As the wave of MDMA and illegal raves swept through Britain during the Summer of Love, Wayne Anthony took on the task of organising the biggest parties the UK has ever seen. Finding himself wanted simultaneously by the police and underworld gangsters, his blagging skills became legendary.
This is his story, and it’s all true.
If you were there, this is your story too.
In 1987, Wayne Anthony and two friends established the legendary Genesis raves that were attended by the wide-eyed, loved-up youth of the late Eighties and early Nineties. Wayne and the Genesis team took Acid House to the masses and changed the face of British rave culture. Wayne then promoted a series of events around Europe, released a series of infamous compilation albums under the banner ‘Havin’ It’. Since then Wayne has been involved in Internet start-ups and tech companies. He spent the last ten years at the helm of LSD Magazine, one of Europe’s biggest street art graffiti networks. He is currently in the process of launching the world’s first dedicated street art graffiti channel from Los Angeles.
‘I see, said the blind man, without any eyes’
Bernice Orenthia Rookwood
July 4 1911–February 25 1997
I have no idea how many times in the last 30 years someone has said to me, ‘l wish I had a time machine.’ They could choose any period in history, but no, it’s back to the glory days of Acid House.
A whole generation of people – my generation – have grown old, gracefully or disgracefully, shaped by the life-changing experiences we enjoyed together between 1987 and 1990. When I look into a mirror now, the laughter lines tell their own story but, if I am honest, Acid House still feels like yesterday.
I still see the world the same way as I did three decades ago – minus, of course, the MDMA, flashing lights and packed warehouses! If somebody had told me when I took my first yellow pill that I would go on to stage some of the biggest illegal parties in the country, I would never have believed them. I had never arranged so much as a birthday party before the first Genesis in ’88.
When I first sat down to write Class of 88 in 1996, I had no idea whether it would ever see the light of day. In all honesty, I wasn’t even sure I was up to the task. My English is average at best, and I had never written more than four or five pages in my life. Yet as soon as I put pen to paper, it all made sense.
When I think back to Genesis ’88, I feel a great sense of pride. We pushed our boundaries way beyond what we thought they were. There were so many high points. Standing among thousands of people after a magical mystery tour around the South East’s motorway system. Climbing fences, running over railway tracks and rowing boats across canals to reach the secret party locations. Counting large black bags of cash in a back room of a dirty warehouse had its moments as well.
We were tearing down emotional barriers and building new bridges. House music was the catalyst and MDMA the accelerator.
Acid House is 30 years old now – far older than me and my partners, Keith Brooks and Andrew Pritchard, were when we started our adventure in ’87. We were just 22: three lads from Hackney. Our manor was going through hard times, and to be honest, a lot of people we knew were used to nicking stuff out of warehouses, not taking equipment in!
Yet there we were, the three of us, bolt-croppers in our hands, breaking open doors, embracing the future. If the police turned up when the party was on – and they usually did – I’d pretend to be George Michael’s manager, or from EMI or Channel 4. It was too exciting to worry or feel frightened.
The fear came later. Our efforts got noticed by the kind of organised criminal gangs who usually rob Post Offices or banks at gunpoint. They read in the media that we could earn half a million quid in one night – but in truth, we were just kids, off our heads on love drugs, holding hands and cuddling each other.
When the gangsters showed up, I found myself strapped to a chair with a hood over my head, cold shotgun barrels against my temple. Organised criminals and Yardie gangs made hay in our lawless, loved-up zones. When three gun-toting Yardies came to rob one of our parties in North London in ’89, it was like a scene from Reservoir Dogs.
Of course, ravers had no idea that behind the scenes, party promoters were being robbed, kidnapped or worse. Why would they know? The double life got so stressful that I often found solace in Class A drugs. It helped to blur the lines.
Yet the grief was worth it. The most uplifting part of the entire journey was the togetherness of strangers and seeing people coming together and opening their hearts up to love. It might sound corny, but this is my personal experience. It’s the sort of thing that only comes along once in a lifetime, and you never forget it.
