamine, are all described in loving detail and it is clear to the reader that these otherwise ino›ensive — in fact ine›ectual — clownish people would not have been able to accomplish such a horrendous act without the influence of these substances. It is clearly a reversal of the club culture theory that drugs are somehow a positive influence. Even Irvine Welsh at his most explicit does not describe actions of this sort with the cavalier drugaddled sense of unreality that St. James manages to convey to his audience. The murder actually serves as a lead-in to the story of the evolution of club life in New York at this time. St. James makes it a personal narrative, beginning with his arrival in New York in ¡984. An important component of his narrative is that he claims to have created Michael Alig’s public persona. In this highly visible New York version of club culture at this time it was important to be recognized by the “A list” people and by journalists and photographers, and St. James claims to have introduced Alig to the right people. He also indicates that he taught Alig the appropriate techniques to impress the important players in the system. The description of the club scene in Disco Bloodbath is radically di›erent from any other account of club culture encountered in this book. A character like DJ Keoki, who would be central to the action in other forms of club fiction, is relegated to the role of an untalented but cute boyfriend whose career is artificially created through the good o‡ces of Michael Alig: Keoki decided he wanted to be a DJ — despite the fact that he didn’t know the first thing about it. Oh he was just awful. His selections were a mishmash of the pretentious, the obvious, and just plain bad taste. Nobody could clear a room faster than Keoki [5¡].

Keoki is a very successful DJ and it is unlikely that the reputation that he has gained could have been the result of the e›orts of a drug addled club “face” in New York. However, to a complete outsider, the club scene as represented in this text could be believable. Disco Bloodbath presents the reader with a club culture populated by talentless DJs, transvestites with heroin habits, and violent individuals. St. James is exploiting a very specific branch of club culture for an audience interested in horrific stories of evil gay men and irresponsible people who are famous because they live in a 167

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large city. This text owes a lot to narrative techniques developed in “true crime” magazines of the ¡950s and contemporary tabloid journalism. Of course the humorous tone and the insider’s view of the criminal activities is quite di›erent from the serious, police report style of the old magazines. Nevertheless, it would appear the desire on the part of the audience is the same — to have a glimpse at the lives of the criminals and then to recoil in shocked horror secure in the knowledge that a glamorous life of crime will end badly for all concerned. The representation of club culture in Disco Bloodbath is quite di›erent from most factual reports or even other works of club fiction. For example, in St. James’ narrative the clubbers do not go to clubs to dance, they take depressants and heroin and spend most of their time mugging for cameras. This is so di›erent from other texts and films in this book that one might suspect that St. James is not even dealing with the same subcultural entity. Disco Bloodbath is not really about a club scene with music and dancers, it is about empty celebrity; hence it is not surprising that Andy Warhol and his coterie of hangers-on feature prominently in St. James’ narrative. St. James often compares himself and his friends to Warhol’s group, and Warhol’s concept of fifteen minutes of fame is a recurring theme in Disco Bloodbath. St. James and his compatriots desire to hang onto their fame no matter how undeserved and they seem unwilling to recognize that talent and initiative are a primary source of lasting fame. In fact, this novel tends to discount any sort of fame that that extends outside the rather incestuous circle of New York clubs and publications. St. James’ book is ethically questionable on a number of levels that extend far beyond the other exploitative representations of club culture in this chapter. One of the most prominent features of the text is its representation of gay men as trivial-minded, vindictive, vain and casually murderous. Despite the fact that the book was written by a gay man, this characterization is consistent with the kind of representation of gay characters in Hollywood films of the past. The gay men in Disco Bloodbath are presented as both silly and dangerous criminals, not an easy task to accomplish. However, St. James may actually believe that he is defending this lifestyle on the grounds that being famous is an end in itself: And Disco 2000 certainly let a whole generation of teenagers see homos and weirdoes and sickos up close and personal, in all their majesty and splen168

6 • Take the Money and Run dor. And they learned that often times the very same kids they pick on in high school are the ones holding the drink tickets, the drugs, and the guest list at the coolest club in New York [78].

Rather than being a participatory subculture that de-emphasizes the individual in favor of the collective, St. James’ club-land of New York is a star system with in-people and out-people, with lists of the famous and their hangers on. It is much more like the world represented in Mark Christopher’s film 54 (¡998) that represents the rise and fall of the ¡970s New York disco club Studio 54. In other words, St. James’s New York club-land is really just a continuation of the cocaine-fuelled world of disco with new drugs and more violence. Of course there is a close historical connection between the two scenes, but most of the essential psychological elements of contemporary club culture are missing. For example, St. James comments on the use of ecstasy: “The worst drug calamity, the worst-case scenario, was that you took too much ecstasy and were actually nice to a Bridge and Tunnel person” (67). (Bridge and tunnel people are clubbers who do not live in Manhattan but cross over to the island by means of the bridges and tunnels for an evening of entertainment.) Of course, as the above quotation illustrates, there is a strongly ironic aspect to this narrative. St. James seems to posit an audience that will find this lifestyle questionable, but in doing so he caters to a negative view of his subculture by nonmembers.

Is Harry on the Boat? This ¡997 novel by Colin Butts is advertised on its back cover in a quotation from The Big Issue 5 as “a contemporary trash classic,” and the front page boldly states that “Ibiza Uncovered 6 deserved a wider audience, but only tells half the story — this book paints a much more vivid picture.” The quotation is attributed to Gary Bushell, in the tabloid paper The Sun. Both references reveal the aspirations of the novel to aim for the lowest common denominator: an audience interested in club vacations as a spectator sport with sex and drugs in the foreground. In the “Foreword and Thanks” the author makes special mention of several airport bookshop managers for putting his book on the shelves. It is clear that this book is aimed at the holiday traveler who wants a sexy beach novel. 169

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The novel tells the story of a group of tour company representatives during one summer holiday season in Ibiza. These are the people who handle the on-site entertainment of the tourists who buy package tours from travel companies. This company is named “Young Free and Single” and its clients provide an endless source of sexual liaisons for the representatives. Conflict in the plot is provided by an avaricious resort manager who attempts to bully the more intelligent and better-natured employees. There is also a subplot dealing with a sexual competition among the representatives: a number of points are assigned for various sexual acts and the totals are to be compared at the end of the season.7 The title of the book is revealed to be an obscene reference to oral sex: “Was she as dirty as she looked?” “Can’t really remember. Plenty of Harry on the boat, though.” “Plenty of what?” “It’s Cockney rhyming slang. Harry Monk, spunk, on the boat race, face” [87].

The novel begins with a short but graphic sex scene and there is at least one sex scene in every chapter. The audience that Butts is aiming at is interested in the club scene, but it would appear to be older males who are no longer a part of club culture’s primary demographic. The author reveals that the locale and time-frame of the book were deliberately chosen: “To give the story a contemporary feel and to allow for the development of the dance scene, which is so important to the Ibiza backdrop, the action takes place in the present day” (“Foreword and Thanks”). There are references to drugs and music here, but the primary focus of the action is on sex with numerous partners. For this reason, it is doubtful that this book is aimed at a real club culture audience. It is designed to present a distorted image of club culture as a construct of sexual license in order to interest nonparticipant observers. While the television version of this novel pays close attention to musical accuracy in order to gain some respect from a club culture audience, the initial novel form of Is Harry on the Boat? seems to pass over these aspects of the Ibiza scene in favor of representing the economic realities of holiday entertainment. This strategy lends credence to the proposition that this is a novel aimed at an older vacationing audience — an audience who would be interested in imagining the naughty goings-on in those other tour groups for “young and single people.” 170

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The tour company representatives in this novel receive financial kickbacks for taking their charges to less attractive bars and clubs and they also receive free drugs from dealers for advertising their wares to the tourists. The author feels no need to provide any semblance of accuracy when describing drug use by vacationing clubbers. For example, the description of GHB in the novel —“It was like a liquid Ecstasy and Brad had witnessed normal girls turn into sex fiends under its influence” (¡49)— sounds like it was lifted from a supermarket tabloid rather from any real observation, personal experience or technical research. Later in the novel this pattern of representation continues when one of the characters, Tom, tries to convince another, Greg, to try ecstasy for the first time. Arguments concerning long-term brain damage and allergic reactions are trotted out in a cursory fashion, but the deal is clinched when the sexual e›ects of the drug are described: “It’s fucking brilliant. Your whole body is like one big fucking erogenous zone. It’s almost impossible to come, and when you do...” Tom made an explosion type noise. Greg sat still for a moment or so. Suddenly he stood up and downed his drink in one. “Fuck it, let’s go an gerra couple” [205].

Is Harry on the Boat? is an example of the use of club culture as an entertaining plot device for the amusement of an audience who has no intention or, quite likely, even any possibility of taking part in the culture. Its substructure revolves around economic and social issues that are not of particular interest to clubbers and the representations of clubs, music and drugs are sketchy and poorly executed since they are not really of central interest to the target audience. The novel serves to move clubbing subculture into a mass market and thereby a›ects the expectations and judgments of a certain class of nonparticipant observers. Readers of this book will have their suspicions concerning club culture confirmed — sex, drugs and more sex with music serve as thin pretense for the orgiastic celebrations of youth.

171

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TELEVISION EXPLOITATIONS

OF

CLUB CULTURE

Is Harry on the Boat? In 200¡ the UK satellite network Sky¡ broadcast a ninety-seven minute long made-for-TV movie based upon Colin Butts’ novel. The movie was directed by Menhaj Huda and written by Colin Butts and Eitan Arrusi. The TV movie was successful enough to return as a television series on Sky¡ (2002–2003) comprised of twenty-six episodes over the course of two seasons. The movie version of the book is quite close to the original plot structure, focusing on the sexual adventures of the reps while maintaining continuity by telling a moral tale in which good and honest subordinates triumph over a corrupt tour supervisor who skims cash and abuses her employees. The series has a cast of characters that do not appear in the book and the first season’s story arc is based upon a love a›air between two of the reps. There is a secondary plotline in which one of the characters becomes involved with drug dealers and comes to a bad end. The movie version and the subsequent series are worth mentioning in a club culture context because they reflect the culture much more accurately. This has resulted in an enthusiastic reception by some club culture participants. Online reviews of the film indicate that the sound track is at least partially responsible for the acceptance of the television versions of Butts novel. This attention to music — the real heart of club culture — extends to the plot as well. Early in episode two of season one the following dialogue takes place between a rep, Sinjata Kapoor (Pooja Shah), and a tourist from Liverpool, Ian (Adam Burton), who identifies himself as Billy-no-mates: IAN: Not that I go t’match much. I prefer to blow my cash on vinyl these days. SINJATA: What type of vinyl? IAN: A bit of ’ip-’op [hip-hop], R&B, I like a bit of mellow drum and bass [Is Harry on the Boat?, ¡:2].

In this brief exchange the two identify themselves as DJs because they are both interested in vinyl records rather than compact discs and Ian presents a connoisseur’s preference for music popular in black clubs. The sub172

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text is that he would be interested in dating Sinjata and this is expressed through words, gestures and eye contact. She responds with an encouraging, “Don’t worry, Billy, I’ll look after you.” The character of Sinjata is one of the innovations of the television series from the novel and movie versions. She is Asian and her presence allows the writers to include plotlines that incorporate questions of race. For the most part, the reps and their customers are white, but this aspect of the series also indicates an attempt to reflect some of the real questions of club culture. The history of club culture is a strong thematic element in the television series. The writers introduce a bar owner named Cosmic Bob who appears to be in his forties and serves as mentor to the young reps. Bob has been on Ibiza for a long time, often plays reggae on his bar’s sound system, and holds forth on the history of club music. While trying to teach his much younger bartender about music he summarizes the movement from reggae to dance: It was better after Stone Roses and the Happy Mondays. They really started taking the music in a di›erent direction. I mean, you can hear those big acid beats subtly starting to creep their way into the mainstream. Think about what was about to happen. People like me would be soon crossing over into the enemy camp in their thousands and embracing dance music [¡.¡7].

Drugs are also a more important aspect of the television versions than they are in the novel. There is a definite hierarchy of substances represented and it roughly corresponds to the actualities of club culture. Cocaine is usually used by characters who have a negative influence on the protagonists, while marijuana is part of the normal recreational activities of the primary characters. On the other hand, Cosmic Bob presents ecstasy as part of the development of club culture: “People who had never taken drugs before, you know, the ‘Just say no crowd,’ were starting to neck pills like there was no tomorrow” (¡.¡7). Although the television versions of Is Harry on the Boat? are much more club culture friendly than the book, they still maintain a strong element of cultural voyeurism. To be fair, however, it is important to remember that club vacations in Ibiza have transformed over the life of the culture from the relatively adventurous experiences of a few “bleeding edge” participants in the late ¡980s to a prepackaged excursion designed to exploit 173

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the desires of the “Young Free and Single.” Is Harry on the Boat? reflects the reality of the popularization of club culture.

Inspector Morse: “Cherubim and Seraphim” In ¡992 the popular UK detective series, Inspector Morse, aired an episode entitled “Cherubim and Seraphim” that focused on the relatively new phenomenon of the rave scene. It was directed by Danny Boyle, who later went on to gain fame as one of the most prominent publicists of the Chemical Generation writers by directing Irving Welsh’s Trainspotting and Alex Garland’s The Beach. Morse is an aging, unmarried detective who works in the university town of Oxford, England. He is a quintessential intellectual who loves opera and tends to spout long quotations from Shakespeare and other classics, and is more or less a representative of the educated establishment in the UK. Morse has white hair, wears a dark suit and looks more like a university professor than a law enforcement o‡cer. The plot of this episode is based around the investigation of the suicide of a young girl who happens to be Morse’s niece. During Morse’s investigation of the death he discovers that there are a number of similar teen suicides in the area and the only thing that the victims have in common is involvement in the rave scene. The plot is designed to deal with the basic issues of the relatively new phenomenon of club culture in an almost journalistic fashion. It is this evenhanded treatment that makes “Cherubim and Seraphim” interesting as a popularization of club culture. An early indicator of the cultural sensitivity of this episode is the fact that the term “rave” is not used, this despite the fact that the dance events that are the focus of the action have all of the earmarks of late ¡980s raves. The practical implications of the terminology of club culture are brought home in a scene in which Morse and Lewis, his assistant, are talking with a club owner about the parties that his niece attended: MORSE: OWNER: MORSE: OWNER: MORSE:

What sort of party, birthday? They probably said so. What do you mean? Oh, dear. Youth culture’s a bit of a mystery to you, is it o‡cer? You could say so. 174

6 • Take the Money and Run OWNER: Young people, when they say parties, what they mean is drugs. Now I don’t allow drugs down here, I’d lose my entertainments license. Of course you can’t stop it altogether. But this isn’t London where anything goes, you people are always poking your noses in. ... LEWIS: Where was this party, someone’s house? OWNER: Someone’s warehouse, more like. What you do is rent a space and call it a private party. There’s not much that people like you can do, without getting very heavy.

