- Leeds, unlike Manchester, carries a mental challenge of overcoming adversity and untold heroism for any ex-resident attempting to recapture past 8 AM dance floor glory. My memories of the place are filled with continuous debauchery and financial disembowelment whilst at the host of what I and many others considered to be the best parties in the country. The reason? Back to Basics—a long standing insurmountable character amongst the international clubbing masses, leaving patrons and clubs crippled in its wake.
My unplanned return to the club I once struggled to not call home hit a minor bone-shivering 15 minute hurdle as I waited in the surprisingly lengthy queue. No Matter: The venue, newcomers will instantly notice, has a dark, low ceiling that stretches out into a land of crisp sound and telling facial expressions. And sobriety quickly becomes a forgotten curse for regulars and first-timers alike, as the atmosphere hammers home a welcome inebriated instability.
Few clubbing forays can sport resident-only nights of the James Holroyd and Buckley calibre, but for Basics this is standard procedure. It's fair to say that few DJs have established the level of respect and expectation in my fickle mind that these two have. The middle floor provides a recently refurbished sanctuary for Middleborough's RiffRaff in the form of James Barnsley, Lee Pennington, Gow and Paul Bowen.
Blue moons have been and gone since I was last disappointed with the delights thumped out of the strategically venomous Funktion One speaker stacks. However, not far past midnight and limping distance from the end of James Holroyd's set, it was apparent that things weren't going the way that I hoped. Electro seemed to be the plate and I was far from hungry. For a brief moment Buckley showed signs of steering things back towards a welcome familiarity, but the crowd's spasmodic yelps and convulsive screams overpowered my tethered pleas, sending me whimpering upstairs in search of a groove.
Relief was dealt swiftly by the travelling Borough contingency as I joined the respectable faction that had begun to nest. Despite the evident quality on display, Barnsley was still able to stand out amongst the rest. The steady momentum building behind Barnsley is a far cry from what he deserves, although build it does. He's now a regular guest at the club he helps to manage (My House), resident at RiffRaff and a hidden gem scribbled irregularly on posters about Manchester and other metropolitan hubs alike. With a steely look in his eye, he twists and builds quality house music only the most dedicated black smack dealer has heard before.
By 5 AM the unexpected electro façade on display in the main room had left me with wounds ripe for licking, but I realised that life on the bassline gravy train isn't without its hardships. It will take a far greater force to dislodge my well-cemented respect for Buckley, James Holroyd or any other regular Basics booking than a single evening. Bruised, battered but far from destroyed, my unrelenting passion for the night that has inspired me to part with so many brain cells, make so many friends and say so many ridiculous things is still throbbing deep within my red-soaked veins.