I’m proud of the Genesis crew and the fact we worked side by side and broke into warehouses with Sunrise, Energy, Biology and a few others. I’m also incredibly proud of Class of 88. When I see copies of the original book changing hands on the internet, it means a lot. It also means that it is worth bringing it out again so more people can read our crazy story.
At the end of the first book, 20 years ago, I looked back at my (mis)adventures and asked myself: ‘Would I do it all again?’ I answered: ‘No fucking chance!’ Now, I think I spoke too soon. If a time machine could take me back to 1987, I would be on it like a shot.
What is the biggest thing that Acid House and being part of the class of ’88 taught me? When humanity dreams big, we can move mountains.
Wayne Anthony, 2018, still loved up and game …
Acid House was Made on Earth from the ashes of an Apocalypse Now in a time of Sin, Hedonism and Dance with the Devil. I was standing in The Attic near Curtain Road experiencing The Living Dream. I took the Kaleidoscope from my jet-pack and gazed across the Mutoid Wasteground at Trip City. There she stood in her natural Raw beauty: a Pyramid of Knowledge, a Palace where even Kings and Queens can seek Asylum. An inspiring Loud Noise echoed into the night sky. A Brainstorm took shape. The Project was to travel hundreds of light years away to the period of 2000 AD. The entire human race was High on Hope of recovering the Delirium water decontamination formula. The Future of Planet Westworld depended on the accomplishment of this mission. My journey through the Labyrinth of Dungeons across the Common south of the river was about to be rewarded by seeing the Sunrise for the very first time. With Adrenaline rushing through my veins I immediately felt the Energy and Atmosphere of a New Generation at the peak of an original World Dance. The air force was based on The Doo at the Zoo, where several rocket ships took flight, bound for the Land of Oz. Their Trip was to go Back to the Future and, In Search of Space on a Magical Mystery Tour, seek the key to enlightenment and Humanity. Shoom! A Space shuttle flew over The Rave at the Cave. The Mad professors who were Beyond Therapy stood guard by the stargate to Infinity. They had all the questions but not the answers; the geniuses were banished to the Planet MFI but had somehow escaped. There were people wandering the streets in Shock and suffering Amnesia; they arrived from Pacha and were gathering in the square outside The Mud Club. There is only one tribe that truly knows The Meaning of Life: the We Generation, children of the fifth sun. The Slaughter House of Hypnosis and Confusion was transformed into a Hacienda of complete Bliss and Tranquillity. The Unit 4 in Pasha on Clink Street was reserved for the Fridge; this was the Academy and Center-Force of our Fantasy. The Ratpack was asked to search the Spectrum of Organised Kaos, whilst the Rage of the Heaven altered the Biology state of Boys Own. Their destination was the Loft of the well-known Car Wash in Weekend World, for a midnight data Raid. The Fantastic Ibiza is said to be a richly deserved Wonderland. Before we make that important journey we have to look back and reflect on an era when People Power Run Tings. A time when Eco-Warriors did battle with invading forces and won. RIP negative thoughts and Phantasy as we are transported along life’s super highway into an oasis of Genesis.
Mom – even if I wrote 100,000 words about my emotions for you and my family, who have stood by me through thick and thin, I couldn’t do you justice. The same is true of my sisters Teena, Nichola and Bianca, who deserve nothing but the best. My dad Claude (ar me this). My stepdad Colin, nephew Cain and the rest of my family. Ian Gittins and the team at Virgin for publishing this work in spite of current media hyperbole and allowing their first-time author full freedom of expression: you have reinforced my belief that anything is possible. Keith and KP, without whom Genesis may never have existed. DJ Dominic (spread love) and Darren (Soul Café, Tenerife). Cheers for the use of your computer, printer and paper.
Knowledge is power.
RIP: Gurkan, Paul Rowe and Micky Mif.
