SONGS THEY NEVER PLAY ON THE RADIO 

9. SANKEYS SOAP: BUGGED OUT 1994- 1996.

PART 1

I FIRST met Jim whilst staring at a random ad poster on the wall in the Paradise Factory at a lively Discopogo night. 

He introduced himself as Dan; the DJ billed on the poster. I also remembered Dan when he served me in Vinyl Exchange. I used to like mid-week clubs, as the clientele were a bit more discerning about their music. 

However, I signed a Sunday 3 month contract with work, in addition to my 5 days, so, when I saw a Bugged Out flyer for a Friday night with Dave Angel guesting, it fitted into a new schedule. I didn't then realize that I wouldn't be sleeping on a Friday night for the next 18 months. Not fitting at all into my new schedule.

I'd been once before to Sankeys Soap when Ross gave me a flyer and been a bit non plus about it. Ashley Beedle's tunes weren't filling the space and there was no rush to go back. Bugged Out was something else though. The chill out area was at the front of the club, but there was no proper chill out music. I soon discovered everyone sat in there was in a different head-space from one another, but for some reason everyone got on great. 

The promoters were nearer my own age and Johnno was a slightly awkward popular music obsessive who was always cordial. Paul was no nonsense and much more outspoken, but their chemistry was perfect for the massive workload they gave themselves. (They edited Jockey Slut too.) I was soon invited onto the paying guest list. For someone who was frequently refused entry into places, this was definitely a step in the right direction.

After a few weeks, it became apparent Dan was an amazing DJ. I saw him DJ Discopogo with Moonboots and wrongly assumed he was just winging it but his tunes in that space were wobbly, wonderful, and entrancing. You just had to get there early to catch all his sets. Being locked into his music with the people I was getting to know, who you just knew, felt it too, are memories I'll cherish forever.

The sweat, the smiles, and the distinct smell of cheap brandy can not be replicated. I still try to recapture that otherworldliness by playing the same records and pouring myself a brandy and coke, but never can. They were sublime moments in time; I guess.   

After trying for aeons and failing, I was finally offered some work in my local nightclub on a Friday night. 

Fucking typical, yet no matter how hard I practiced, I was either accused of mimicking the radio, or of simply going over people's heads. After a few weeks and after a ramification with a guest who just played chart music but got everyone on the dancefloor, I simply gave up, deciding that missing Bugged Out simply wasn't worth it.  

PART 2

THESE CUTTING edge movers and shakers had never even heard of Shaw and Crompton, let alone given a toss about the people in it or their musical tastes. I moved away from there to put some space between myself and a few relationships, so was always preoccupied with making a triumphant return. (I finally ended up moving back and into my 84-year-old aunt's spare bedroom.)

Not long after my re-entry I was finally informed that this DJ was not called Dan but Jim, and for the next 18 months, a world of similar half-truths, out-and-out bull-shit, and high end mentalism, in the company of first and second generation heroes of acid-house, would become the norm.

 

I was proudly informed that I was a member of the Firm. This largely meant I was let in on all the bitching. I recall Johnno mumbling something disparaging about the Stickmen, who he felt were behaving like stars. Add to that list Green Velvet. They probably flew back to the States totally confused at the lack of style in the UK, whilst also putting their careers into a clearer perspective. Not that I met many big name DJs as they tended to be scuttled out of the club and put up in the Midland hotel's posher suites.  

However, I was duly present at the yawn-athon Dave Clarke sessions, even putting on Fabi Paras records to break the tedium. I was present when Kris Needs and his quickly grating anecdotes started infiltrating the post club sessions. Sadly, I was there to hear the fashion victim, James Lavelle's really annoying sirens. I also witnessed all the excitement and barely concealed envy at the meteoric rise of the Dust Brothers and Daft Punk, who both gave the place a lot of instant kudos. 

The only real travelling DJs who I actually hit it off with were DJ Hell and Orlando Voorn who were warm and surprisingly eclectic and ego free. I mainly hit it off with people who were probably informed they were in the Basics firm, or the Glasgow Underground firm, and who, like myself, were down to their last tenner. Basically, folk who were starting to worry about working in dead-end jobs in the coming week, when it was Saturday afternoon and they'd just lost sight of their hands and reflection.

A particularly heavy session in Sleuth, Justin's relatively limp Thursday nighter, preceded a lost weekend in which I also attended Bugged Out. I was later told if I ever turned up like that again I'd be barred for life but I can still only recall a particularly weird Sunday breakfast when my mother informed me I was carried home by her neighbour, rambling and barely conscious the night before.

After sitting down to a sausage butty at work a little later, I felt a massive pain rip through my chest. It was black in colour, then blue, before turning purple, then finally settling on an off-shade of yellow over what became a convenient 3 weeks. Euro 96 was just starting and so I had a 3 week sick-note, to recuperate for what I can only imagine being a good kicking, and just watched footy. After what felt like a lifetime of altered state experiences, I was finally able to buy some decent clothes. Something that had been sacrificed.

PART 3

I VIVIDLY recall the trepidation I felt when putting a freshly bought techno record on the turntable for the first time since my enforced sobriety. And the relief I felt when realizing I could still feel all the energy and warm strangeness, and subtle pleasure, necessary in justifying buying so bloody many. In all earnestness I believed the scene was going to transcend into other musical dimensions at the turn of the millennium, but was slowly waking up to the fact that nothing would sound as futuristic as Basic Channel, UR, Carl Craig, 430 West, or, Red Planet records, ever again.

Surprisingly, to me at least, I finally re-entered Bugged Out after a 6 week hiatus to a muted reception. Basically, I soon became a liability and my weird back story that was once riveting had itself become a tired old anecdote. When Roberto was deservingly given the upstairs space, I foolishly imagined a place for my eclecticism and passion, but was instead likened to Bez, a nutty dancer. His nutty dancer. 'Fuck that,' I thought, and after a few more weeks, the taxis were finding parties without me.

