RE-DISCO-VERY

with our brand new Disco Critic
(Alex Cepalovic of Art-which-is-also-a-disco)


 I’m delighted to be La Bouche Zine’s first Disco critic. It’s very timely. The comeback of Disco is supposedly picking up pace. It seems like the bingeing classes, once content with a k-fuelled squat-party, wanted to move on by moving back. But now, growing tired of the vintage brogues and moustaches, fed up with boutique “balls” where you pay £30 a head to be served an apple by a naked man painted gold, and bewildered by the sheer ubiquity of burlesque, the time has come to simplify one’s faux-nostalgia. Let’s now look back to a time in which hedonism was rife, dancing for dancing’s sake was the norm, and the nightlife revolution came about: and that can only mean one thing: Disco. The post-post-post-punks are starting to leave their tops hats and grandma-scarves at home, with a sense that there is something infinitely more natural about slapping on some glitter and hitting the floors for no more than a fiver amidst the sculptural simplicity of the disco ball.

But anyone under the delusion that disco covers only one era or genre, is gunna need some ground-rules. Sure you can do the done and look to Studio 54 of NYC’s late 70s for a benchmark, but I’m looking for a bit of je ne sais quoi in a disco. And it can be from anywhere in the world - with the UK music magic being zapped away by X-Factorites, we’re now looking to Berlin, France and the Balkans for inspiration. Saying all this, if it’s danceable, short and has audible lyrics, it’s disco. So it shouldn’t be too hard to find… right??

So my first foray into disco-vering was pretty easy, as I realised I could hit a couple of specialist nights in the hipster’s armpits - Dalston and Hackney. I warn you readers, I can’t say I was impressed. My first port of call was a night called Disco Tits at Drunk Underground in Dalston. Tits by name… Tats by nature. A self-regarding DJ wearing nothing more glam than a fading black t-shirt dished up the most poultry of modern thudding undancables like he was on auto-pilot. A semi-drunk, semi-appreciative, but mostly perplexed crowd of after-park under-25s seemed to be giving him too many chances. Apparently there was a 2nd room in which some decent DJs had been booked but the promoter refused to open it “until there was more people” which quite simply, there never were. It wasn’t long before the disco-deprived crowd left in their droves, amongst them me.

So onwards and forwards to The Sunglasses Club in Hackney Wick. I was at first impressed that the post-creative hub of the wick had deigned to put on a night not involving wide boy door bitches and a dance floor on which one does not skid precariously across grime, however the sunglasses club provided little respite. Unable to shake it’s staple of thumping deep house and repetitive beats, the only clue we had that it was a disco at all was the occasional Loleatta Holloway or Carwash sample super-imposed on dull, dull and more dull. Give it a wide berth.

So that concludes my first ever re-disco-very and I must say things are looking up for disco in London, as it can only get better from here.

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