My intention in this book isn’t to glamorise drug use but to chronicle a change in people’s attitudes. Life doesn’t revolve around drugs: it revolves around society. I’m not advising anybody to take Ecstasy or any other class-A substance. Users know the dangers. To pop pills is to play Russian roulette with your mind and body. Nowadays, mass-produced tablets contain all kinds of shit. Nobody really knows what they’re taking, and this can result in otherwise healthy people dying of chemically induced illnesses. This story serves as a social record of England in the late Eighties. Before you pass judgement, read on without prejudice.
Wayne Anthony
Remember the days when authors began their novels with ‘Once upon a time’? They were cool dudes, man. They wrote stories of love, passion, fantasy and obsession – but times, people and traditions change. People have to face up to the harsh realities of everyday life, and reality has many faces.
This story is about reality and a drug invented over fifty years ago that has inspired heightened awareness in people and allowed them to free their emotions. I vaguely remember nine or ten years before 1988’s Summer Of Love, back in the days when everybody would be posing and drinking in wine bars and clubs like Browns around London. The musical vibe back then was soul, funk and pop.
In those early Eighties days there might be 500 people in a club but they’d all be in their own separate groups. Nobody ventured out to meet anyone new except for people of the opposite sex. Gangs of youths would go out, giving it loads, drinking loads, then having a tear-up. This was regarded as the norm: we’ll fight them on the beaches, terraces and in the clubs and pubs. Every Saturday, England became a battleground as home-team supporters clashed with visitors. It was a time of discontent, boredom, frustration and no direction.
Nobody thought about change: this was all they knew. Me and my mates used to spend the evenings in 1987 and early ’88 drinking in a pub in Hackney almost every night. My crowd were all proper people: salt of the earth who came from all different backgrounds and knew how to earn a pound note. Blaggers, roofers, hoisters, forgers, growlers and fighters. You name it, they done it; except for muggings, bag snatching, anything to do with kids or abusing women. We were all good mates who looked out for one another.
The music in our local was mainly pop, and guest disco DJs played their own dated sets. It wasn’t a particularly nice pub but the attraction was knowing some of your pals would always be there. Our group was tight and together, but nobody would express any emotion beyond ‘You know I’ll back you up any day, mate.’ You didn’t walk up to your pal and say ‘I love you, bruv’ with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. You’d soon be knocked on the deck, with no mates.
Most people in London supported Tottenham, Arsenal, Chelsea, West Ham, QPR or Millwall. Violence was the only way of letting frustrations rip. Our crew were into money so we knocked football fights on the head. There was north, south, east, and west London against each other as well as battles between northerners and southerners. Fights in pubs and clubs were going off all the time and the part of town you came from was high on the list of reasons to get you a beating if you ever ventured out of your own patch.
The recession was in full bloom and bad attitudes filled the air. In 1988 there were all kinds of insane happenings around the world. Everlasting wars, environmental erosion, starvation, racial tension and extreme prejudice were just a few of the globe’s problems. There was a cultural agenda of hard-headed, selfish values and the borders between different races and cultures were growing ever higher.
Of course, Ecstasy brought about a dramatic change. Thinking back to that first rush and trying to describe it to someone who hasn’t experienced taking E isn’t easy. You’d introduce yourself to everyone who walked past you, with a big smile and arms stretched out wide to give them a hug. They were your brothers and sisters and it didn’t matter how you looked, dressed or danced. Nobody cared: we were all one. Integration accelerated to a new level, a new understanding, a new beginning.
I’d taken my first ever Ecstasy, like a lot of people, in Ibiza in 1987, but in all honesty it must have been a duff tab because it didn’t have much effect on me. I was always much more into charlie, anyway. Then one night in London during the summer of ’88 I was taken to Heaven, a club next to Charing Cross station, and was blown away. Just half a tablet I was given by a friend made me feel euphoric, elated and like a fresh, very alive person, and I was uplifted by the cool vibe and positive energy being given out by everybody in the gaff. This was something new, something special. I knew it could change my life, and I knew I wanted in.
