Sock Free Hideaway

BEATS OF LOVE 

54. Disco Pogo magazine Issue 1 

I'VE NEVER felt the compulsion to have a tattoo, but when I left my flat in Didsbury for a Clarksfield back bedroom, I did have an inscription engraved on my bracelet - Disco Pogo.

Got some funny looks, but I figured that the fun nights I had in the Paradise Factory were the catalyst for an adventure that lasted just over four years. After my mum died, I changed the inscription. I guess I get the same psychological benefits from it as some folk do with tattoos but without enduring the physical pain. 

Paradoxically, I try to limit my online footprint but spill shit out blogging. When Jockey Slut requested crowdfunding for their latest venture, the lack of a Paypal option deterred me, but thankfully, enough folk were less paranoid and contributed. The result, Disco Pogo, an epic excursion into the glossy world of the high end magazine, finally arrived via Juno and a pricey parcel force delivery. After a night of page turning, my wrist is now back in a splint. 

I recall the Pavilion staff selling the first JS in the cloakroom during Space Funk and twisting my sister's arm into buying me a copy. We both thought it was a naff thing to do, but nobody else was commenting on underground clubs and I really wanted to see its content. So glad I did. Thankfully, only a small portion of DP surrenders to nostalgia with the bulk of its content focused on the now. Or, clever enough to place the music I love in a better historical context which helps me understand how it operates in moving people nowadays. Now I'm glad I got the Sherelle cover, despite not knowing who she was.  

Faith is still covering Luke in fanzine fashion, which is cool, but here we get a proper journalistic hindsight instead, which is very refreshing. Justin, too, turns in a highly analytical and considered piece, which sets a high benchmark. This high benchmark creates a healthy competition, so hopefully issue two will be even better. 

My bugbear with JS became its ever spiralling reviews that I often found disingenuous. Consequently, I wasted a lot of time in headphones, listening, whilst recognizing the same underwhelming five star promo records returned, piled high on Vinyl Exchanges counter. A scene not much bigger than a cottage industry is hard to fire home-truths at, I guess. Thankfully, the reviews are no more. The infamous editors seem to comprehend that everything has atomized but are shrewd enough to coalesce their central narrative on aspects of the past and present that unite us all still. 

It's weird, but seeing folk out and about is often deflating. Names are sketchy, backstories forgotten, online personas troubling, and my general, all round, disorientating sensory impressions, play havoc with my nerves. However, sat here with this big glossy magazine on my lap, I feel much more united with these folk. Folk I shared some mad, mad times with. 

Viva Acid House! Indeed.