This is quite close to the reason that organizers and participants hardly ever use the term “rave.” Calling the event a party makes it much easier to deal with rental agents and the police. In fact, to use the word “rave” has come to identify the speaker as an outsider in club culture; “party” is the accepted term since rave has been adopted and demonized by the popular press. When Morse and his assistant discuss one of the teen deaths with a pathologist, his colleague asks about the drug that was found on the boy. He asks if it is ecstasy and is told that the correct term is “E.” The conversation then moves on to Aldous Huxley’s “Heaven and Hell” and “The Doors of Perception.”8 The pathologist seems to follow Huxley’s pro-drug stance and Morse totally rejects it on ethical grounds. This is quite di›erent from the standard popular television presentation of the arguments for and against drugs. In “Cherubim and Seraphim” both sides of the argument are presented and there is reference to the scholarly tradition of the discussion of the subject. The drug in question in this drama is from a family called Sariphifics (fictional) that were developed to combat the e›ects of ageing on the mind. The idea of testing it on young people is rejected by the drug company, but it is rather obvious that the research chemist who developed it deliberately allowed someone to steal some samples. The question of the long-term e›ects of this fictional drug are mentioned in obvious reference to the common discussions about the long-term e›ects of ecstasy. The parallel with ecstasy’s use as a psychotherapy drug is also obvious although the direct mention of ecstasy in another context maintains the fictional structure of the discussion and avoids the possibility of the show being taking as a piece of propaganda for the pro-drug or antidrug forces in the UK. 175

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Morse also interviews the parents of the teens who are involved with the drug and discovers that there is no consistent profile of the family life of these young people. Some of the parents of the children who are involved with the drug are positive, caring role models and some are self-involved, bitter and di‡cult. The message of the show seems to be that one cannot simply say that children from “good” families do not become involved or that only spoiled self-indulgent rich children take drugs. This is a reference to the immense popularity of club culture in the UK at the time of this production. Social commentators and the popular press puzzled over the fact that there did not seem to be a single social class that gave rise to clubbers; it is di‡cult to develop a social strategy to prevent drug use when there is no obvious way of identifying and eliminating the social factors that promote it. Social concerns are obviously extremely important to the character of Inspector Morse. During a visit to a real estate agent who has been renting unused industrial properties to raves Morse holds forth on the underlying problems of contemporary society in a speech that has obvious similarities to the opening of Trainspotting: MORSE: Starter homes! God Almighty. To where? What sort of life do we o›er our young people, Lewis? School, if you’re lucky college, then marriage, a starter home, then children, a two bedroom semi, if you do well you just got to four bedrooms when your kids leave to buy starter homes of their own. LEWIS: When you pay rent — money down the drain. MORSE: This British home-owning democracy we’re all so proud of— it’s really a form of slavery. Man was born free, but everywhere he’s in the pocketed chain.

Danny Boyle’s later film, Trainspotting, begins with a diatribe by Renton, a young heroin addict, in which he summarizes the life of the middle-class citizen in the UK in a similar fashion. It is based around a UK antidrug advertising campaign called Choose Life. Renton’s conclusion is that it is better to opt out of the vicious economic cycle of consumerism and choose a simpler addiction: heroin. The audience of the Inspector Morse series would be less inclined to agree that drugs are the obvious solution to economic slavery, but it does present a short form of the counterculture arguments in favor of club culture. What is surprising is that the source of the 176

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comments in this episode is a man who in most other respects is represented as a bastion of the establishment.

EastEnders EastEnders is a BBC soap opera that began in ¡985 and is based around the lives of characters living in the fictitious London borough of Walford. Unlike Inspector Morse it does not cater to an audience that leans towards the intellectual side of things. In ¡993, as club culture became a strong influence in the UK, a number of the episodes of this show dealt with the production of a rave by several of the characters. The rave was not an economic success because some equipment was stolen. Moreover, other inhabitants of the area were o›ended by the loud noise (April ¡3, ¡993; April 20, ¡993; and April 22, ¡993). It is beyond the scope of this discussion to include a detailed analysis of the portrayal of rave culture in EastEnders, but it is important to note that it was a topic of discussion in this extremely popular series. The idea that rave promoters considered their productions to be economic propositions is significant in that it contrasts with many of the pronouncements of rave promoters represented in counterculture literature. On the other hand, there is no doubt that the economics of rave promotion were extremely important to “Thatcher’s Children.” The episode of May 27 in ¡996 includes a scene in a “gay” rave in which recurring characters demonstrate some degree of discomfort with the gay patrons. It is interesting to note that one of the primary constituent subcultural groups of rave culture, gay men, is represented in a less than flattering way in this episode. To the general non-raving public rave culture is being represented as associated with a subgroup that has a long history of exclusion and outright persecution by the mainstream. Moreover, in popular media representations of rave culture like this series, gay dance culture is generally represented as a source of either humor or danger.

AMERICAN TELEVISION There have been minor scenes and references to club culture and raves in several American television series in both the ¡990s and the current century. The accuracy of the representation of club culture varies substan177

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tially. Part of the reason for this is that none of these series are actually aimed at a club culture audience and club culture in North America has never been as popular as in the UK. This means that there is no real impetus to be particularly accurate, as the lack of verisimilitude will not be noticed and the potential club culture audience is so small as to be virtually insignificant.

Wolf Lake Wolf Lake was a short-lived9 horror/mystery series about a community of werewolves and starred Lou Diamond Phillips as John Kanin and the Canadian aboriginal actor Graham Greene as Sherman Blackstone. Kanin is a detective in search of his girlfriend, who has mysteriously disappeared. He follows her trail to a small town in the Pacific Northwest of the U.S. that is dominated by secretive clans of werewolves, with Blackstone as the leader of one group. During the rave episode (“Tastes Like Chicken,” 4.¡) a teenage girl, Sophia Donner (Mary Elizabeth Winstead), briefly attends a party in the forest. When Sophia arrives she is greeted by a friend dancing around and swigging whisky from a bottle. She dances briefly with her friend and then wanders away from the party in search of her current love interest. She finds him having sex with another girl and leaves the party in dismay. Although it is called a rave by the participants and law enforcement o‡cers, the party is relatively small and appears to be more like a traditional North American bush party than a rave. There are no signs of elaborate lighting or high powered sound equipment and the prominent use of alcohol is also not consistent with club culture norms. It would appear that, although the writers used the term “rave” to make the episode appeal to a contemporary youth audience, they did not attempt to use any of the specific attributes of club culture.

CSI: Crime Scene Investigation CSI: Crime Scene Investigation is a series about forensic detectives working in Las Vegas, Nevada. The show usually incorporates several parallel investigations in each episode, with di›erent members of the cast working on each crime. In “Friends and Lovers” (¡:5) only one team is concerned with the corpse of a young man found in the desert near the 178

6 • Take the Money and Run

city. It is discovered that the victim died after attending a rave in the desert where he ingested jimson weed, a plant of the genus Datura, several of which contain psychoactive alkaloids. When the investigative team interviews the deceased’s friend, the friend openly admits that they purchased the drug at the rave. Gil Grissom (William Petersen) and Warrick Brown (Gary Dourdan) accompany the friend of the dead man to another desert rave in order to apprehend the dealer who is selling this dangerous drug. He is arrested, but subsequently released when it is discovered that the jimson weed was not directly responsible for the death. The friend is eventually charged with manslaughter when it is revealed that he killed the victim while in a drug-induced delirium. The rave that is presented in this episode of CSI is more convincing than the one represented in Wolf Lake; the lights, music and sound system are accurately presented. Moreover, there is some attempt to represent the ambience of a club culture event. When one of the detectives is approached by a young woman who hugs him and professes her love he is informed that this is quite normal since ecstasy makes you love everyone. On the other hand, although there is evidence that some North American youth experiment with jimson weed, it is not common nor is it an appropriate dance drug. The series appears to have used an exotic drug to further the plot mechanism of scientific detection. This is in keeping with the basic premise of the series rather than an attempt to accurately reflect club culture.

Beverly Hills 902¡0 The popular Aaron Spelling production Beverly Hills 902¡0 (¡990– 2000) presents several episodes that include reference to raves and drug use. The series is based on the premise of a family who have moved from Minnesota to Beverly Hills and the subsequent adventures of the Walsh twins, Brandon ( Jason Priestly) and Brenda (Shannen Doherty) as they grow up in one of the most prestigious neighborhoods in America (902¡0 being the U.S. postal zip code for the location). The episode entitled “Rave On” (5.5) deals with a rave being held at a student hangout called the Peach Pit. Given the location it is actually more like a club night, but the series tends to play fast and loose with the rules of verisimilitude in all of its references to popular phenomena. 179

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In the episode entitled “Up in Flames” (5.¡3) the common warnings about raves and inadequate safety codes for the venues is made into a lesson. A couple of the characters organize a rave in an abandoned house that has shoddy wiring. The place catches fire and two people are killed in the ensuing conflagration. The episode also connects club culture with references to alternative sexuality. The organizers accidentally post the notice for their event on a computer bulletin board for lesbians, and most of the people who attend the event are gay women. It is di‡cult to determine if this is intended to demonstrate that gay people are more attracted to club culture or simply to provide a room full of “cannon fodder” in a dangerous situation. American television and film tend to present gay people in tragic circumstances; gay characters die o› far more often than their straight colleagues. Beverly Hills 902¡0 includes a few other episodes with passing references to raves, but all of these references are consistent with a superficial and cautionary approach to the subculture. This is in keeping with the general aesthetic of the series, which was something of a cross between a soap opera and an after-school television special intended to guide young people through the dangers of contemporary popular culture. Beverly Hills 902¡0 uses the audience’s fascination with beautiful people living the life of privilege and o›ers simplistic and emotional plot lines to maintain interest. Social commentary is conservative at its best and reactionary in the worst cases.

CONCLUSION The films that are discussed in this chapter may be divided into two major sections: fiction and documentary. The fiction, Go, Kevin and Perry Go Large and The 5¡st State, use club culture as a hook into a potential youth audience. This works with varying degrees of success. All of the fiction films miss essential components of club culture in order to appeal to other demographic sections. The documentary films, Modulations and Summer Love, present a more detailed look at club culture, but still do not focus directly on the club culture audience. The two novels, Disco Bloodbath and Is Harry on the Boat?, make no attempt at accurate representation of club culture. Their audiences are elsewhere and the texts are simple exploitation of club culture as an exotic locale. 180

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The television series discussed in this chapter are a special instance of the exploitation of club culture.10 For the most part, their audiences are not interested in club culture as an entity, they are interested in the recurring characters and situations that are the basis of the series structure. The club cultural situations and characters in these series serve as the secondary material that provide a variation in location — something exotic — that serves to disguise the sameness of the plot. Is Harry on the Boat? is a tale of the endless round of sexual adventures and personal conflicts of a group of tour company representatives in Ibiza. The elements of club culture that are inserted are more important to the recurring aspects of the basic plot structure than in the other television series in this chapter. That is because the unchanging setting incorporates clubs and club life as one of the attractions that brings the variable elements of the tourists and the reps to the island. For all of the other series in this section club life is simply a transitory element that serves to “tart up” the invariable elements. We appreciate that Inspector Morse is a sane intellectual voice in the madness that is modern England, promoting traditional cultural values in the face of overweening greed and youthful ingenuousness. The series rea‡rms the values of the mainstream while appearing to give a “fair shake” to the club cultural participants who kill themselves in a mistaken belief that they understand the world and have no use for it. EastEnders is a serial based on community life in a small neighborhood in a great city. Community is everything and the “new” idea of club culture is disruptive. It is perceived by some characters as a way of changing their economic status, but when these e›orts fail order is restored to the community. Beverly Hills 902¡0 is the story of new situations that young people encounter when they are moved from a conservative, Midwestern U.S. environment to the wild and free lifestyle of the upper income bracket of California. Club culture is just another example of the decadence that seeks to seduce these basically good young men and women away from the positive values of their background. Sometimes they fail to maintain their purity, but they still do not lose their inherently good nature.

181

Conclusion I have a theory that there is an inverse relationship between the vitality of a pop genre and the number of books written about it. Compared with the thousands of biographies, essay collections, and critical overviews that clog up rock’s arteries, only a handful of tomes (academic e›orts included) have addressed the dance and drug culture — despite the fact that it’s been the dominant form of music in Europe for nearly a decade. — Reynolds, Generation Ecstasy 390

Simon Reynolds made the above statement in ¡998 and in the intervening time there have been many more critical studies on the subject of club culture published. Despite this, club culture is still a vigorous entity, alive and well in Europe and, although somewhat less prominent, still visible in North America. Club culture as defined in this book has enjoyed — as measured in the comparative chronologies of pop cultures — a relatively long and variegated history. From its modest beginnings as an idiosyncratic dance club style with limited economic impact to the current super-club driven phenomenon, club culture has continued to grow and diversify. This study of the film, television and literature that has followed in the wake of club culture has demonstrated the dialectic relationship between the phenomenon and its artistic representations. Dancing is, as Brewster and Broughton indicate (390), “political” and as the profile of club culture increases in novels, film and television, the political implications of this countercultural entity are clarified, popularized and, some might say, diluted. When the rest of the world takes the time to look closely at the creative e›orts that surround club culture, the participants in club culture become uncomfortable and the leading edge of the movement shifts away from practices and norms as represented in club culture fiction. Neverthe182

Conclusion

less, the works that form the core of this study clearly indicate that there is an underlying ethical substratum that transcends simple hedonism. Club culture has maintained a central structure of practices and beliefs that tend to move it away from the mainstream and this is the substance of its politics of resistance to drudgery, normalcy and the tedium of quotidian existence. Club culture is a di‡cult entity to define, and just when one feels comfortable with the styles, the music or even the drugs, the culture shifts away. Some critics and writers feel that this is because club culture is inherently unstable and invests in newness for its own sake. This is, of course, true on one level. As we have seen in the film, television and literature in this study, the general perception of club culture promoted by cultural industries has a hard time keeping up with changes in the core of participants. Yet the essence of club culture stubbornly remains slightly ahead of the cultural industries.