I was still talking about my night at Heaven to my pals down the pub in Hackney a few days later. However, none of them cared or had any interest in coming with me the following week. They just issued dire warnings about what they’d do to any geezers who ever tried to put their arms around them the way blokes at Heaven had been doing. Even Keith, my oldest mate in the world, wasn’t at all interested in coming with me.
I simply couldn’t wait to go back to Heaven and I started telephoning other pals to see if they’d heard of this fantastic club. I was in luck. Some local friends of mine went out almost every night and told me to meet up with them on Friday and go to Camden Palace in north London. I became very excited at the prospect of taking a proper, whole E.
Friday night came: Party Time! I met up with a few lads I knew well including Gary, Michael, Owen and Gurkan, who are a couple of years younger than me but totally up for it. These boys had been going out since day one so they knew all the ropes. We dropped a pill fifteen minutes before getting in the motor and making our way to Camden. The track ‘Break for Love’ was playing at maximum volume and we started singing: ‘I’ll be there in the morning, baby, to hold you tight, and that’s why, baby, you don’t have to wonder why, why I love you. Break, break for love!’
I felt the E coming on and my heart was beating faster and my whole body felt lighter. By the time we reached the Palace we were all buzzing: wheeeeeeeyyyyyyy! What a feeling! There was a major queue around the building, which reached into the street behind, but we headed for the front and joined the queue near the main entrance. As long as the doorman didn’t see you nobody really complained; it was such a long queue that people didn’t mind if you politely pushed in.
Ten minutes later and, after a class-A search, we were in the club. We walked along a corridor and ended up on a balcony, overlooking the packed dance floor and a raised theatre stage. Behind us were several tiered floors, with tables and chairs, which went right up to the top of the building. We went down a staircase that ran down the middle of the balcony to the ground floor. There was also a bar that ran the length of the back wall.
Camden Palace holds 3,000 people and tonight it was so rammed that we could hardly move. A group of around 300 enthusiastic clubbers by one staircase were going for it big time, waving their arms in the air as if they were demented. The DJ was playing ‘Salsa House’ by Richie Rich and now and then he’d talk into a mike hooked up to the PA system.
‘This one’s for the Ecstasy posse!’ the DJ yelled.
Everybody in one corner began shouting, ‘Ecstasy, Ecstasy, Ecstasy!’
We joined them and shouted out loud, ‘Ecstasy, Ecstasy, Ecstasy!’
Some punters glared at us, wondering what the fuck we were going on about. Most of the punters were very smart-casual but us lot were in smiley T-shirts, bandanas, ripped jeans, ponchos, African robes, oversized jumpers, dungarees, straw hats and Timberlands with laces undone. This was our uniform and we wore it with pride.
My rush was peaking and I felt huge energy and love for the people around me. I looked over the hundreds of bopping heads cramming the dance floor, directly at the DJ on the main stage. A laser clicked on and created a giant blue time tunnel. The smoke machine gave the vision a surreal edge and I stood staring at it for a while. Another world beyond this huge vortex beckoned me to its shores. My body twitched nervously until my astral projection began to rise from my body and my transparent spirit looked down at me, looking back at him.
I viewed the images from both angles and felt as though I had two minds, both evaluating the situation. Leaving my physical body, the astral projection started slowly gliding above the heads of 1,000 party animals towards this fascinating doorway to another dimension. Although the spirit was in real time, an eerie silence engulfed the dome. Footsteps echoed loudly as I walked across air whilst preparing to enter a future or a past … then hands raised in the air broke the smooth surface of the laser walls.
A familiar voice called my name and I felt the sound of blood rushing through my veins: russsssssshhhhh.
‘Oi oi, you OK, mate? Drink some water and sit down for a minute. It’ll pass soon, don’t worry.’
‘I feel really sick,’ I groaned.
‘Just try to hold it together as long as you can, but if you’re sick you’ll feel a lot better.’
My jawbone was shaking rapidly, making my teeth clatter. The noise vibrated throughout my body; this powerful effect was unlike anything I’d experienced before. My whole body felt light and my mind felt intensely stimulated. The bad feeling soon passed, and in no time I was wandering around the club smiling at everyone.
