Put yo’ weight on it!
Posted by Disco Dirt
This week, Disco Dirt has a new hero. OK – so we may be 29 years too late, as the film was made in 1979, but we missed it the first time around. Think of the ingredients for a perfect film. An authentic disco soundtrack? Check. Disco roller girls in skimpy outfits? Check. An evil drugs tycoon who needs bringing down? Check. So-bad-it’s-amazing kung fu moves filmed on an extremely low budget? Check. Ex-cop turned nightclub proprietor who cuts a rather fine figure in a skin-tight all-in-one catsuit, going by the name of The Disco Godfather? Truly, this film has it all. We can’t possibly do it justice in words, so please sit back and watch the trailer…and put yo’ weeeeiiight on it!
Where would they be now?
Posted by Disco Dirt
With Mr C’s Clink Street and Danny Rampling’s Shoom reuniting this Saturday at The End to celebrate 20 years of acid house, it got Disco Dirt thinking…what if acid house had never happened? What would Mr C and Sven Vath be doing now if Jimmy Savile had never put two turntables next to each other and ‘invented’ DJing? What if Paul Oakenfold and Nicky Holloway had decided to go to Tenerife instead of Ibiza? Or what if they’d got to Ibiza, watched all these idiots prancing around and thought, “what a load of old tripe ”, come back to London, put their Guns N' Roses t-shirts back on and went about their business? Disco Dirt stares pensively up to the ceiling and ponders what some of our favourite DJs might be doing now….
Having famously started his career as a milkman, we like to think that Mr C would have stayed in the milk trade, but being an entrepreneurial sort, set up his own dairy business ‘Eezer-Foode’, delivering milk, cheese, eggs and of course, erm…salmon to the masses. “Mornin’ Vera – two pints of red top for ya? Laaaavely.”
Rock star is the most obvious career path for The Vath, who’s partial to a bit of mic action when he’s DJing, and whose outrageous posturing behind the decks makes Gene Simmons look like Cliff Richard. Perhaps he would have invented a new strain of the genre: ‘Harlequin Rock’, which is similar to ‘Hair Metal’ but involves even tighter leather trousers and psychedelic body painting going under the mantle of ‘performance art.’
DJ Marky has professional footballer written all over him. Not only is he Brazilian, giving him a head start in the football stakes in the first place, but he’s the only DJ who looks like he’s just scored the winning goal in the World Cup every time he’s in the DJ booth. You almost expect him to whip his t-shirt off and swap it with Stamina’s at the end of the night.
Would be the presenter of a ‘How Clean Is Your House’ style reality TV show, in which he goes around de-cluttering people’s homes whilst they are on holiday, then sits back and watches the tears begin when they get home and realise he’s thrown everything away apart from a Rubik’s Cube in the middle of the living room floor.
Always has something of the ‘tortured artiste’ to him. Maybe it’s being French, maybe it’s just being Laurent Garnier. But Disco Dirt imagines him living in a cramped studio flat in the Montmartre, Gitane permanently hanging from the corner of his mouth, surrounded by unfinished masterpieces, and scratching a living as a highly talented yet misunderstood pavement artist, kind of like a chic French version of Dick van Dyke in Mary Poppins. Fifty years later someone discovers his genius and proclaims him the new Van Gogh. No? Not getting it? Maybe Disco Dirt is just too much of an old romantic at heart…
This is an easy one. Goldie would clearly be a secret agent, a master of disguise – slipping unnoticed into top secret political meetings and gathering confidential information. He would be using his talents to investigate doping in the Olympic Games, to weed out rogue cello players in the orchestra, to bust illegal fruit stalls in Albert Square and to thwart dastardly villains in Bond films. Don’t believe us? Check out Goldie going undercover as ‘Guido’ in our highly classified video and see for yourself here.
Spare my blushes...
Posted by Disco Dirt
When did modern life get so complicated? Social interaction has gone from walking past the house of the boy you fancy on the way to college each day in the vain hope that he might glance out of the window and notice you, to being able to track his every movement on Facebook, Twitter, and soon to be added GPS to monitor his exact location and confirm well in advance whether he’s by the window or not.
Disco Dirt feels sorry for teenagers – it’s a social minefield nowadays. Luckily we’ve learnt enough since our cabbage days to make sure we don’t fall foul of those classic errors. Your mate has had one too many shandies after work, and is making angry ‘I’m going to text my ex’ gestures - like a guardian angel you gently prize the phone from her fevered grip, tuck it safely in your pocket, and refuse to give it back for anything other than pizza delivery and taxi numbers. In return, she stops the rest of your gang texting around compromising photos of you on their phones that night you fall asleep on the night bus and dribble a bit on your coat. Yesss! We’re dealing with the 21st century with style and flair!