183

Notes INTRODUCTION

non-stop trance dancing made you sweat buckets. Recalls Oakenfold, ‘London clubs had always been about people drinking, trying to chat up girls, looking good, but not dancing. All of a sudden we completely changed that — you’d come down and dance for six hours. The idea was “if you’re not into dancing, then don’t come down” (Reynolds, Generation Ecstasy, 58–59). 7. “Two of the key records that helped to shake British youth into a new phase of hedonism, self belief and communal dissent were Acid Tracks (¡987) produced by Marshall Je›erson, and Washing Machine (¡986), made entirely by Larry Heard. Both had their origins in the black, predominantly, though not exclusively, gay clubs of Chicago. Accounts of how these two minimalist machine instrumentals came into being share a similar feeling, if only both records were a consequence of home experiments which subverted the intended purpose of one or two pieces of music technology” (Toop, 37). 8. This science fiction style may, in part, derive from George Clinton’s and the Parliament/Funkadelic stage shows of the late ¡970s and early ¡980s. 9. Named for the Gatecrasher club franchise. 10. Northern soul was a dance culture based on obscure Motown style pop music from the ’60s. It was practiced by youths from the north of England. “A full ¡5 years

1. “The term designer drugs was originally used to mean compounds designed to have the same e›ect as illicit drugs without being specifically illegal themselves. However the term is often used to mean new drugs that have been designed to have a particular e›ect or old drugs that are newly popular” (Saunders and Doblin, ¡0). 2. MDMA, which is technically described as 3,4Methylenedioxymethamphetamine Hydrochloride. 3. The term “twinkie” is used in North American club culture to designate a neophyte to the scene. It is generally a term of mild contempt and is probably derived from the snack food of the same name. 4. Oakenfold and Rampling are still extremely influential in club culture as DJs and producers. 5. One of the most famous was the London club Sh-oom (later called Shoom) which was started by Danny Rampling and his wife, Jenny, in ¡987. 6. “What these prime movers encountered was a complete subcultural package of slang, behavior, and clothing, hatched during the summer in Ibiza. The look was a weird mix of Mediterranean beach bum, hippy and soccer hooligan — baggy trousers and T-shirts, paisley bandannas, dungarees, ponchos, Converse All-Stars sneakers — loose fitting because the Ecstasy and

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Notes • Chapter ¡ before club culture would whistle into existence, northern soul provided it with an almost complete blueprint. Here was a scene where working class kids came together in large numbers, across great distances, to obscure places, to take drugs and dance to music that no one else cared about” (Brewster and Broughton, 85). 11. Matthew Collin and John Godfrey insist that club culture managed to subtly redefine what constitutes a political movement: “The idea that Ecstasy culture had no politics because it had no manifesto or slogans, it wasn’t saying something or actively opposing the social order, misunderstands its nature. The very lack of dogma was a comment on contemporary society itself, yet at the same time its constantly changing manifestations — ravers fighting police to gain access to a warehouse party, criminals shooting each other in feuds over the dance drug trade, teenage girls baring flesh in baby-doll dresses, blackmarket entrepreneurs selling records from the back of vans — served to dramatise the times. Ecstasy culture o›ered a forum to which people could bring narratives about class, race, sex economics or morality” (Collin and Godfrey, 5). 12. This particular version of electronic dance music was the heart and soul of the commercial rave and franchised club for a long period and is still quite popular in some venues. 13. The term Black Economy as used in this study is roughly synonymous with the term “black market.” However, it implies a more comprehensive range of illegal or semi-legal transactions than “black market,” which is often used to refer only to the sale of illegal goods.

and Hakim Bey: “In many respects, Spiral Tribe and the free party movement constitute an uncanny fulfillment of the prophecies of Hakim Bey” (Generation Ecstasy, ¡69). 2. The Fatboy Slim (Norman Cook) “Praise You” video directed by Spike Jonze (Adam Spiegel) is a fine example of this sort of hoax. In the video Jonze acts as the leader of an extremely unpolished amateur dance group (Torrance Community Dance Group) that performs to a recording of Cook’s music outside a movie theatre in Westwood, California. The premise is that this is actually a film of a group of amateurs who have submitted their material to Cook, and he has chosen to release it on MTV as the o‡cial video for his composition. Only insiders who recognize Spike Jonze and Norman Cook — who has a short cameo appearance near the end of the video — will realize that it is an elaborate joke. The “hoax” is maintained at the ¡999 MTV Video Music Awards Show when Jonze accepts the award for best director of a music video in the character of the amateur dance director. Although the Spike Jonze/Norman Cook hoax is unlikely to have changed lives, it still served to change attitudes towards the music industry and the function of promotional videos. Its over-the-top parody of the relationship between music and the promotion of sales through music videos lays bare the medium in a postmodern tour de force. 3. Margaret Thatcher was the Conservative prime minister of the United Kingdom between ¡979 and ¡990. Her economic policies caused a great shift in social policy in the UK and she has been blamed for increases in unemployment and worsening the situation of the country’s poor during her time in o‡ce. 4. 63.(¡): “This section applies to a gathering on land in the open air of ¡00 or more persons (whether or not trespassers) at which amplified music is played during the night (with or without intermissions)

CHAPTER ¡ 1. Simon Reynolds makes an interesting comparison between the anarchistic club culture philosophy of the Spiral Tribe

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Notes • Chapter ¡ and is such as, by reason of its loudness and duration and the time at which it is played, is likely to cause serious distress to the inhabitants of the locality; and for this purpose — (a) such a gathering continues during intermissions in the music and, where the gathering extends over several days, throughout the period during which amplified music is played at night (with or without intermissions); and (b) ‘music’ includes sounds wholly or predominantly characterized by the emission of a succession of repetitive beats” (Criminal Justice and Public Order Act, ¡994, Part V). 5. “Supplementing the music are the environmental e›ects of lighting (or lack of it), thick smoke, dry ice and even ‘raining foam,’ acting both to sensuously disorient and physically insulate the clubbers from, and within the surrounding crowd, even if only fleetingly.... With clever manipulation of lighting and the targeted use of visual e›ects, such as slide show loops and film projections ... an illusion can be fostered of being in another place at another time, of momentarily inhabiting a dream-world, of being beyond or outside ‘normal’ time and space” (Malbon, 97). 6. Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer, “The Culture Industry: Enlightenment as Mass Deception,” in The Cultural Studies Reader, ed. Simon During (London & New York: Routledge, ¡994), 29–44. This essay, first published near the end of World War II, presents a rather bleak view of the popular culture of the time. It decries the passive state of broadcast media and considers most popular culture to be formulaic and therefore of little artistic merit. 7. This attitude simply ignores the hip, pop-cultural techniques of artists like Andy Warhol from a generation before the cut and paste musical stylings of club music. Warhol’s visual replications of popular images like Marilyn Monroe and

Campbell’s soup cans are clearly related to the musical “theft” by the artists who created club music from samples of other musicians’ work. 8. One theory is that the initials KLF stand for Kopyright Liberation Foundation because Drummond and Cauty’s music is composed almost entirely of uncredited samples lifted from other musicians’ work. 9. Drummond’s association with Wilson’s trilogy started when he was still working as a theatre set designer in Liverpool: “Ken Campbell, the iconoclast of British theatre, arrived there and decided it was the place to set up his Science Fiction Theater of Liverpool. I was enlisted to design and build the sets for the company’s premiere production, a twelve hour adaptation of the Illuminatus trilogy of books” (45, 45). 10. “In our lifetime Great Britain has been pretty good at coming up with or reinterpreting a constant flow of entertaining subcults that young people can either lose or find themselves in. With most of these subcults come some kind of music. Our cult-hungry media grabs whatever it is and splatters it all over the place. Whatever music makers follow in its wake are bid for by the more desperate sections of the music industry. Once signed, a process will begin in an attempt to transform whatever noise was made by the ensembles into something that will fit The Golden Rules of chart pop. The process involves plenty of trial and error and huge sums of unseen cash” (The Manual, 23). 11. “[Some say] There are wicked music moguls cynically manipulating the hearts and minds of young teenagers so as to get them to part with their pocket money. This is a worthless argument pursued by those unlucky ones who have never really been moved by the glories of pop music. They may as well never have been teenagers” (The Manual, 24). 12. “Now, in the late ¡990s, it is striking how these new clubs also function as

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Notes • Chapter 2 arts venues (rather like the old London Film-makers Co-Operative). Most show films or slide shows during the course of the night. There is a real, tangible sense that what is happening inside these places is breaking new creative ground.... What is constant is the presence of audiences drawn from the entire metropolitan mix of London’s young people” (McRobbie, ¡7). 13. The MC, or master of ceremonies, in club culture has generally the same function as the MC in hip-hop culture. The MC originated in the dance halls of Jamaica and developed into what is termed rap in the U.S. The MC provides voice commentary between and sometimes during the musical selections. 14. “In recent years club nights have also emerged that feature book readings. Je› Noon’s Pollen was launched at Manchester’s Hacienda, with a DJ backing the reading. Meanwhile, a series of “Artrob” parties by Gnash have combined readings by the likes of Irvine Welsh and Hanif Kureishi, with DJ sets by Andy Weatherall and Richard Fearless” (Champion, xv). 15. Dimethyltryptamine, or N,N-dimethyltryptamine, is a powerful hallucinogenic drug. 16. For example, in North America the term “e-tarded” (a play on retarded) is common among clubbers to refer to people who use ecstasy often enough to impair their day-to-day mental functions. 17. Gurning refers to the facial contortions that are a mild side e›ect of ecstasy use. 18. The concept is common and BBC Radio ¡ broadcasts some of their most popular dance music shows from Ibiza in the summer to promote the ideal of escape to an island paradise for UK youth culture. 19. Gabber is a form of hard-core techno that is characterized by an extremely fast tempo. It has elements of industrial music that give it a very dark texture. The word gabber is a Dutch slang term for buddy or friend. The musical

style is said to have originated in Rotterdam. 20. Acid house is one of the earliest forms of club culture music. It features electronic instruments prominently and has been associated with the Roland TB 303 most often. In the beginning of club culture and rave culture in the UK the common cry of “Acideed!” may be associated with the music style.

CHAPTER 2 1. Squatting has a long semipolitical tradition in the UK and is a recurrent theme in contemporary fiction, film and television. In the UK, squatters take over unoccupied buildings in urban settings and live there rent free. The theme of squatting, both long-term and temporarily for the purposes of a rave, shows up in a number of examples of club fiction in this book (Whit, Groove, Ecstasy Club, etc.). 2. A chill-out club is a club featuring the genre of electronic music with the same name. Chill-out music is generally lower tempo than dance music and is intended to relax rather than inspire vigorous dancing. The irony of the events that transpire in “Ardwick Green” are based in part upon the expectations of the calm, laid-back atmosphere of a chill-out club. 3. Cashies, or football casuals, is a name applied to the organizations of football hooligans in the UK. 4. Thalidomide was a drug developed in the ¡950s in West Germany. It was used to alleviate nausea and other symptoms of morning sickness until it was discovered that it caused deformities in the foetuses of mothers who took the drug early in their pregnancy. 5. Digweed has a cameo role in the American film Groove (2000). 6. One of the lowest points of the campaign was when George Michael, then

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Notes • Chapter 3 leader of the kiddy pop group Wham, danced around a stage in the video for the saccharine hit “Wake Me Up Before you Go Go” wearing a huge white T-shirt emblazoned with the logo. This clear identification with mainstream values probably pushed many a rebellious young man or woman towards drug-using subcultures. In North America the message was even more confused by the fact that antiabortion campaigners used the Choose Life slogan for their own purposes. 7. The plot of this slapstick film centers upon a pair of friends convincing people for an entire weekend that the corpse of their boss is still alive. 8. Breeder is a term often used by gay people to describe heterosexuals. Breeder clubs are establishments frequented by heterosexual patrons.

course of Dread’ gives way to Rema, Tivoli Gardens, and Jungle, particularly ‘Yard’ ( Jamaican), realities which do not function as global signifiers of black exile because they are so rooted in the urban myths of Jamaica’s postcolonial history” (80). 3. The music of Talvin Singh, The Asian Dub Foundation and Badmarsh and Shri are good examples of this branch of electronic dance music. 4. See Jeremy Gilbert and Ewan Pearson’s excellent commentary on the popularizing e›ect of the film Saturday Night Fever on the disco dance movement in the ¡970s in Discographies: Dance Music Culture and the Politics of Sound (¡2). 5. Blincoe’s short story “Ardwick Green” is also set in Manchester, but does not deal with issues of race or postcolonialism. 6. This is not to say that Manchester does not have a long tradition of black clubs. In Manchester, England: The Story of the Pop Cult City Dave Haslam discusses the influence of the Moss Side black clubs on the development of Manchester musicians in the ¡950s. 7. On June 5, 2000, BBC Radio ¡ broadcast a documentary by Rajesh Mirchandani on the subject of racial quotas in clubs. This fascinating piece ended with a recommendation that clubs that violate the laws against racial quotas be reported to the authorities. 8. Consider the collaboration between the electronic dance group The Shamen and new age drug philosopher Terrence McKenna on the track “Re-Evolution.” Over an electronic dance background McKenna waxes lyrical about the value of drugs in the creation of the new millennium. 9. The American film Tra‡c attempts to follow the same lead by representing the complex international movement of drugs. However, it is less convincing than the BBC original because it fails to deal with the economic pressures that force the

CHAPTER 3 1. These publications cover a wide range of approaches and audiences. For example, Hanif Kureishi’s novel The Black Album deals with the moral conflicts of an Asian youth in London who flirts with the club culture scene as well as Islamic fundamentalist groups. 2. “Ragga (ragamu‡n),” like most terms used in the modern dance music scene, is subject to a number of interpretations. It is sometimes termed dance hall reggae or electronic reggae. In his article “Post-Nationalist Geographies: Rasta, Ragga, and Reinventing Africa” Louis Chude-Sokei represents ragga music as follows: “ragga stepped boldly on to the diasporan stage as first an overturning of that Rastafarian mythos which celebrated a universalized notion of black racial and cultural identity...” (80). Chude-Sokei further characterizes this precursor to jungle and drum and bass: “With ragga, however, the abstraction of Ethiopia/Africa in what I have elsewhere called the ‘Dis-

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Notes • Chapter 4 farmers and low-level smugglers to become involved with the trade.