You could tell the people who were on E: they’d come up and give you a hug. The other punters just looked at us as if we were mad, or gay. But no one gave a shite what anyone else thought, or if it put a black mark against their credibility. If judgement was passed on the merit of my behaviour and the sight of a big yellow smiley-face T-shirt, it wasn’t my problem. Right now the only emotion I could feel or express was love. Four hours flew past and I found myself back with the Ecstasy posse, having happily met a bucketload of new friends. My rush had stabilised but my energy levels were still surprisingly high.
All my mates were shouting, screaming at the tops of their voices, ‘Get right on one, matey, get right on one, matey!’
One guy walked straight up to me who resembled a Shoomer and was dressed in flares, knitted jumper and Converse boots. His jawbone was all over the gaff and with an accent that was pure Eton, he said, ‘Are you E-ing?’
I fell about laughing. ‘E-ing? I’m off my nut, mate!’
We shook hands and he shuffled over to someone else, asking the same question: ‘Are you E-ing?’
The DJ was on a roll and each track he played was greeted by loud applause. ‘It Takes Two’, ‘Sharp as a Knife’, ‘Dream Girl’, ‘Snappiness’ and ‘The Dance’ were all part of his wicked set. The end of the night came in a flash. The DJ played his last track, which apparently he always spun at the end of his set every week.
Three thousand people were singing ‘Ain’t nobody loves me better, makes me happy, makes me feel this way’ by Chaka Khan, Chaka Khan, Chaka Chaka Chaka Khan. It was 3.30 a.m. We drove back to our manor with music blaring and heads bopping. I was dropped off home and hugged each of my friends before disappearing into the house. I was starting to feel tired so went straight to bed. I had the best sleep for ages. When I awoke in the afternoon I felt totally refreshed and ready for the night ahead.
Saturday came to mean Sin at the Astoria on Tottenham Court Road, so the next night the lads picked me up and off we went. Although we had been out the night before, we looked OK, considering. Our timetable for the night was to get pilled up first, go to Sin and then on to the Slaughter House.
Nicky Holloway hosted Sin, where the auditorium was split on to two levels: a ground floor and a huge balcony area. Outside was the now obligatory massive queue, which you virtually needed a telescope to see the end of. A crash barrier and a long piece of thick rope kept the bods at the head of the line in order. The queue-jumping trick at the Astoria was to wander casually around the corner, keeping one eye on the security and the other wide open for an opportunity to duck under the rope at the front. You’d do this two at a time and as the next lot came round they would slip in front of you.
Before we knew it we were behind the DJ, jumping up and down on the tables. This wasn’t the same experience as Camden Palace. Here, it seemed as if everyone in the whole club was on Ecstasy. Everybody waved their hands in the air and began clapping in time with the music.
Five, four, three, two, one, blast off! Yellow tab down the hatch, fire in the hole, prepare for meltdown. The mere thought of having the same rush as I’d experienced hours before was sending shivers down my spine. I bumped into loads of my new-found friends and some of my old ones and we hugged, expressing our friendship and a bond that would never break.
Around fifty of us huddled together and started chanting ‘Aceeed, Aceeed, Aceeed!’ and the next minute the whole place was chanting it, giving us a huge rush. The upper circle of the theatre had tables and chairs around the entire balcony and everyone was dancing and going nuts on top of them. I was under the influence of E but the electric atmosphere was overwhelming and seemed to exceed the drug.
I stopped dancing for a moment to absorb this stimulating energy and glanced across the room and spotted some friends sitting near the front circle. Their body language told me they weren’t fully in control. One mate, Kacy, was leaning over the balcony watching 1,000 or so people grooving on the dance floor. I watched him for five minutes before he climbed on to the rail and sat down. There was nothing to prevent him falling 30 feet to the ground.
I started pushing my way through the crowd, not taking my eyes off him for a second. To my complete horror he kept both hands on the rail and tried to put his foot down on what he thought was the floor. The only object within reach was a lighting can attached to the wall. He felt the fixture beneath his foot and went to step off. With only seconds to spare, someone spotted him and grabbed him just in time.