That is, until a deadly new combination reared its ugly head. Alcohol and facebook. Causing us to wake up the morning after the night before, and sit bolt upright gasping for air with panic - a bit like that scene from Trainspotting when Renton comes round after overdosing. We all know the dangers of texting – but where’s the warning about poking? Where’s the cautionary tale about leaving amusing comments on photos – that at 4am seemed sparkling and hilarious, but in the light of day turn out to be just downright weird? And where, oh dear lord, where, is the little voice in the back of your head reminding you that every single one of your associates will be informed of every single one of your ill thought out posts, pokes and pesters when they log on in the morning, while you are still asleep on the sofa with your hand in the saucepan of cornflakes and milk you made yourself before passing out.
So here’s one for all you boffins busy devising new applications to interact with, own, rate, or bite your friends. Put something together that stops drunken facebook activity. I’m thinking a time-sensitive function, that monitors activity between midnight and 6am, and requires some kind of dexterity-based challenge to overcome. A typing test would be perfect – if your usual speed is 40wpm and you’ve dropped to a shaky 20wpm with repetition, it locks all communications. And maybe loads another program called ‘go and have a glass of water.’ It would be the one application that actually makes a positive difference to our friendships, and keeps us the hell away from each other…
Sniffer Bees – Coming to a Club Near You
Posted by Disco Dirt
It’s the age old problem – how to stop people getting illegal contraband into your club. Bouncers? All well and good, but they can be expensive, take up too much space, and are prone to grumpiness. Sniffer dogs? Too inclined to attempt to fornicate with your leg or chew your hand off. So what’s the solution? Scientists have been working on an intriguing new concept - sniffer bees.
Think Disco Dirt is suffering the after effects of consuming too much of aforementioned contraband? We jest you not. Like most good ideas, whether it’s roads that actually go in a straight line, three course meals, or flushing toilets, the brainwave to use bees for more than just making honey was one that occurred to our nasally disadvantaged chums the Romans; they used to lob hives into enemy lines when in the throes of battle.
So what’s the role of our humble bumbling friend in clubland? Scientists have been training bees to detect bombs at airports by letting them sniff Semtex before they get their dinner, so after a while, as soon as they pick up the smell, they think they are about to get fed, and they stick their tongues out. Now if you can give a bee the taste for explosives, it must surely be ten times easier to give it the taste for narcotics (although we should maybe draw the line as getting them to sniff for amyl nitrate in case their furry little heads actually explode). Disco Dirt is deeply taken with this idea. Imagine – you arrive at your favourite club, and instead of being man-handled by a 20 stone bruiser, a small furry bee sticks its tongue out at you. Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is progress.
Disco Dirt Does Glastonbury
Posted by Disco Dirt
We arrive in the sunshine at midday. The “erect in 2 seconds tent” is false advertising. It took at least 4.8 seconds. Quick drink at hospitality bar, then a long walk around the site. 100 acres seems a lot smaller when there are not so many people there. Friday will be the big one, this evening is chill out night...apart from the massive party in the Stonebridge Bar...oh, and the other massive party in the tent with no name...the long walk back to the tent in the rain...the five quick drinks in hospitality...the massive party at Spunky’s Sound System. I have never heard ‘Could You Be Loved’ pitched up to +8 before. Drugs are making people crazy here. The pole dancer who was not a pole dancer, pole dancing at Stonebridge with no trousers on winking and licking her lips at the pole is our hero. What a fucking mess.