8. A clear discussion of pre–AIDS lifestyle in gay communities can be found represented in Martin P. Levine’s article, “The Life and Death of Gay Clones.” 9. In series two, episode 3, “Hypocrisy, Don’t Do It,” the U.S. version of Queer as Folk parodies the notion that the series should be more socially responsible. The action reflects on a fictional series entitled “Gay as Blazes” and a hypocritical gay social commentator. 10. This argument about dating habits and long-term relationships appears in one of the early episodes of the UK version of Queer as Folk. 11. Canal Street is the heart of Manchester’s gay district and serves as a backdrop for a large number of scenes in the UK series. 12. Since the closing music is so important to the general message of the series it is not surprising that a full copy of song title and lyrics are included in fansite transcriptions of Queer as Folk episodes (http://www.twiztv.com/scripts/ queerasfolk/). 13. Circuit parties are huge dance parties for gay men that are often called gay raves. They originated as a means of raising money for AIDS benefits. The circuit party scene is a phenomenon that is very similar to raves, with the same drugs and house music, but the political impetus is rather di›erent in that it is closely related to gay subculture’s reaction to the AIDS crisis. See Silcott, chapter six, “The Gay Circuit” (¡49–¡82). 14. It could be argued that glam rock in the ¡970s introduced open attitudes towards rock star sexual ambiguity, but the true mingling of gay and straight crowds was still not common until later during the popularization of dance club culture. 15. Clubs and raves usually have a room separate from the main dance floor where ambient (slow tempo) music is played at lower sound levels and patrons rest from their exertions on the main dance floor. Chill-out rooms are similar

CHAPTER 4 1. As Nikianne Moody points out in “Social and Temporal Geographies of the Near Future : Music Fiction and Youth Culture,” the dissolving of race, gender, and class distinctions in the UK free party of the late ¡980s did not last long, as commercial interests in the ¡990s reinstated these distinctions. Futures 30, no. ¡0 (¡998): ¡009). 2. Most recent histories of rave culture and DJ culture like Ulf Poschhard’s DJ Culture, Bill Brewster and Frank Broughton’s Last Night a DJ Saved My Life, and Simon Reynolds’ Generation Ecstasy clearly represent the debt that club culture owes to the gay dance club scene in both the U.S. and UK. 3. “... [I]ts atmosphere, attitude and music, as well as its setting in the urban layout, were seminal to many later house music parties in one way or another.... The entertainment was aimed at young homosexuals, male and female, who were mostly from an African-American and Latino background. The management allowed for an interracial gathering, which was quite unusual in Chicago” (Rietveld, ¡08). 4. UK Dance Music Magazines like London’s Mixmag are constantly marvelling at what they consider to be the retro feel of the dance club scene in North America. 5. The title is a reference to the northern English expression “There’s nowt so queer as folk.” 6. Steven Capsuto provides an excellent discussion of the history of representation of gay and lesbian characters in Alternate Channels: The Uncensored Story of Gay and Lesbian Images on Radio and Television (New York: Random House, 2000). 7. Written by Murray Gold.

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Notes • Chapter 5 to the chill-out clubs mentioned earlier in this study, but because of their on-site location they serve as a practical means of ameliorating the e›ects of stimulants and vigorous dancing. 16. Amyl nitrate, an inhalant that gives a “rush” by dilating the blood vessels and thereby increasing the heart rate for a few moments. 17. The White Isle is another name for Ibiza, most commonly used in travel advertisements.

6. Mixmag bills itself as the “the World’s N0¡ Clubbing Magazine.” It has stories about clubbing and raving, photo shoots of clubbing fashion and pages of advertisements for clubs. There is a great deal of rather frank discussion about drug use in the magazine. A selection of article titles from the May 2002 issue includes: “The Big Question: Are ecstasy testing kits a waste of time?,” “Spli› Politics: Learn the Ways of the World’s Weed Heads,” “Roby: ketamine traumas, Calvin Klein, Models and a mutation into Woody Allen: welcome to Moby’s world,” and “I take E with my Kids: Five ‘normal’ people who are living chemical lives.” 7. The popular teen fiction television series Veronica Mars (2004–) includes a subplot in its first season in which the title character is drugged with GHB to facilitate rape. 8. We have already covered this myth in the discussion of “White Burger Danny” and Marabou Stork Nightmares in chapter two. 9. The Shamen (Colin Angus, Derek McKenzie, Keith McKenzie and Peter Stephenson) were an early electronic rock band from Scotland. One of their most famous hits was the ¡992 single “Ebeneezer Goode,” which had a chorus that sounded like “E’s are Good,” meaning ecstasy (called E’s in the UK and Canada). The Shamen were extremely popular during the early phases of rave and club culture. 10. The Yage Letters is a collection of letters from William S. Burroughs to Allen Ginsburg that were written in ¡953. They detail Burroughs search for the drug in South America. Yage, or ayahuasca, is a mixture of plant derivatives that contain DMT, or dimethyltryptamine. 11. The twin turntable setup of the rave or club DJ. 12. The use of the music style Acid House for the title of this story and for the collection as a whole appears to be completely gratuitous. It calls up images of

CHAPTER 5 1. Bill Drummond was born in ¡953. The influence on club culture of his band, KLF, and his music manifesto, The Manual, are covered in chapter two of this study. 2. Terrence McKenna (¡946–2000), author of Food of the Gods (¡992). McKenna’s influential theories of the relationship of drugs and human evolution were highly prized by the early rave and club movements and he provided voice-over narrative on The Shamen’s ¡992 song “ReEvolution.” 3. Nicholas Saunders (¡938–¡998), author of the influential texts E For Ecstasy (¡993), Ecstasy and Dance Culture (¡995), and Ecstasy Reconsidered (¡996). 4. Season two of the American Cable Television series Hu› (2004–), broadcast in 2006, incorporates a plot thread in which the lead character of the series, Dr. Craig “Hu› ” Hu›stodt (Hank Azaria), takes MDMA under the guidance of another psychiatrist in order to resolve some of his own psychological problems. The narrative makes it clear that although the drug is still illegal it is considered to be a useful tool. 5. See Saunders, p. ¡¡, and Brewster and Broughton, p. 393, where the cult is simply referred to as “international quasi– Buddhist sex communes.”

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Notes • Chapter 6 early club culture without actually referring to specific musical content. 13. Tzvetan Todorov proposed a theory of fantastic literature in his The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre (¡975) which hinged upon the explanation for apparently supernatural events. If the events were explained as having natural causes then it was uncanny; if no “natural” explanation is available then it was a marvellous event. The fantastic, in Todorov’s definition, exists only when the reader hesitates between uncanny and marvellous interpretations of events in the work of fiction. 14. This political representation of club culture in Welsh’s work is also present in “Lorainne Goes to Livingston: A Rave and Regency Romance.” In this short story one of the characters reflects upon the political implications of club culture while under the influence of ecstasy: “All the joy and love for everything good was in him, though he could see all of the bad things in Britain; in fact this twentieth century urban blues music [jungle] defined and illustrated them more sharply than ever. Yet he wasn’t scared and he wasn’t down about it: he could see what needed to be done to get away from them. It was the party: he felt that you had to party: you had to party harder than ever. It was the only way. It was your duty to show that you were still alive. Political sloganeering and posturing meant nothing; you had to celebrate the joy of life in the face of all those grey forces and dead spirits who controlled everything, who fucked with your head and livelihood anyway, if you weren’t one of them” (26–27). 15. Carlos Castaneda (¡93¡?–¡998), naturalized American anthropologist born in South America. Castaneda published a series of texts in the ¡960s and ’70s beginning with The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge (¡968) that detailed his apprenticeship with a native American spiritual teacher. The books detail the use of the hallucinogens peyote

and datura in a quest for enlightenment. The general consensus is that these are works of fiction despite the fact that Castaneda claimed that they were the result of his anthropological research. They were extremely popular and often used to justify drug use as a natural way to spiritual growth. 16. Alan Parker’s ¡978 film Midnight Express is an example of this genre; it tells the tale of a young American who is imprisoned in Turkey for attempting to smuggle hashish out of the country. 17. Krung Threp is the Thai name for Bangkok. 18. The text that Wilson references here is a translation by Christopher Grey of articles from Internationale Situationniste (London: Rebel Press, ¡998). 19. Baggy bands were called so because of their interesting style of dress. Like present day skateboard kids the baggy style of dress was accomplished by wearing voluminous pants, shirts, etc. Over the top was a hoody or kangaroo jacket. Bez indicates in Freaky Dancin’ that the style was inspired by young men who did not want to look as thin as they really were and also to add an extra layer of clothing for warmth against the inclement Manchester weather. Simon Reynolds indicates that the style was born on the football terraces of Manchester in ¡984 (Generation Ecstasy, 92). 20. An interesting point of De Quincey’s biography is that like many of the later proponents of English Drug culture, he hailed from Manchester.

CHAPTER 6 1. Chicane is the stage name of DJ Nick Bracegirdle and Sash or Sasha is DJ Alexander Coe. 2. Bride of Chucky (¡998) and Freddie vs. Jason (2003). 3. Rhys Ifans also plays a major sup-

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Notes • Chapter 6 porting role as Eyeball Paul in Kevin and Perry Go Large. 4. In 2003 Fenton Baily’s film Party Monster, which was based upon the same incident, appeared. Macaulay Culkin played the role of murderer Michael Alig in an attempt to break his typecasting as the clever youngster in the Home Alone movies. Seth Green played the role of James St. James. 5. The Big Issue is a UK alternative publication that is usually sold by homeless people to supplement their income. 6. Ibiza Uncovered is a ¡998 tabloidstyle reality television series directed by Daniela Neumann that focuses on the wild lifestyle of UK tourists in Ibiza. 7. The plot device of a sexual competition with points awarded for various sexual acts is also used in John King’s more serious contemporary novel of UK life, The Football Factory Trilog y. 8. Aldous Huxley (¡894–¡963) published “The Doors of Perception” in ¡953 and “Heaven and Hell” in ¡956. These two essays were very popular in the counterculture of the ¡960s, as they provided

historical and scientific justification for the use of hallucinogens. 9. Only nine episodes of Wolf Lake aired on CBS before it was cancelled. 10. All of the television shows mentioned in this section except CSI: Crime Scene Investigation are susceptible to the aesthetic analysis developed by Umberto Eco in The Limits of Interpretation (¡990). In his chapter on interpreting serials, Eco discusses the fact that repetition is very important in modern art and that there are positive and negative aesthetic values present in repetition and serials. Is Harry on the Boat?, Inspector Morse, EastEnders, Wolf Lake, and Beverly Hills 902¡0 are all serial productions of the sort that Eco defines as “work[ing] upon a fixed situation and a restricted number of fixed pivotal characters, around whom the secondary and changing ones turn” (85). “Although the secondary characters and situations give the impression of newness to the episodes, the audience really derives its pleasure in the performance from the recurrence of a narrative scheme that remains constant” (86).

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195

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Bibliography Hodge, John. Shallow Grave. Screenplay. London: Faber and Faber, ¡996. _____. Trainspotting. Screenplay. London: Faber and Faber, ¡996. Hu›. Created by Rob Lowry. 2004–. Human Tra‡c. Directed by Justin Kerrigan. Miramax, ¡999. Inspector Morse. 6.5: “Cherubim and Seraphim.” Directed by Danny Boyle. April ¡5, ¡992. Is Harry on the Boat? TV Movie. Directed by Menhaj Huda. 200¡. Is Harry on the Boat? TV Series. Written by Colin Butts, et al. 2002–2003. It’s All Gone Pete Tong. Directed by Michael Dowse. Alliance Atlantis, 2004. Jordan, Joel T. Searching for the Perfect Beat: Flyer Designs of the American Rave Scene. New York: Watson-Guptill, 2000. Kerrigan, Justin. Human Tra‡c. Screenplay. London: FilmFour Books, 2000. Kevin and Perry Go Large. Directed by Ed Bye. Warner, 2000. Kohn, Marek. “Cocaine Girls.” In The Clubcultures Reader: Readings in Popular Cultural Studies, edited by Steve Redhead, Derek Wynne and Justin O’Connor, ¡¡9–¡29. Oxford: Blackwell, ¡997. Kureishi, Hanif. The Black Album. London: Faber and Faber, ¡995. _____. London Kills Me. Directed by Hanif Kureishi. Warner, ¡99¡. _____. My Beautiful Laundrette. Directed by Stephen Frears. Virgin, ¡985. Larkin, Colin. The Virgin Encyclopedia of Dance Music. Virgin: London, ¡998. Levine, Martin P. “The Life and Death of Gay Clones.” In Men’s Lives, edited by Michael S. Kimmel and Michael A. Messner, 55–67. Boston: Allyn and Bacon, 2004. Malbon, Ben. Clubbing: Dancing, Ecstasy and Vitality. London: Routledge, ¡999. McKenna, Terrence. Food of the Gods: The Search for the Original Tree of Knowledge. New York: Bantam, ¡992. McRobbie, Angela. In the Culture Society: Art, Fashion and Popular Music. London: Routledge, ¡999. A Midsummer Night’s Rave. Directed by Gil Cates, Jr. Velocity, 2002. Millar, Martin. “How Sunshine Star-Traveller Lost His Girlfriend.” In Disco Biscuits, edited by Sarah Champion, 79–96. London: Hodder and Stoughton, ¡999. Modulations. Directed by Iara Lee. Behaviour, ¡998. Moody, Nikianne. “Social and Temporal Geographies of the Near Future: Music Fiction and Youth Culture.” Futures 30, no. ¡0 (¡998): ¡003–¡0¡6. Moore-Gilbert, Bart. Hanif Kureishi. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 200¡. Morvern Callar. Directed by Lynne Ramsay. Palm, 2002. Noon, Je›. “DJNA.” In Disco Biscuits, edited by Sarah Champion, ¡7¡–¡88. London: Hodder and Stoughton, ¡999. _____. Needle in the Groove. London: Random House, ¡999. _____. Vurt. New York: St. Martin’s, ¡993. Osborne, Ben. The A–Z of Club Culture: Twenty Years of Losing It. London: Hodder and Stoughton, ¡999. Party Monster. Directed by Fenton Bailey and Randy Barbato. 20th Century Fox, 2003. Patterson, Sylvia. “Return of the Dub Snatchers.” In Mixmag (August 200¡): 88–90. Pini, Maria. Club Cultures and Female Subjectivity: The Move from Home to House. Basingstoke: Palgrave, 200¡. Plant, Martin, and Moira Plant. Risk Takers: Alcohol, Drugs, Sex and Youth. London: Routledge, ¡992. Poschardt, Ulf. DJ Culture. Translated by Shaun Whiteside. London: Quartet, ¡998. “Praise You.” Music Video. Directed by Spike Jonze. ¡999.