Kacy didn’t even know what had happened. His eyes were almost closed and he was a total mess. I asked him if he realised somebody had just saved his life, but unfortunately he couldn’t even understand what we were saying. When I called Kacy the next day, he was uneasy and in a state of disbelief.
The gang of us came out of the Astoria still buzzing and nobody wanted to go home. A crowd was building up outside the club and across the road near some water fountains. A car pulled up at the traffic lights, blasting out a new clubbed-up version of ‘Sympathy For The Devil’. Everyone started dancing in the roads and on the pavements. People were jumping in the fountains and traffic was brought to a complete halt for about half an hour.
The crowd were going nuts, screaming ‘Street party!’ Charing Cross Road is one of London’s busiest roads and the tailback of cars reached all the way to Trafalgar Square. People in convertibles were standing on the seats of their cars, waving their hands to the music, and other people were dancing in the traffic. For that brief moment it was People Power, a feeling of total freedom. This wasn’t just some passing cultural fad: it was going to be huge. We got to the motors parked in nearby Denmark Street and flicked coins to see who was going to drive. After half an hour’s wait for the drivers’ rushes to stabilise, we were on our way.
The Slaughterhouse was an old warehouse in the Smithfield meat market. I don’t know if it originally operated as an abattoir or was just given that name by the promoters. The streets around the party location were bursting with energy but we drove to the front of the building to discover the doors had been closed because the venue was filled to capacity.
The thousand-strong crew outside tried their hardest to gain entry but this just made matters worse. Buzzing or not, we weren’t getting into that gig and so we ended up at a pal’s gaff where we danced to loud music until 11 a.m.
I’d never even thought about organising warehouse parties until one night at Spectrum. I was talking to the kind of new-found friend I’d been making a lot of: the sort you meet while you’re off your nut and tell your life story to. Everybody called him KP and I’d only met him a few weeks previously.
‘There’s a lot of money to be earned,’ KP said.
Until then I’d worked in the music industry, managing bands. The idea of a completely new project intrigued me and I agreed to think it over. ‘What would we be called?’ I asked.
‘Something with depth and meaning,’ he replied.
KP had limited experience from arranging a few small gigs in the past. He said it was just a matter of finding a deserted warehouse, printing 500 flyers and distributing them to clubbers we met whilst out painting the town red. He had all his own equipment, including a sound system, some lights and a box of wicked tunes. Costs could be kept to a minimum and amount to no more than a grand: drinks would be on a sale or return basis, flyers cost £80, the doorman would be my stepdad, the bar manager his sister Nikki, DJ Tony Wilson took £100 and KP or myself would be on the door taking the money. We were one big, happy, productive, family affair about to put the G into hard graft.
A title is very important when marketing new ideas, and has to be thought over very carefully before a final decision can be made. We didn’t want to change our chosen banner at a later stage for any reason, so the name had to be right from the start.That night I brainstormed myself unconscious and into a deep sleep, but not before noting ten titles that really stood out and made my hair stand on end.
The favoured choice for me was Genesis, a beautiful word that I thought summarised the Zeitgeist. This was an era that was dramatically changing millions of lives the world over, a time of evolution and revolution in the mass consciousness, of non-violence and positive attitudes. The fact we became one of the pioneering companies who influenced the New Age gave me a greater high than drugs ever could. You could keep the Swinging Sixties and the warehouse parties of the early Eighties: ‘Get right on one, matey!’
A logo was the next step, and it had to represent the feelings of our company and also an understanding of this new society. The long search for a simple solution ended with a picture of Zeus, the highest of the Greek gods. This wasn’t an attempt to offend any religions or cultures – the face simply complemented the name perfectly and gave the title more strength, feeling and body.
Top of our agenda, then, was to find a suitable warehouse away from residential properties, because local people would be the first to call the Old Bill, and if Dibble turned up before the event started, we’d be fucked. Secrecy was of the utmost importance. We couldn’t afford to tell anyone where the gig was. Nobody knew, not even the lighting and sound crews. Everything was on a need-to-know basis.