I had given my bright blue coat away in an attention seeking stunt that had roundly backfired as I spent my time freezing with constant colds which made me as interesting as the radiators I curled up against. As someone who had milled aimlessly around the scene forever, I suddenly felt old and very jaded. 

  

   

It was no coincidence that sat post club in the company of David Holmes; I had little to talk about, other than telling him I was a Catholic and that his music showed some promise, or, telling Tom, in all seriousness that I preferred his first band Ariel, musically speaking, but still liked Ed as a person. My frustration at the upstairs space attracting more train-spotter's than the main booth boiled over and I shouted over Domenic Cappello's loyal and large entourage to request some proper Italian piano house. Even the legend, and an integral part of Jockey Slut, that is Graham, was banished for a few weeks after insulting Darren Emerson. 

I jumped before I was pushed, but not long after others who had found a post club home there, were being barred for little or no reason other than their liability status. I think we were wanted for our energy and enthusiasm, and when all that disappeared; we were rightly regarded as superfluous. 

The club had moved away from flying over Detroit legends every month and began championing homegrown big-beat and electro clash practitioners. Two styles I was resistant to, and still am.

Along with the fanzine it had become a big franchise, winning awards, and just twelve months on from my departure, folk who had been enthusing about popular music, unpopular music, and, Carl Cox's massive entourage, with me, in flats dotted all over West Didsbury, Salford and Hulme, asked me to remind them who I was again when I excitedly passed them in the street. Looking back, it was only ever riotous fun when Fiona managed it for a very short while, when it redefined what freedom meant. However, it taught me a lot, that club and that 18 months, and I can safely say that it saved my life twice. 

Firstly, when I was in as it gave me a much needed sense of belonging, and then hen I was out and could finally get my head down and sleep again.  

https://www.buggedout.net/25-years-of-bugged-out-qas

 LATE END OF YEAR REPORT. SHIT HAPPENED

 (AND THANKFULLY, LOTS OF EPs) 

BREXIT BRITAIN will inevitably move musicians away from artistry and towards careerism, as they will need more than a modicum of success to finance a tour. European stages will miss out on seeing all but the most compromised, moneyed British acts and Britain itself will suffer more so. Tragic. 

Against this sorry backdrop, what a single-minded and brave album Torn Sail's Leisure & Technology is, and what a much needed tonic it has been.  The temptation to make money and chip away at the formula that brought the band to the attention of the Balearic cognoscenti must have been huge but he's fearlessly changed the textures and tones inherent in the debut by instead presenting field-work elements and lyrical experimentation into its body. 

These make a massive difference when translated through loud-speakers and really add a sonic fizz that properly plays with the senses. As with the majestic debut, you soon acknowledge its importance and drop everything for a listening experience akin to the  reverence normally found in a church service. Only Robert Plant and Mark Hollis have traversed a similar path and created similar magic in their music. 

Another mind blowing album was George Koutalieris's Stop, Look, Listen. After years experimenting with AOR guitar and electronica with exciting results, he really delivers the Balearic goods (that's the second time I've used that word), and transports the listen to sunnier climes in a wholly organic way. Like the best holiday, only without the cramped flights and sore feet. Now all we need is a vinyl pressing. I've already started a pressure group, as I'm sure if George frequented British boozers in a Nado tee in the days of comparative freedom, there would be one. 

Moonboot's sole contribution to my year (a first) was to big up the amazing Common Saints Idol Eyes EP. Thank you for that. Thanks too to Box Bedroom Rebels for soldiering on and releasing Ciel's Movement EP. Wasn't Enough For Me is both playful and a tad unsettling, and sounds a bit like the inside of my head when it is time to wake up. 

Peter Graf York's Expedition Bahn is a tropical melting pot of sound and the woozy title cut properly hits the spot. A superlative slice of trancey electronica for dub-heads. On a more conventional path and label, Laura Groves continues on her trajectory towards perfect pop. Her Infinite Wisdom EP (a lot of EPs) is full of pearls with the title track jaw dropping in its greatness. 

Massive thanks to Julian for releasing Cracy Cocunuts magnificently insane Rubberdub Dance. I nearly paid silly money for it and was so pleased to see his post forewarning us of its imminent release. Would an exclusive only to my ears have sounded any better? Only slightly. 

We only got one Begin twelve, despite Jim creating enough downloadable vault work to release a triple box set. All Day Daydream is the winner for me, but making his latest tune out of a found guitar definitely deserves an hats off as well. As with George, 'more vinyl' is the cry from the bungalow. 

Good Morning Tapes became more than just a tee-shirt label and released some killer music. Skyrager's Rhizophere cassette landed at just the right time for my head space. Healing music of the highest order and thankfully no track-list as yet. All Welcome vol 1 compiles some magic moments, but vol 2 is better. D.K's work on the label is top drawer as well. 

Finally, another thank you to Robert Harris for turning me on to a bounty of reissues with his boundless energy and enthusiasm, but especially for turning me onto the majesty that is Shoko Yoshida's Up and Down EP. Yes, another. Unintentional, I promise. I normally loathe coloured vinyl, but this pressing is lovely. Hats off to Hot Buttered for releasing this in style. Not been off the stereo since getting 2 copies. 

As we supposedly step out of lock-down, I've learned a lot; life is precious, time is short, people are unpredictable, and records are in all honesty the only thing you can trust, other than Julian Cope books, and thankfully, on occasions, the people that make them. 

I anticipate, small time, loss-making enthusiasts, writing letters to the home office seeking permission to fly seldom heard of acts over to play shows, will be the new normal. Bring it on.