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Bibliography Tra‡k. Directed by Alastair Reid. BBC Mini-series, ¡989. 24 Hour Party People. Directed by Michael Winterbottom. Metro Goldwyn Mayer, 2002. United Kingdom. Criminal Justice and Public Order Act, ¡994, http://www.opsi.gov. uk/acts/acts¡994/Ukpga_¡9940033_en_6.htm#mdiv63. Warner, Alan. Morvern Callar. New York: Doubleday, ¡995. _____. These Demented Lands. New York: Doubleday, ¡997. Welsh, Irvine. The Acid House. London: Vintage, ¡994. _____. Ecstasy: Three Tales of Chemical Romance. London: Random House, ¡996. _____. Glue. London: Jonathan Cape, 200¡. _____. Marabou Stork Nightmares. London: Vintage, ¡995. _____. Porno. London: Jonathan Cape, 2002. _____. Trainspotting. London: Minerva, ¡993. Wilson, Anthony H. 24 Hour Party People. London: Channel 4 Books, 2002. Wilson, Brian. Fight, Flight, or Chill: Subcultures and Rave into the Twenty-First Century. Montreal: McGill-Queens University Press, 2006. Wilson, Robert Anton, and Robert Shea. The Illuminatus! Trilog y. New York: Dell, ¡983. Wolf Lake. ¡.4: “Tastes Like Chicken.” Created by John Leekley. October ¡0, 200¡.

199

Index A–Z of Club Culture (book) ¡97 Absinthe ¡¡5 Acid 8¡, 90, ¡23, ¡30; see also Drugs Acid Casuals (book) 77–84, 87, 95, ¡95 Acid House (book, story, film) 56, ¡29–¡33, ¡9¡, ¡99 Acid house music 6, 47, 55–56, 79, ¡43, ¡58, ¡73, ¡88, ¡9¡ Acid Tracks (record) ¡85 Ackland-Snow, Nicola ¡95 Activists ¡9, 35, 85, ¡03, ¡50 Adorno, Theodor 20, ¡87, ¡95 Adventures in Wonderland (book) ¡96 Africa 57, ¡23 (Egypt), ¡37, ¡89, ¡96 African American see Blacks African Arts (journal) ¡96 Agape ¡¡6 AIDS 62, 64, 7¡, 96, ¡¡2, ¡90 Air (band) 99, ¡56 Aircraft hangers, as rave venues 3 Alberta, Edmonton 2 Alcohol, beer ¡9, 53, 64–65, 80, ¡03, ¡¡9, ¡25, ¡3¡–¡32, ¡42, ¡65, ¡78, ¡85, ¡97 Aliens 9, ¡26–¡27 Alig, Michael ¡93 All Music Guide to Electronica (book) ¡95 Allen, Robert C. ¡95 Allen, Stevie ¡09 Allen, Woody ¡9¡ Altered State (book) ¡96 Alternate Channels (book) ¡90, ¡96 Amazon 82, ¡25

Amphetamines 9, ¡0¡, ¡¡¡, ¡¡6–¡20, ¡65; see also Drugs Amsterdam 38 Amyl nitrate ¡9¡ Anarchy ¡2, ¡7–¡9, 2¡–23, 85, ¡86 Andaluz, Mike ¡64 Angus, Colin ¡9¡ Anti-EP (record) ¡9 Antonio, Lou ¡96 Apocalypse ¡27–¡28, ¡30 “Ardwick Green” (story) 5¡–55, ¡88– ¡89, ¡95 Argentina 5 Armstrong, Dean ¡0¡ Army, U.S. ¡¡6 Arrusi, Eitan ¡72 Art, French ¡¡5, ¡40 Artrob parties ¡88 Aryan ¡40 Asia, Asians 48, 68, 76–77, 82–84, 86– 88, 93, ¡¡8, ¡34, ¡73, ¡89; see also Bangladesh; China; Hong Kong; India; Pakistan; Thailand; Turkey Asian Dub Foundation ¡89 Askew, Desmond ¡53 Asylum (club) 34 Atkins, Juan 7–8, ¡62 August, John ¡53 Australia 74 Autechre ¡9 Autobiography see Writing Automobile manufacturing 8; see also Detroit Ayahuasca (drug) ¡25, ¡9¡ Azaria, Hank ¡9¡

201

Index Baby boomers 30, ¡34, ¡53 Babylon (club) 98–¡00, ¡02 Bacardi ¡03 Badmarsh and Shri ¡89 Badyna, Glen 37 Baggy dancing, bands 5, ¡43–¡44, ¡92; see also Bez Bailey, Fenton ¡93, ¡97 Balearic Islands 5, ¡3, ¡58; see also Ibiza Bangkok (Krung Thep) ¡34, ¡36, ¡92 Bangkok 8 (book) ¡36, ¡95 Bangladesh 78 Bank robbery 83, ¡57 Banks, Ian ¡22–¡24, ¡95 Barbados ¡42 Barbato, Randy ¡97 Barr, Tim ¡95 Batarda, Beatriz ¡25 Baudelaire ¡46 BBC 44, 83, 95, ¡08, ¡¡8, ¡58, ¡77, ¡88–¡89, ¡99 Beach (book, film) ¡34, ¡74, ¡96 Becker, Ron ¡03, ¡95 Beck’s Beer ¡03 Beer see Alcohol “Believer” (song) ¡56 Bellville three 8 Berry, Mark see Bez Better Living Through Circuitry (film) 38, 47–50, ¡64, ¡95 Beverly Hills 902¡0 (TV series) ¡79–¡8¡, ¡93, ¡95 Bexton, Nathan ¡54 Bey, Hakim ¡7–2¡, 24–25, 27, 3¡, 34, 48, ¡¡7, ¡40, ¡45, ¡86, ¡95 Bez (Mark Berry) ¡43–¡46, ¡48, ¡92, ¡95 Bidder, Sean ¡¡4, ¡95 Big Issue (magazine) ¡69, ¡93 Bignell, Jonathan ¡95 Biker gangs ¡0, ¡¡8 Billingham, Peter ¡¡4, ¡95 Biography see Writing Black Album (book) 88, ¡89, ¡97 Black Album (record) 88–90 Black economy ¡4, 29, ¡42, ¡86 Black Literature Conference 25 Black market see Black economy Blacks 6–7, ¡4, 25, 36, 55, 67, 75–8¡,

83, 9¡–92, 95, ¡20, ¡24–¡25, ¡49–¡50, ¡72, ¡85, ¡89–¡90 Blincoe, Nicholas 52–54, 76–87, 95, ¡89, ¡95 “Blink and You Miss It” (story) ¡35, ¡96 Blowpipes 82, ¡25 “Blue Monday” (song) ¡4¡ Blues music 8, ¡92 Body building ¡¡2–¡¡3, ¡¡9 Body piercing ¡22 Boethius ¡40 Bogdanov, Vladimir ¡95 Bones, Frankie 47 Book of E (book) ¡98 Bouncers, in clubs 79, 84, 99, ¡37, ¡48 Bourdieu 2¡ Bowles, Paul ¡46 Boxing 62–63, 65 Boyce, Frank Cottrell ¡39–¡40 Boyle, Danny 56, ¡34, ¡74, ¡76, ¡97 Boyz N the Hood (film) 84 Bracegirdle, Nick (Chicane) ¡58, ¡92 Brain machines 29 Brazil 78 Brett, Nathan ¡95 Brewster, Bill ¡9, ¡20, ¡82, ¡86, ¡90–¡9¡, ¡95 Bride of Chucky (film) ¡92 Brief Encounter (club) ¡¡3 Brit-pop bands 7¡ Britain see United Kingdom British Columbia 2; see also Vancouver British Empire ¡5, 74, 84; see also Colonial Brixton ¡22 “Brothers Gonna Work It Out” (song) ¡60 Broughton, Frank ¡9, ¡20, ¡82, ¡86, ¡90–¡9¡, ¡95 BT (musician) ¡56 Buddhism ¡37, ¡47, ¡9¡ Bu›y the Vapire Slayer (TV series) 96 Bukem, LTJ ¡62 Burdett, John ¡36, ¡95 Burke, Kathy ¡57 Burns, Robert 39 Burroughs, William S. 9, ¡5, ¡46, ¡9¡, ¡95 Burston, Paul 95, ¡¡¡–¡¡4, ¡¡8, ¡95

202

Index Burton, Adam ¡72 Bush, John ¡95 Bushell, Gary ¡69 Butts, Colin ¡69–¡72, ¡95, ¡97 Bye, Ed ¡97

Chude-Sokei, Louis ¡89, ¡96 Circuit Party ¡03, ¡90 Clail, Gary 54 Classical music 43 Clinton, George 7, ¡26, ¡85 Club culture: crime 5¡–73; definition ¡; drugs, sex, dancing ¡¡5–¡5¡; ethnicity 74–93; exploitation ¡52–¡83; gay lifestyle 94–¡¡4; rise and fall ¡7–50; roots 4–9; see also names of clubs: Babylon, etc. Club Cultures (book) 2, 26, ¡98 Club Cultures and Female Subjectivity (book) ¡97 Clubbing (book) ¡97 Clubcultures Reader (book) ¡97–¡98 Clunie, Michelle 98 Cocaine 56, 68, 72, 8¡–83, ¡00, ¡¡¡– ¡¡3, ¡25, ¡37, ¡42, ¡50, ¡67, ¡69, ¡73, ¡97 “Cocaine Girls” (article) 82, ¡97 Cocteau, Jean ¡46 Coe, Alexander (Sasha) ¡58, ¡92 Cohen, Richard ¡96 Cold War ¡9 Coleridge ¡¡5, ¡46 Coliseum (club) ¡¡3 Collin, Matthew ¡86, ¡96 Collins, Joely ¡64 Collins, Phil ¡64 Collins, Simon ¡64 Colonial 32; see also British Empire; Decolonization; Postcolonial Communes 48, ¡35, ¡52 Computer World (album) 8 Computers see Internet; Silicon Valley; Techno Condoms ¡00, ¡03 “Confessions of a Middle-Aged Ecstacy Eater” (story) ¡46–¡47, ¡50, ¡96 Confessions of an English Opium Eater (book) ¡46 Conservative Party ¡86; see also Thatcher Cook, Norman (Fatboy Slim) 26, ¡56, ¡86 Cool Tan (club) ¡22 Copyright: anticopyright statement 25– 26; infringement 22, 63; Kopyright

Cage, John ¡62 California 38, 48, ¡37, ¡54–¡55, ¡8¡, ¡86; see also Beverly Hills; Hollywood; Los Angeles; Oakland; San Francisco; Silicon Valley Cambridge University ¡40 Campbell, Ken ¡87 Campbell’s soup cans ¡87 “Can Kinky Sex Be Politically Correct” (article) ¡95 Canada 2, ¡¡, 26, 66, 83, 96, ¡03, ¡24, ¡64–¡65, ¡78 Canal Street 99, ¡90 Cannabis see Marijuana Capitalism ¡8–20, 23–24, 27, 52, 67–68, ¡24, ¡38 Capsuto, Steven ¡90, ¡96 Cardi›, Wales 34, 9¡ Caribbean see Barbados; Jamaica; West Indies Carlyle, Robert ¡60 Carter, Jason 37 Castenada, Carlos ¡33, ¡46, ¡92 Cates, Gil, Jr. 37, ¡97 Catholicism ¡39 Cauty, Jimmy 22–24, ¡87, ¡96 CBS ¡93 Champion, Sarah 25–26, 5¡, 54–55, 65, ¡¡6, ¡88, ¡95–¡98 Chemical Brothers (band) ¡60 Chemical Generation ¡3, 39, 5¡, 54, 56, 58, ¡32, ¡74 Chen, Terry 68 “Cherubim and Seraphim” (TV episode) ¡74–¡77, ¡97 Chicago 4–5, ¡3, 80, 95, ¡¡3, ¡85, ¡90, ¡98 Chicane see Bracegirdle Chill-out rooms, clubs 52–54, 59, ¡05, ¡2¡, ¡32, ¡88, ¡90–¡9¡ China 83 Christian agape ¡¡6 Christopher, Mark ¡69, ¡96

203

Index Liberation Foundation ¡87; pirate radio 27 Courtney, Dave ¡48–¡50, ¡96 Cousto, Hans ¡96 Crack cocaine see Cocaine Crasher kids 9 Credit cards, forged 86 Crime ¡4, 30, 38, 45, 49–73, 77, 83–84, 86–87, ¡34, ¡43, ¡48–¡50, ¡57, ¡65, ¡68, ¡86; see also Copyright; Criminal; Drugs, dealing; Gangs; Laws; Murder; Police Criminal Justice Act, UK ¡8, 35, ¡24, ¡27, ¡42, ¡64, ¡86–¡87, ¡99 Crystal meth 48, ¡0¡, ¡¡8 Crystal Method (group) 48, ¡¡8 CSI: Crime Scene Investigation (TV series) ¡78–¡79, ¡93, ¡96 Culkin, Macaulay ¡93 Cultural Studies Reader (book) ¡87, ¡95 “Culture Industry” (essay) 20, ¡87, ¡95 Curry, Tim 69 Curtis, Ian ¡40