Why? Because news of venue locations travels fast in this game. If the site address were given out in advance it would mean people turning up too early at the venue instead of at the designated meeting points. This draws attention to the venue and, before you know it, disaster strikes: the Old Bill turns up in force and every piece of equipment in the gaff is confiscated.
Meeting points were strategic strong points when organising parties, and promoters took full advantage of these tactical positions. They couldn’t be too close to the venue, because that made the Met’s job of finding us far too easy. It had to be somewhere that most people could find without difficulty and somewhere with enough space for cars to park so as not to obstruct other road users.
One of our guys would be assigned the job of keeping this point under tight control and giving directions to anyone who asked. If they didn’t ask, he wouldn’t tell them. Veteran clubbers knew anyone found standing around the arranged meet had the venue details. The logic being that if you didn’t know to ask the person the address, you must be the Old Bill. It was very simple, really.
Some friends had the keys to a small warehouse in Aldgate East. So KP and I went down to inspect the property and surrounding area at 1 o’clock on a cold and wet Tuesday morning. The entrance was near the corner of a very busy road so we had to be doubly careful not to be seen. The keys we’d been given didn’t fit the main doors, so we walked around looking for a weak point of entry until we spotted an open balcony that ran inside the building and down some stairs to the front entrance. We scaled the wall and reached the balcony in no time and, seeing an open window, we climbed in.
The venue could hold about 300 people, with maybe another 50 on the balcony. There was loads of rubbish scattered about the place but nothing too bad. Even the main entry door could be unlocked from the inside. We didn’t have to break into any part of the building, and so we left it exactly as we found it so as not to arouse suspicion. We’d found our site.
The flyer we’d had printed to our specifications contained the necessary party information. It would be no more than an ordinary flyer by today’s standards, but back then it was one of the best I’d ever seen. Private Party laws meant flyers had to be printed as invites. The phrases ‘No invite – no entry’ and ‘Over 18s only’ had to feature prominently on all flyers.
As well as proclaiming our parties to be private events, this tactic was also a way of keeping certain undesirables at bay, from the Old Bill and dickheads to journalists. We only handed flyers out at specific clubs and parties where we figured anybody attending would be on the level.
Think back and remember that, in those days, there were no more than 5,000 party people and clubbers in the whole of England, and half of those were in Ibiza or Tenerife. Party details were spread by word of mouth, and back-handed flying: if you were there, then you must know someone who knew someone. One big happy family. If you didn’t know someone’s name, you knew their face.
The people who actually brought the invites to the doors of gigs were usually new to the scene. The veterans knew this was to cover ourselves within the law. Barring the geeks already mentioned, we’d let in anyone who didn’t look dodgy. The ones who did fit the look of Dibble were astonished when they were refused entry. We don’t have anything against the police – we just wanted our night to last as long as possible.
There was a club or house party on virtually every night and we personally went out and handed flyers to the type of people we wanted at our shindig. When giving someone a flyer we’d always say exactly what it was, e.g. ‘Genesis, 10 December’. Our aim was to fix the name in people’s minds as well as to promote the event. We got a fantastic response from everyone; they all loved the name and logo.
I remember feeling very nervous before our first night. The butterflies in my stomach were flapping like mad. We’d been out promoting our gig the night before, so we didn’t get much sleep. This was what we’d been working our bollocks off for, what we’d been planning, and tonight was the night.
At the time I didn’t personally know any other party organisers, so I didn’t know if my panic attacks were normal or not. This was all completely new to me and I didn’t know what to expect. I did know that it was extremely nerve-racking. One, we were in a building we shouldn’t be in. Two, the police could arrive at any time and we’d get seriously chored. Three, if no one turned up we’d be very embarrassed. This event had to work or I would just lose faith and quit.