Oh dear. Feels like a pig shat in my head. Still raining. Very muddy. Looks like another wash-out. Force feed some brekky and head to the John Peel Stage for Patrick Watson. Mesmerising gig. Back to hospitality. Usual D list suspects knocking about. Alexa Chung, Kate Moss, Pixie Geldof hiding a vile new haircut under a red wig. Lily Allen’s quite cute but the pink hair is a real bad look and her legs are like fucking tanks. Kelly Osborne is much thinner and smaller in real life, that’s good news for her. Few bands knocking about: Elbow, We Are Scientists, Jo Lean and The Jing Jang Jong, The Kills, Last Shadow Puppets. Spend the next hour listening to Vampire Weekend’s excellent set whilst watching Will Young being hounded by young kids for his autograph...bad look Willy. Trying hard to climb off the trouble trolley. Head back out. Hit the Glass House to dodge the rain. Weather clears slightly. Walking wounded to the Jazz Stage for Candi Staton. One of her backing singer tells her “you’re the best thing”. Candi says “no, you’re the best thing”. They say back “no Candi, you’re the best thing”. They are having a “best-thing-off”. We have a “best-thing-off”. Lupe Fiasco next, “Glastonbury London, it’s so good to be here”. He pulls a big crowd, almost as big as this dude…
Catch a bit of Foals on The Other Stage. They are older than I thought. I quite like them. Nick Warren’s sunset gig at The Glade is a bit soft for my liking but I am finally emerging from the scary place and beginning to feel the good vibrations from the happy festival “revellers”. Why are you only a “reveller” when you are at a festival? This is annoying. Catch a bit of Freefall Collective, good live breaks. Next stop Dance West for James Zabiela’s proper dirt box set - serious scratching, amazing sound system, impressive. Hang about for Booka Shade’s live set. Decent music, but Christ, what a pair of performers they are. Tight t-shirts, floppy hair, electric drums, amateur dramatics...grow up ladies! Spend next two hours back at tent putting the word “bog” into films, bands, pretty much anything. Big Friday night comes to a close around 2am. Crazy.
Back on track through the power of sleep. Rain has pissed off for good, it’s sunny and hot and the earth is dry. Stumble across El Gleno Grande, aka The Horse Guy, in the Circus Field who puts a big smile on all our faces. Check his website www.horseguy.com. We decide to take advantage of the weather and spend the day chilling. Head massages, sunbathing, dry chocky pollen-balls and lots of wobbling in the Healing Field. Then coaxed into a communal Tipi Field flagpole climbing event. Just need to wait for “the-sign”. “But how will we know this sign that you speak of?” we ask. They say that we will just “know”. It works. According to a stranger, I connected spiritually. Even the distant sound of Alphabeat from The Park Stage was not enough to mar this perfect day.
The late afternoon sounds of Kool Keith and Kutmaster Kurt slowly bring us back down to earth. We catch some of Elbow – their new track Mirrorball totally captures the spirit of the weekend for me. Band of Horses are not bad on the John Peel Stage. Then back up to The Park again for MGMT, who are pretty lightweight, followed by the weird and wonderful Battles. Pass by Dance Village on way home and am subjected to a slice of Dave Seaman’s high energy Euro-pap. UB40 form headed his way, surely. Swiftly move on to catch the end of Brendon Burns’ highly offensive stand up gig. We drop off half our party back at the tent and head back out to the fire-fountain rave at Trash City – mayhem. Then a stroll round Shangri-La, which has replaced Lost Vagueness, but it’s all a bit contrived for this time of night. Only one thing left for it, sunrise at the Stone Circle with 5,000 rather twisted (but extremely polite) insomniacs.
We are back in the tent area somewhere between 8 and 11am so a few of us embark on an intimate after-hours outdoor tent party. As we ponder life’s nuances, a voice from beyond the canvas is overheard, a voice of truth and reason, the voice of The Oracle Tent. Impossible questions are answered with no argument. What is the meaning of life, Oracle tent? What came first, Oracle Tent - the chicken or the egg? Oracle Tent, how has the weakening Euro affected property prices in Spain? What am I thinking Oracle Tent? Oracle Tent, what is the best name in the world? It’s Janet. Hard to argue with that. Then we packed up, popped out to see Yeasayer (very good) and Friendly Fires (bit duff) at John Peel and then left Pilton Farm behind us for another year.
Dance Music: The Movie
Posted by Disco Dirt
One day, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, they'll make a film about the real lives of dance music DJs, probably cunningly called Dance Music: The Movie. It will be one of those 'based loosely on a true story' movies - like the ones they show on Channel 5 in the afternoon sponsored by Steradent denture paste. It will reveal the crazy lives and times of the modern house music DJ; all sex, poor quality drugs, Ableton and groupies back at the Ipswich Travelodge after a big gig, that kind of vibe. Of course by the time it's been Hollywood-ised it will be sex with women with huge breasts, great quality drugs, Ableton and groupies on P Diddy's yacht in Ibiza, innit.
That's the thing Disco Dirt loves about movies 'based on a true story' is that the actress / actor playing the person always looks a little like they in real life do but taller, thinner, with whiter teeth and better hair. They are wittier, funnier and sexier. Hell, they just are better people. Take Erin Brockovich for example, real life - ropey scrubber with a penchant for tarty mini skirts, Hollywood version - Julia Roberts in a blonde wig. So we asked ourselves, who would play the DJs in Dance Music: The Movie? Think you can do better? Send them in!
Paul Arnold... ...and Owen Wilson.
Paul Van Dyk... ...and Clive Owen.