Disco Biscuits (anthology) 25–26, 5¡, 54–55, 65, ¡¡6, ¡28, ¡95–¡98 Disco Bloodbath (novel) 48, 95, ¡66– ¡69, ¡80, ¡98 Discographies (book) ¡89, ¡96 Diversity see Ethnicity DJ Culture (book) ¡97, ¡90 “DJNA” (story) ¡26–¡27, ¡97 DJs 4–6, ¡9, 2¡, 26, 30, 36, 47–49, 52, 6¡–66, 76, 9¡, ¡05, ¡09, ¡¡4, ¡2¡–¡25, ¡27–¡28, ¡45, ¡47, ¡57–¡59, ¡65, ¡67, ¡72, ¡85, ¡88, ¡90–¡92, ¡98 DMT (dimethyltryptamine) 32, 82, ¡88, ¡9¡ Doblin, Rick ¡¡7, ¡85, ¡98 Doctor Who (TV series) 22 “Doctorin’ the Tardis” (song) 22 Documentaries ¡6¡–¡65; on crystal meth ¡¡8; see also Better Living Through Circuitry; Modulations; Summer Love; This Is Spinal Tap Doherty, Shannen ¡79 Donovan, Jason 7¡ Doors of Perception (book) ¡75, ¡93 Dope Priest (book) 87 Dourdan, Gary ¡79 Dow Chemical ¡¡6 Down, Alisen 67 Dowse, Michael ¡24, ¡97 Dreadlocks ¡0, 80, ¡22, ¡24 Drugs ¡¡5–¡5¡; dealing 34, 36–38, 52, 56, 69–70, 83–84, ¡33, ¡35, ¡48, ¡54–¡56, ¡60–¡6¡, ¡65–¡66, ¡7¡–¡72, ¡79, ¡86, ¡89–¡90; see also Absinthe; Acid; Amphetamines; Amyl nitrate; Ayahuasca; Chill-out rooms; Cocaine; Crystal meth; Depressants; Designer; DMT; Ecstacy; Ganja; GHB; Hallucinogens; Hashish; Heroin; Jimson weed; Ketamine; Love potion; LSD; Marijuana; NO2; Opium; Overdoses; Peyote; Phenethylamines; Pills; Poppers; Psychedelic; Smart; Speed; Stimulants; Tenazadrine; Thalidomide; Tranquilizers; Transcendental; Yage Drummond, Bill 22–24, 27, 30, 63, ¡¡5, ¡38, ¡40, ¡87, ¡9¡, ¡96 Drum’n’bass (jungle) music 2¡, 75–76, 92–93, ¡72, ¡89, ¡92

Dancesafe (organization, website) ¡2, ¡¡7 Daniels, Phil ¡20 Darude (dance music producer) 99 Date rape ¡¡9 Datura ¡92 Davids, Stuart ¡08, ¡98 Davies, Russell T. 96, ¡98 Davis, John ¡96 Davis, Paul ¡43 Dawson’s Creek (TV series) 96 Day, Mark ¡43 Deafness ¡24–¡25 Decolonization 88 “Dedicated to the One I Love” (song) 45 Depressants ¡68 De Quincy, Thomas 9, ¡¡5, ¡46, ¡92 Designer drugs ¡85 Detroit 2, 5–8, ¡3, 29, 95, ¡08 Dickie, Kate ¡09 Digweed, John 6¡, ¡05, ¡88 Dimethyltryptamine see DMT Disco 5, 94, 99, ¡08, ¡¡5, ¡40, ¡68–¡69, ¡89

204

Index Drums 8, 48, ¡63 Dupont 47 During, Simon ¡87, ¡95 Dusseldorf 7, ¡95 Dutch 75, ¡88

Erlewine, Steven Thomas ¡95 Escapism 8, ¡3, ¡9, 29, 3¡, 33, 4¡–42, 50, 80–8¡, ¡26, ¡35, ¡54, ¡56 Ethiopia ¡89 Ethnicity ¡5, 74–93; see also Asia, Asians; Blacks; Race Euro dance 79 Euro disco 5 Europe 5, 7, ¡2, 38, 63, 75, 79, ¡82; see also Amsterdam; Dutch; France; Germany; Mediterranean; Rotterdam; Spain Existentialism ¡20

E for Ecstasy (book) ¡¡7, ¡9¡ EastEnders (TV series) ¡77, ¡8¡, ¡93, ¡96 Easy Rider (film) ¡56 “Ebeneezer Goode” (song) ¡9¡ Echo and the Bunnymen (band) 22 Eco, Umberto ¡93, ¡96 Economic issues ¡7–50; see also Poverty Ecstasy (book) 56 Ecstasy (drug; MDMA) ¡–3, 5, 7, 9–¡0, ¡2, ¡4, 27–34, 36, 42–43, 49–5¡, 54– 62, 64–66, 68, 70, 72, 75, 8¡, 95, ¡0¡, ¡05, ¡07–¡08, ¡¡¡–¡¡3, ¡¡5–¡¡7, ¡¡9–¡20, ¡23, ¡27–¡29, ¡32, ¡37–¡38, ¡4¡–¡50, ¡54–¡56, ¡64–¡65, ¡69, ¡7¡, ¡73, ¡75, ¡79, ¡82, ¡85–¡86, ¡88, ¡90– ¡92, ¡96–¡99 Ecstasy and the Dance Culture (book) ¡¡7, ¡9¡ Ecstasy Club (book) 27–34, 49–5¡, 57, 95, ¡07–¡08, ¡28, ¡38, ¡64–¡65, ¡88, ¡98 Ecstasy: Dance, Trance and Transformation (book) ¡¡7, ¡98 Ecstasy: The MDMA Story (book) ¡96 Ecstasy.org (site) ¡2 Ecstasy Reconsidered (book) ¡9¡ Ecstasy: Three Tales of Chemical Romance 58–62, ¡99 Edinburgh 54, 56–57, 6¡–63, ¡29 Edmonton 2 Egypt ¡23 Eisner, Bruce ¡96 “Electric Avenue” (song) ¡42 Electronic Eros (book) ¡98 “Electrovoodoo” (story) ¡28–¡29, ¡98 Ellen (TV series) 96 Eminem (rapper) ¡47 Energ y Flash (book) ¡98 Enfield, Harry ¡57 England see United Kingdom English Voodoo ¡27 Environmentalism ¡2¡ Erasmus, Alan ¡39

Factories, as rave locations 28, 32, ¡08; see also Warehouses Factory Records ¡39–¡43 Fagin 69 Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre (book) ¡92 Far East see Asia Fascism ¡24 Fatboy Slim see Cook, Norman Faulkner, Deborah ¡43, ¡95 Fearless, Richard ¡88 Fichtner, William ¡55 5¡st State (Formula 5¡ ) (film) ¡60–¡6¡, ¡80, ¡96 54 (film) ¡69, ¡96 Fight, Flight or Chill (book) ¡99 Fikentscher, Kai ¡96 Findlay, Tom 85 Fiorillo, Alfredo 5–6 Firgens, Mackenzie ¡05 Flesh of the Gods (book) ¡96 Florida see Miami “Flutter” (song) ¡9 Fly (book) ¡95 Flying saucers 9 Food of the Gods (book) ¡2¡, ¡9¡, ¡97 Football (soccer) 54–58, 60, ¡20, ¡29– ¡32, ¡43, ¡49–¡50, ¡85, ¡88, ¡92 Football Factory Trilog y ¡93 Formula 5¡ see 5¡st State “Fortune’s Always Hiding” (story) 60– 6¡ 45 (book) 22, ¡38, ¡40, ¡87, ¡96 France, French ¡¡5, ¡35, ¡40; French Canadian ¡65

205

Index Freaky Dancin’ (book) ¡43–¡46, ¡92, ¡95 Frears, Stephen ¡97 Freddie vs. Jason (film) ¡92 “Friends and Lovers” (TV episode) ¡78– ¡79, ¡96 Fritz, Jimi ¡96 Funkadelic see Parliament/Funkadelic Furst, Peter T. ¡96 Fusion, Asian 93 Futures (journal) ¡90, ¡97 Futurism 7–9, ¡3, 29, 33, 80, ¡28; see also Science fiction

Ginsburg, Allen ¡9¡, ¡95 Glam rock ¡90 Glasgow 2, ¡09–¡¡0 Glastonbury festival ¡24 Glaudini, Lola ¡05 Glitter, Garry 22 Globalization 85–86 Glue (book) 56, 62–65, ¡0¡, ¡99 Gnash ¡88 Go (film) ¡53–¡57, ¡80, ¡96 Goa, India 74, ¡33 Goa trance music ¡33 “God Save the Queen” (anthem) 37 Godfrey, John ¡86, ¡96 Goetz, Rainald ¡96 Gold, Murray ¡90 Goldie 76 Goth music 32, ¡08 Granada TV ¡40 Grant, Eddie ¡42 Granta (magazine) ¡46, ¡96 “Granton Star Cause” (story, film) ¡3¡ Grass see Marijuana Gravity (club) 79 Great Britain see United Kingdom Greek Buck 96 Green, Seth ¡93 Greene, Graham ¡78 Gretton, Allan ¡42 Grey, Christopher ¡92 Groove (film) 68, 95, ¡04–¡07, ¡09, ¡65, ¡88, ¡96 Groove Armada (duo) 85 Grooverider 75 Grossberg, Lawrence ¡96 Groves, David 7¡ Guillory, Sienna 69 Guns 7¡, 77–78, 83, 85, ¡42, ¡65 Gurning 36, ¡88 Guru, Indian ¡¡7

G8 summit 85 Gabba (music) 75 Gabber (music) 45, ¡88 Gaia ¡28 Gamma hydroxybutyrate see GHB Gangs, gangsters ¡0, ¡4, 36, 77, 79, 83– 84, 87, ¡06, ¡¡8, ¡42, ¡48, ¡50, ¡56; see also Hooligans “Gangster Tripping” (song) ¡56 Ganja ¡23, ¡36 Garage music 30, 93, ¡08, ¡¡4, ¡58 Garland, Alex ¡34–¡36, ¡74, ¡96 Garland, Judy 68 Garratt, Sheryl 8, ¡96 Gatecrasher (club) ¡85 “Gay Circuit” (article) ¡90 Gay, lesbian 6, ¡0, ¡2–¡3, ¡5, 26, 37, 4¡–42, 66–68, 94–¡¡4, ¡¡7–¡¡9, ¡54, ¡63, ¡66–¡68, ¡77, ¡80, ¡85, ¡89–¡90, ¡95–¡97 Generation Ecstasy (book) 2, 7, 9, 75, ¡43–¡44, ¡82, ¡85–¡86, ¡90, ¡92, ¡98 Generation X (GenX) 35, ¡33, ¡53, ¡98 Generations see Baby boomers; Chemical; Generation X ; Hippies Genesis P-Orridge 47 GenX Reader (book) ¡98 German, Lauren 37 Germany 7–8, 63–64, 83, ¡4¡, ¡88, ¡95 GHB (gamma hydroxybutyrate) ¡0¡, ¡¡9, ¡7¡, ¡9¡ Gilbert, Jeremy 94, ¡00, ¡89, ¡96 Gill, Thea 98 Gillan, Aidan 97

Hacienda (club) ¡39–¡40, ¡42, ¡88 Haight-Ashbury ¡2 Haines, Nathan 75 Hair see Dreadlocks; Mohawk; Skinheads Halfway between the Gutter and the Stars (CD) 26 Hallucinogens 43, 82, ¡¡6, ¡¡8, ¡2¡, ¡25,

206

Index ¡33, ¡36, ¡44, ¡55, ¡88, ¡92–¡93, ¡96, ¡98; see also Drugs Hamlin, Joshua B. 66 Hanif Kureishi (book) ¡97 Happy Mondays (band) ¡4¡–¡45, ¡73 Harner, Michael J. ¡96 Harold, Gale 97 Harrison, Greg 95, ¡95 Harrison, Randy 97 Hashish 36, ¡¡5, ¡23, ¡64, ¡92 Haslam, Dave ¡89, ¡96 Hat Rin ¡34 “Haywain” (painting) 22 Heard, Larry ¡85 Hearing, deafness ¡24–¡25 Heathrow 85 Heaven (club) ¡¡2 Heaven and Hell (book) ¡75, ¡93 Heavy metal music ¡56, ¡65 Hedonism 3, 7–9, ¡3, ¡7, 28, 4¡, 80, 89–90, ¡03, ¡2¡, ¡63, ¡83, ¡85 Hegel 9 Heley, Mark 28–29 Hemingway, Ernest ¡36–¡37 Heroin 56, 62, 64–66, 68, 83, ¡0¡, ¡4¡– ¡42, ¡50, ¡67–¡68, ¡76 Hill, Annette ¡95 Hills, Gavin 54–56, ¡96 Hip-hop 6, 36, 75–76, 79, 9¡, ¡56, ¡6¡, ¡63, ¡72, ¡88 Hippies 4–5, ¡0, ¡2, 48, 67, ¡¡5, ¡22, ¡32–¡33, ¡40–¡4¡, ¡52, ¡85 Hispanic ¡66 Hitler, Adolf ¡4¡ HMV music ¡03 Hodge, John ¡97 Hofmann, Albert ¡98 Holland see Amsterdam Hollywood ¡05, ¡68 Holmes, Katie ¡54 Holographic exploratorium 29 Home Alone (film) ¡93 Homeless ¡93 Homosexuality see Gay Hong Kong 84, ¡60 Hooligans 54–58, 60, ¡20, ¡29–¡32, ¡43, ¡49–¡50, ¡85, ¡88 Hopper, Dennis ¡56 Horkheimer, Max 20, ¡87, ¡95