We entered the warehouse at approximately 5 p.m. on Saturday night. It was winter and felt like the dead of night. We were close to the City, which is very quiet at this time with hardly any traffic on the road. Once the venue was cleaned up and secured we called our van driver, who for security reasons had parked ten minutes away. Having a van outside the site wouldn’t be a good idea because it had all the equipment in it, and if he got caught we’d be up shit creek without a sound system.
There are a lot of warehouses in the area so it’s not that unusual to see a van being unloaded. Part of Petticoat Lane market runs along this road and opens on Sundays, and a few vans were scattered along the road anyway, but I didn’t want to take the chance of parking ours there. The van pulled up outside and we quickly began loading its contents into the building, then began work on transforming a dirty warehouse into a state-of-the-art dance arena.
During the previous week we had visited an army surplus store and bought a carful of props, including giant snow nets, white and green camouflage nets and full-size parachutes still in their packs. We slogged our guts out setting the equipment up and then moved on to the props, which we pinned up to the ceiling and around the walls. We had three old still-projectors, which projected on to the chutes and nets and the venue looked like the interior of a futurist nightclub. It was the nuts, mate!
Even if the party flopped I knew by now that I would enjoy myself, and the visuals gave me a surreal feeling of warmth. A small room next to the one we were using made a great bar. We put a table across the doorway; the bar was operational.
The meeting point was set for 10 p.m. and I went to see if anyone had turned up. At ten to ten there wasn’t a soul in sight – my bubble had burst. Twenty minutes later I returned and found fifteen cars parked with clubbers running from one car to another. They were in high spirits and really up for it, jumping on their cars and dancing in the street.
‘Where’s the party, mate?’
The most important ingredient, after the class As, is the music. KP had the tunes and we got a few of our pals to play a kicking party set of Balearic, New Beat and rock. The set featured tracks from artistes like Sure Beats Working, Flesh, The Thrashing Doves, Carly Simon and Prince, and was a refreshing break from Acid House. The combined effects of music, lights, smoke, strobes and Ecstasy brought on an incredible russssh and everyone in the room waved their arms in the air and went fucking mental.
At midnight we had about 200 people in the warehouse but it didn’t look like getting much busier. Then, as if on cue, loads of cars started pulling up outside, and we received news that the Rave At The Cave in south London had been raided. Based in an old mechanics, garage in the arches at Elephant and Castle, it could hold 2,000 people and was very popular.
Tonight the police had raided the gaff big time with video cameras, mobile strip-search units, sniffer dogs, news teams, the whole deal. Everyone in the place was strip-searched but only a few arrests were made, leaving hundreds of people pissing in the wind until they found out about our intimate gathering. My smile turned into a full Chelsea beamer as my levels of adrenaline went up a notch.
I had already dropped a Cali so I felt extremely happy with myself and the party. We squeezed as many people inside as possible – what a fantastic atmosphere. It was togetherness, a unified race towards a brighter future. I went around to almost everyone introducing myself and thanking them for coming. Kiss FM’s Sarah HB, who was not a DJ at that point, was amongst the many revellers and so was Energy/World Dance’s Anton Le Pirate, who was then not yet a party promoter.
When I first started promoting the event I had given invites to all the people I hung out with, but none of them had turned up. At about 4 a.m. they all made an appearance, having been elsewhere because they’d assumed my gig would be shit (cheers, lads!) My oldest friend, Keith, who I used to drink with, chase birds with and abuse class As with, couldn’t believe how many people had come. I knew Keith wanted to be a part of the action by the way he was talking about it. We go back a long way so I wanted to bring him in anyway. KP didn’t think we needed another partner but agreed to think about it.
Meanwhile, the party was in full swing. People were dancing everywhere and on top of anything that would hold their weight. At 5 a.m. a fire bell rang out from the warehouse next door where we had a look-out. Shit! That meant Dibble was on the way!
My stepfather was looking after the money for us; when the alarm went off we decided the money should be taken to a safe house. I ran upstairs along the balcony into the main room and to the bar, where by now Nikki was giving the drinks away free. I told her the score and we ran down the stairs to the front, gave her all the door cash, which she hid, and escorted her to the main entrance.