House: The Rough Guide (book) ¡95 House music 26, 32, 80, 95, ¡¡¡, ¡¡4, ¡58, ¡63, ¡90, ¡98 “House Sound of Chicago” (article) 80, ¡98 “How Sunshine Star-Traveller Lost His Girlfriend” (story) ¡22–¡23, ¡97 Huda, Menhaj ¡72, ¡97 Hu› (TV series) ¡9¡, ¡97 Human Tra‡c (film) 34–37, 49–5¡, 68, 9¡–92, ¡0¡, ¡97 Hunnam, Charlie 97 Hutter, Ralf 7 Huxley, Aldous 43, ¡46, ¡75, ¡93 Hyperreal.org (site) ¡2, ¡¡7 Hypocrisy, Don’t Do It (TV episode) ¡90 Ibiza ¡, 5–6, 74, ¡¡4, ¡¡7, ¡¡9, ¡24, ¡57– ¡58, ¡63, ¡69–¡74, ¡85, ¡88, ¡9¡, ¡93 Ibiza Uncovered (TV series) ¡93 Idealism ¡, 8, ¡4, ¡6–50, 52, 65–66, ¡42, ¡6¡ Ifans, Rhys ¡58, ¡60, ¡92 Illinois see Chicago Illuminatus! Trilog y 22, ¡26, ¡87, ¡99 Immigrants see Ethnicity Impressionist art ¡¡5 In the Culture Society (book) ¡97 Income tax evasion 52 India ¡5, 74 (Goa), 76, 87, 89, ¡¡7, ¡33 Indie music, bands 5, ¡39, ¡43 Industrial music 32, 47 Inspector Morse (TV series) ¡74–¡77, ¡80, ¡93, ¡97 Internationale Situationniste (book) ¡92 Internationalism 8, ¡3, 74, 80–8¡ Internet, Web 9, ¡2, 25–26, 33, 85, ¡04, ¡¡7, ¡36 Is Harry on the Boat (book, TV series) ¡58, ¡69–¡74, ¡80–¡8¡, ¡93, ¡95, ¡97 Islam 88–89, 9¡, ¡89 Israel 87 It’s All Gone Pete Tong (film) ¡22, ¡24– ¡25, ¡97 Jackson, Samuel L. ¡60 Jacobs, Dianna 28 Jail see Prison

207

Index Jamaica 36, 75–76, 84, 9¡–92, ¡20, ¡88–¡89 JAMM ( Justified Ancients of Mu Mu) 22 Jazz 43, 75, ¡20 Je›erson, Marshall ¡85 Jello Salad (book) 77, 83–87, ¡95 Jesus ¡27 Jewish 87, ¡20 Jimson weed ¡79 Jonze, Spike (Adam Spiegel) ¡86, ¡97 Jordan, Joel T. ¡97 Jovy, Alexander 69–7¡, 95, ¡98 Joy Division (band) ¡40, ¡43 Jules, Judge ¡58 Jungle (drum’n’bass) music 2¡, 75–76, 92–93, ¡72, ¡89, ¡92 Junglist 75, 92 Junky (book) ¡5 Jura 24 Justified Ancients of Mu Mu 22

Krung Thep see Bangkok Kureishi, Hanif 87–9¡, ¡88–¡89, ¡97 Lacey, Stephen ¡95 Langridge, Aaron ¡04 Larkin, Colin ¡97 Las Vegas ¡53, ¡56, ¡78 Lasers 7, 32, 98, ¡22 Last Night a DJ Saved My Life (book) ¡90, ¡95 Late Night Sessions (film) 66–69 Latino 95, ¡66 (hispanic), ¡90 Laws, anti-drug laws in foreign countries ¡33; Criminal Justice Act ¡8, 35, ¡24, ¡27, ¡42, ¡64, ¡86–¡87, ¡99; raves as illegal events 3, ¡8, 27–30, ¡28, ¡86– ¡87; see also Crime Leander, Mike 22 Leary, Timothy 43 Leaving the 20th Century (book) ¡40 Lee, Lara ¡62–¡63, ¡97 Leeds 2 Leekley, John ¡99 Leftfield (band) ¡¡¡, ¡56 Lesbian see Gay Levan, Larry ¡¡4 Levine, Martin P. ¡90, ¡97 “Life and Death of Gay Clones” (article) ¡90, ¡97 Liman, Doug ¡53, ¡96 Limits of Interpretation (book) ¡93, ¡96 Lindberg, Chad 37 Linklater, Hamish ¡05 Liverpool 22, ¡39, ¡43, ¡60–¡6¡, ¡72, ¡87 London 2, 5–6, 25, 42, 57, 60, 64, 69, 7¡, 76–77, 83–85, 88–90, ¡¡¡–¡¡3, ¡20, ¡48, ¡58, ¡75, ¡77, ¡85, ¡88–¡90, ¡97 London Film-makers Co-Operative ¡88 London Kills Me (film) 88, ¡97 Looking for the Perfect Beat (book) ¡98 “Lorraine Goes to Livingston” (story) 59–6¡, ¡92 Los Angeles ¡53, ¡60 Love Drug (book) ¡96 Love potion 37 Lowry, Rob ¡97

Kaye, Paul ¡24 Keegan, Andrew 37 Kelly, Craig 97–98 Keoki (DJ) 48, ¡67 Kerouac, Jack 9 Kerrigan, Justin 34, ¡97 Kesey, Ken 43, ¡46 Ketamine (Special K) 70, ¡00, ¡¡2, ¡¡8– ¡¡9, ¡66–¡67, ¡9¡ Kevin and Perry Go Large (film) ¡57– ¡60, ¡80, ¡93, ¡97 Kidnapping 60 Kimmel, Michael S. ¡97 King, John ¡93 Kingston, Jamaica 75 Kirkwood, Denny ¡05 Klein, Calvin ¡9¡ KLF (Kopyright Liberation Foundation, group) 22–24, ¡26, ¡38, ¡87, ¡9¡, ¡96 Knuckles, Frankie ¡¡4 Koh Tao ¡34 Kohn, Marek 82, ¡97 Kok Phangan island ¡34 Kopyright Liberation Foundation see KLF Kraftwerk (band) 7–8; (book) ¡95

208

Index LSD 32, 42, 65, 8¡, ¡¡9, ¡29, ¡43, ¡52, ¡56, ¡65

Merck ¡¡6 Messner, Michael A. ¡97 Metalheadz (label) 76 Meth see Crystal meth Mexico 82 Miami 74 Michael, George ¡88 Michigan see Detroit Midnight Express (film) ¡92 Midsummer Night’s Dream (play) 37, 39 Midsummer Night’s Rave (film) 37–39, 49–50, ¡97 Millar, Martin ¡22–¡23, ¡97 Millennium rave 46 Mind gym 32 Mingus, Charles ¡20 Minnesota ¡79 Miramax 28, ¡97 Mirchandani, Rajesh ¡89 Mixmag 24, 6¡, 85, ¡¡8, ¡90–¡9¡, ¡97 Moby ¡62, ¡9¡ Mods 9–¡¡, ¡00, ¡¡7, ¡¡9–¡20 Modulations (film) ¡62–¡64, ¡80, ¡97 Mohawk haircuts ¡52 Mohr, Jay ¡54 Monroe, Marilyn ¡87 Moody, Nickianne 25, 5¡, ¡90, ¡97 Moonshine Music 38, 49 Moore-Gilbert, Bart 88, ¡97 Morrison, Van ¡47 Morse see Inspector Morse Mortimer, Emily ¡60 Morton, Samantha 44 Morvern Callar (novel, film) 39–46, 49–50, 58, 95, ¡97, ¡99 Moss Side black clubs ¡89 Motorcycles, biker gangs ¡0, ¡¡8 Motown Records 6, ¡85 MTV ¡86 Mu Mu see JAMM Munich 63–64 Murbach, Eliza 66 Murder 56, 58, 60, 68–7¡, 78, 87, 92, ¡36, ¡60, ¡66–¡68, ¡79, ¡86, ¡93 Museum of London 25 Music 22–27, 95, ¡62–¡64; see also Acid house; Baggy; Blues; Classical; Disco; Drum’n’bass; Fusion; Gabba; Gabber; Garage; Goth; Heavy metal; Hip-

Mabrey, Sunny 37 Macario, Miguilito ¡98 MacDonald, Dr. Deneka 2 MacLaggan, Caterpillar 66 Malbon, Ben 74, 79–80, ¡87, ¡97 Mamas and Papas (group) 45 Manchester 2, 53–54, 57–58, 77–8¡, 83, 96–99, ¡20, ¡26–¡27, ¡39–¡42, ¡44, ¡59, ¡88–¡90, ¡92, ¡96 Manchester, England: The Story of the Pop Cult City (book) ¡89, ¡96 Manchester University 2 Manhattan ¡66, ¡69 The Manual (book) 23–24, 30, 63, ¡87, ¡9¡, ¡96 “Marabou Stork Nightmares” (story) 54, 56–58, ¡29–¡3¡, ¡9¡, ¡99 Maracas ¡43–¡44 Marcell, Kelly 72 Marijuana, cannabis, grass, joints, pot 32, 36, 68, 80–82, ¡07, ¡¡¡, ¡¡9, ¡23, ¡35–¡36, ¡40, ¡42–¡43, ¡52, ¡60, ¡65, ¡73 Marimbas 96 Marley, Bob 75 Master of Ceremonies see MCs Masterson, Fay 69 May, Derrick 7 McCardie, Ed ¡08 McCardie, Martin ¡08 McDermott, Kathleen 44 McGuigan, Paul ¡3¡ McKay, David ¡98 McKenna, Terrence 68, ¡¡5, ¡2¡–¡22, ¡25, ¡28, ¡40, ¡89, ¡9¡, ¡97 McKenzie, Derek ¡9¡ McKenzie, Keith ¡9¡ McRobbie, Angela 2¡, 75–76, ¡88, ¡97 MCs (master of ceremonies) 26, 75, ¡64, ¡88 MDMA see Ecstasy Meat Loaf (singer) ¡60 Mediterranean ¡85 Mein Kampf (book) ¡4¡ Memoirs see Writing Men’s Lives (book) ¡97

209

Index hop; HMV; House; Indie; Industrial; Jazz; Jungle; Mods; Northern Soul; Pop; Punk; R & B; Rap; Reggae; Rock; Scallydelia; Synth; Techno; Trance Muslim 89–9¡ My Beautiful Laundrette (film) 88, ¡97 Mysticism 82; see also Religion

Parker, Alan ¡92 Parliament/Funkadelic (band) ¡26, ¡85 Parliament, UK ¡8 Party Monster (film) ¡93, ¡97 Passenger (club) 79 Patchouli ¡40 Patterson, Sylvia 85, ¡97 Peace Corps 48 Pearl Jam (band) 30 Pearson, Corey 37 Pearson, Ewan 94, ¡00, ¡89, ¡96 Pennsylvania see Pittsburgh Petersen, William ¡79 Peyote ¡92 Phenethylamines ¡¡7, ¡98 Phillips, Lou Diamond ¡78 Piano factory 28, ¡08 Piercing, body ¡22 PIHKAL (book) ¡¡7, ¡98 Pills ¡¡, ¡9, 37–39, ¡¡6, ¡45, ¡55, ¡73; see also Drugs Pini, Maria 98, ¡97 Pittsburgh 96–98 Plant, Martin ¡97 Plant, Moira ¡97 Plants of the Gods (book) ¡98 Poetic terrorism ¡7, 24, ¡95 Poetry readings 26 Police 29–30, 35, 38, 40, 65, ¡09–¡¡¡, ¡24, ¡28, ¡35–¡37, ¡55, ¡60, ¡64, ¡68, ¡74–¡79, ¡86 Political themes ¡0, ¡2, ¡4, ¡7–20, 24, 27, 35, 49–52, 55, 63, 85, 88, ¡02– ¡03, ¡08, ¡¡5, ¡26, ¡40, ¡45, ¡50, ¡63, ¡77, ¡82, ¡86, ¡92 Pollen (book) ¡26, ¡88 Polley, Sarah ¡53 Pop culture ¡, ¡0–¡3, 20–2¡, 50, 77, 94, ¡82, ¡87, ¡89, ¡96, ¡98 Pop music, chart pop 5, 22–24, 7¡, ¡85, ¡87, ¡89 Poppers (drugs) ¡¡2 Popular Television Drama (book) ¡95 Porno (book) 56, ¡99 P’Orridge, Genesis 47 Poschardt, Ulf ¡90, ¡97 Postcolonial ¡5, 77, 85, 87, ¡89 “Post-Nationalist Geographies” (article) ¡89, ¡96

Nazis ¡40 Necrophilia 59 Needle in the Groove (book) ¡97 Neo-Fascism ¡24 Neo-Sufi ¡8 Neo-tribalism see Shamanism Neumann, Daniela ¡93 Nevada ¡78; see also Las Vegas New age 47, 82, ¡08, ¡2¡–¡25, ¡27, ¡64– ¡65, ¡89 New Music Express (magazine) 6¡ New Order (band) ¡40–¡4¡ New York 4–5, ¡3, 47, 9¡, 95, ¡¡4, ¡¡7, ¡37–¡38, ¡66–¡69, ¡96 NO2 (drug) ¡07 Noon, Je› ¡26–¡28, ¡88, ¡97 Northern Soul music 9–¡0, ¡00, ¡¡7, ¡¡9, ¡85–¡86 Number of Names (band) 8 Nymphomation (book) ¡26 Nyuis, Michael 68 Oakenfold, Paul 5, ¡85 Oakland 28–29 Oasis (band) ¡59 Ocean of Sound (book) ¡98 O’Connor, Justin ¡97–¡98 Olyphant, Timothy ¡54 Opium 82–83, ¡¡5 Osborne, Ben 75, ¡97 Overdoses, drug 48, 65, ¡0¡, ¡¡9, ¡37, ¡42, ¡78–¡79 Oxbridge 2¡ Oxford ¡74 Paisley, David ¡09 Pakistan ¡5, 78, 83–84 Palestine 87 Pamplona ¡36 Paradise Garage (club) ¡04, ¡¡4

210

Index Pot see Marijuana Poverty ¡9, 34, 4¡, 56, 65, ¡45, ¡54–¡55, ¡93 (homeless) “Praise You” (video) ¡86, ¡97 Pregnancy 46, ¡88 Pride Vision (cable TV) ¡03 Priestly, Jason ¡79 Prime Minister see Thatcher, Margaret “Prime-Time Television in the Gay Nineties” (article) ¡03, ¡95 Prince (musician) 88–90 Prison, jail 53, 68, ¡24, ¡50, ¡60 Psychedelic drugs 32, ¡00, ¡¡6–¡¡9, ¡25, ¡33, ¡47, ¡79; see also Drugs Psychotherapy 58–59, ¡¡6, ¡3¡, ¡47, ¡75, ¡9¡ Pulp Fiction (film) ¡56 Punk 4, ¡8, 57, 60, ¡¡9, ¡40–¡4¡, ¡52, ¡6¡ Pyramid ¡22

Raving Lunacy (book) ¡48–¡50, ¡96 Redhead, Steve 2, 9, ¡97–¡98 “Re-Evolution” (track) ¡2¡, ¡89, ¡9¡ Reggae, ragga 5, 75–76, 79–80, ¡73, ¡89 Reid, Alastair ¡99 Reighley, Kurt B. ¡98 Reiner, Rob ¡24 Reiss, John 47, ¡95 Religion 86, 89, ¡¡7, ¡23, ¡55; see also Buddhism; Catholicism; Christian; Islam; Muslim; Rosicrucian; Shamanism; Sufi; Yoga; Zen Rema ¡89 Resurrection (club) ¡3¡ “Return of the Dub Snatchers” (article) ¡97 Revolution ¡8, 34, 48, ¡6¡ Reynolds, Simon 2, 7, 9, 75, 82, ¡43, ¡82, ¡85–¡86, ¡90, ¡92, ¡98 Rhys, Matthew 69 Richards, Keith ¡44 Rietveld, Hillegonda 80, ¡90 Risk Takers (book) ¡97 River, Michael ¡28–¡29, ¡98 Riverside, Vincent ¡04 Roby ¡9¡ “Rock and Roll” (song) 22 Rock, Indie see Indie music Rock music 4, 22–24, 30, 63, 88, ¡24, ¡40, ¡44, ¡47, ¡82, ¡90–¡9¡ Rockers ¡¡, ¡8, ¡¡9 Roddam, Franc ¡20, ¡98 Rooney, Mickey 68 Rosicrucian 22 Rothko (artist) 22 Rotterdam ¡88 Rum 80 Rumley, Simon 7¡–72, ¡98 Running of the Bulls ¡36 Rushdie, Salman 88–90 Rushko›, Douglas 27–34, 49–50, 57, 95, ¡07–¡08, ¡28, ¡36–¡38, ¡64, ¡98 Ryder, Paul ¡43 Ryder, Shaun ¡4¡, ¡43–¡44

Q (black author) 25 Quadrophenia (album, film) ¡¡, ¡20, ¡98 Queer as Folk (TV series) 95–¡04, ¡09– ¡¡2, ¡90, ¡95, ¡98 R & B music 76, ¡72 Race ¡0, ¡5, 26, 64, 67, 74–93, ¡49– ¡50, ¡73, ¡89; see also Asia, Asians; Blacks; Ethnicity Radio, pirate 27 Ragga see Reggae Rampling, Danny 5, ¡85 Rampling, Jenny ¡85 Ramsay, Lynne 44, 46, ¡97 Rap 54, 75–76, ¡88 Rape 7¡–72, ¡¡9, ¡9¡ Rastafarians, Rastas ¡0, 36, ¡23, ¡28, ¡89, ¡96 Rave (book) ¡96 Rave America (book) ¡98 “Rave Culture” (article) 82, ¡96, ¡98 Rave O› (book) ¡98 “Rave On” (TV episode) ¡79, ¡95 Raves, legality 3, ¡8, 27–30, ¡28, ¡86– ¡87; millennium 46; promoters 28, 47, 5¡–54, 66, ¡37, ¡48–¡50, ¡64–¡65; venues see Aircraft hangers; Factories; Warehouses; see also references throughout

Sadism 59 St. James, James 48, 95, ¡66–¡69, ¡93, ¡98 St. Martin’s Lane ¡¡3

211

Index Salford, Manchester ¡44 Samizdat 25, ¡¡7 San Francisco 2, ¡2, 28–29, ¡04–¡05, ¡08, ¡37 Sanchez, Roger 6¡ “Sandstorm” (song) 99 Santiago, Zak 67 Sartre, Jean-Paul ¡20 Sasha see Coe, Alexander Satanic Verses (book) 88–90 Saturday Night Fever (film) ¡89 Saudi Arabia ¡36 Saunders, Nicholas 68, ¡¡5–¡¡7, ¡28, ¡85, ¡9¡, ¡98 Saunderson (techno artist) 7 Scallydelia ¡43 Schneider-Esleben, Florian 7 Schultes, Richard Evans ¡98 Science fiction 7, 9, 22, ¡2¡, ¡26–¡33, ¡85, ¡87 Science Fiction Theatre, Liverpool ¡87 Scooters ¡0 Scotland 24, 39–40, 42–43, 46, 56–57, 62–65, 95, ¡08, ¡23, ¡3¡–¡32, ¡9¡; see also Edinburgh; Glasgow; Jura Scott, Ridley ¡56 Scratching records, vinyl 9¡–92 Searching for the Perfect Beat (book) ¡97 Seattle 66–67 Semel, David ¡95 Serotonin ¡37 Sex 33, 4¡–43, 49, 59, 99, ¡¡5–¡5¡, ¡57–¡58, ¡60, ¡69–¡72, ¡78, ¡8¡, ¡95; impact of ecstacy on ¡¡6; see also Gay; Transsexual; Transvestite “Sexy Boy” (song) 99 Shah, Pooja ¡72 Shakespeare 37, 39, 50, 69, ¡02, ¡74 Shallow Grave (screenplay) ¡97 Shamanism, neo-tribalism 43, 47–48, 82, ¡20–¡26, ¡28, ¡33, ¡50, ¡65, ¡96 Shameless (book) 95, ¡¡¡–¡¡3, ¡¡8, ¡95 Shamen (band) ¡2¡, ¡89, ¡9¡ Shapiro, Harry ¡98 Sharivari 8 Shea, Robert 22, ¡99 Shield, Jim 67 Shilton, Gilbert ¡95 Shoom (club) ¡85

Showcase (cable TV) ¡03 Shulgin, Alexander ¡¡6–¡¡7, ¡98 Shulgin, Anne ¡¡7 Sicko, Dan 7, ¡98 Siefert, Stephanie 66 Silcott, Mireille 28–29, ¡90, ¡98 Silcott, Push 28–29, ¡90, ¡98 Silicon Valley ¡2, 29 Singh, Talvin ¡89 Situationist art, politics ¡40 Skinheads ¡0, ¡23–¡24, ¡6¡ Sky¡ satellite network ¡72 Smart drugs 32 Smith, Kimani Ray 66 Smoking ¡9, ¡64 “Snow That Killed Manual Jarrow” (story) ¡36–¡38, ¡98 “Snows of Kilimanjaro” (story) ¡37 Soccer see Football “Social and Temporal Geographies of the Near Future” (article) ¡90, ¡97 Social engineering 32, 34 Soft Touch (story, film) ¡3¡ “Song for Shelter” (song) 26 Sony ¡03, ¡96 Sorted (film) 69–7¡, 95, ¡98 South America 5, 78, 8¡–82, ¡25, ¡9¡– ¡92 Spain ¡, 5, 39–43, 45, 83, ¡33, ¡58; see also Balearic; Ibiza; Pamplona Sparks, Hal 97 Special K see Ketamine Speed (drug) 68, ¡00, ¡¡7–¡¡8 Spelling, Aaron ¡79–¡80 Spiegel, Adam see Jonze Spiral Tribe (collective) ¡22, ¡86 Springer, Claudia ¡98 “Spunk” (song) 96 Squatting 52, ¡88 Squirrel and G-Man Twenty Four Hour Party People Plastic Face Carnt Smile (album) ¡43 Star Wars (films) 36 “State of the Party” (story) 65–66, ¡0¡ States of Grace (film) 84 Stephenson, Peter ¡9¡ Stimulants ¡00, ¡¡8–¡¡9, ¡33, ¡90; see also Drugs Stockhausen, Karlheinz 8, ¡62

212

Index Stone Roses (band) ¡73 Stop the Ride, I Want to Get O› (book) ¡48 Strikes, at school or workplace ¡7 Strong Language (film) 7¡–72, ¡98 Studio 54 (club) ¡69 Subculture to Clubcultures (book) 2, 9, ¡98 Subcultures, defined ¡0–¡¡ Sufi, Neo ¡8 Suicide 40, 44, 50, 58, 7¡, ¡40, ¡74–¡76 Summer Love (film) ¡64–¡65, ¡80, ¡98 Sun (newspaper) ¡69 The Sun Also Rises (book) ¡36 Surinam 78 “Swords” (song) ¡56 Synth bands 5 Synthesizers 8

Third Wave (book) 8 This Is Spinal Tap (film) ¡24 Thompson, Hunter S. 9, ¡46 Thornton, Sarah 2, 6–7, 25–27, 3¡, 79, ¡98 Throbbing Gristle (band) 47 Timelords 22 Tinsel Town (TV series) 95, ¡08–¡¡3, ¡98 Tivoli Gardens ¡89 Todorov, Tzvetan; Todorovian ¡29, ¡92 To·er, Alvin 7–8 Tong see It’s All Gone Pete Tong Toon Town 28 Toop, David ¡85, ¡98 Toronto 96 Tourism 5–6, ¡3, 74, ¡33–¡38; see also Australia; Goa; Ibiza; Miami; Spain; Thailand Trad jazz ¡20 Trade (club) ¡¡2 Tra‡c (film) ¡89 Tra‡k (TV series) 83, ¡89, ¡99 Trainspotting (book, film) ¡5, 56, 62, 65, ¡74, ¡76, ¡97, ¡99 Trance ¡2, 75, 99, ¡22, ¡33, ¡34, ¡85 Tranquilizers 60 Transcendental drugs 3, 68; see also Drugs Transsexual 77–78 Transvestites 7¡, ¡09, ¡67 Trenchtown 75 Tribalism see Shamanism Turkey ¡92 Twaddale, Jim ¡09 Tweeked out 48 Tweekend (CD) ¡¡8 24 Hour Party People (book, film) ¡39– ¡43, ¡99 Twinkies 4, 48, 94, ¡85

“Talisman” (song) ¡56 Tarentino, Quentin ¡56 Taste culture 25 “Tastes Like Chicken” (TV episode) ¡78, ¡99 Tattoos ¡05–¡06, ¡22 Tax evasion 52 TAZ (book) ¡7–¡8, 25, ¡95 Teachings of Don Juan (book) ¡92 Techno: The Dance Sound of Detroit (album) 6 Techno music 6–8, ¡3, 29, 36, 75–76, 79, ¡33, ¡88 Techno Rebels (book) ¡98 Television, interactive 29; see also names of TV series, episodes, networks Television Studies Reader (book) ¡95 Temporary Autonomous Zone see TAZ Tenazadrine 60 Terrorism, poetic ¡7, 24, ¡95 Teutonic trance 75 Texas ¡¡6 Thailand 74, 84, ¡33–¡36, ¡92; see also Bangkok Thalidomide 60, ¡88 Thatcher, Margaret; Thatcherism ¡8, 35, 55, 63, ¡63, ¡77, ¡86 Thelma and Louise (film) ¡56 These Demented Lands (book) 39, 46, 49, ¡99

UK see United Kingdom “Undefeated” (story) 60 Underworld (band) ¡¡¡ Unions 63 United Kingdom see Brixton; Cambridge; Glastonbury; Heathrow; Leeds; Liverpool; London; Manchester; Oxbridge; Oxford; Scotland; Wales; Yorkshire

213

Index United States see California; Florida; Illinois; Michigan; Minnesota; Nevada; New York; Pennsylvania; Texas; Washington University of British Columbia 2 University of Glasgow 2 University of Northern British Columbia 2 “Up in Flames” (TV episode) ¡80, ¡95

Westwood, Calif. ¡86 Wham (group) ¡89 Whelan, Gary ¡43 Whiskey ¡78 Whit (book) ¡22–¡24, ¡88, ¡95 “White Burger Danny” (story) 54–56, ¡9¡, ¡96 White Isle see Ibiza White Out (album) ¡43 Whiteside, Shaun ¡97 The Who (band) ¡20 Wilde, Frankie ¡24–¡25 Will and Grace (TV series) 96 Williams, Steven ¡95 Wilson, Brian ¡99 Wilson, Robert Anton 22, ¡26, ¡87, ¡99 Wilson, Tony ¡39–¡44, ¡92, ¡99 Winstead, Mary Elizabeth ¡78 Winterbottom, Michael ¡99 Wirtshaftswunder 8 Witzke, Je› ¡04 Wizards 22 Wolf, Scott ¡54 Wolf Lake (TV series) ¡78–¡79, ¡93, ¡99 “Wonderwall” (song) ¡59 Woodstra, Chris ¡95 World War 8, 82, ¡87 World Wide Web see Internet Wray, C.J. ¡03 Writing, life (biography, autobiography, memoirs) ¡¡7, ¡38–¡50 Wynne, Derek ¡97–¡98

Vancouver 2, 66, ¡64 Veronica Mars (TV series) ¡9¡ Vietnam War ¡9, ¡¡8 Vincent, Tim 69 Virgin Atlantic Airlines ¡03 Virgin Encyclopedia of Dance Music 6, 75, ¡97 Virgin Records 6 Vom Urkult zur Kultur (book) ¡96 Voodoo ¡27 Vurt (book) ¡26–¡27, ¡97 Waiting for the Man (book) ¡98 “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go” (song) ¡89 Wales 34, 36, 9¡ Walkman 43 War see Cold War; Vietnam; World War Warehouse (club) 95, ¡04, ¡¡3 Warehouses, as party venues 3, 55, 64, 68, 90, ¡04, ¡75, ¡86 Warhol, Andy ¡68, ¡87 Warner, Alan 39–46, 50, 95, ¡99 Washing Machine (record) ¡85 Washington state 66–67 We Gotta Get Out of This Place (book) ¡96 Weatherall, Andy ¡88 Web see Internet Weekend at Bernie’s (film) 65 Welsh, Irvine ¡5, 39, 54, 56–66, ¡0¡, ¡29–¡33, ¡67, ¡74, ¡88, ¡92, ¡99 Werewolves ¡78 West Indies ¡5, 78, 80; see also Barbados; Jamaica

Yage (drug) ¡25 Yage Letters (book) ¡9¡, ¡95 Yaqui ¡92 Yeats, W.B. ¡4¡ Yoga ¡06 Yorkshire 69 You Better Work (book) ¡96 Youth and the Condition of Britain (book) ¡96 Yu, Ronny ¡60, ¡96 Zen ¡47

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