Derrick Carter in Manchester

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  • It was seven years ago that I first visited Sankeys, and since then I've realised that time—and human behaviour for that matter—makes fools of us all. The club I remember is long gone. A distant memory too small to see with even the keenest of eyes. Its architectural nuances covered up, reshaped and devastated during the Great Refurbishment of 2007. And the upstairs turned into an unholy rip-off of Watergate. All that remains of the once mighty beast is a bloated cash cow eating away at Manchester's soul. Photo credit: Nik Torrens Your average Sankeys punter is an ugly character, devoid of emotion and personality. They come armed with sunglasses, their parent's credit cards, sleeveless tops and an unhealthy addiction for anyone brandishing an oversized camera. Heroes amongst men, valiant protectors of the weekend dream. The club now hosts nothing but a gaggle of pointless human beings wandering around in a daze, not knowing what the hell they're doing but, by God, they're all going to do it together. The music on this night, for the most part, caused me great concern. I've now forcefully been to the club at least five times since it reopened; and at no point has the music in the bar made me do anything other than wince. The main room is best avoided at all costs. Regrettably I walked through there at one point in the evening only to be subjected to a breakdown that included a sample from The Lion King. The possibility of seeing Paul Woolford—despite his obvious credibility—was far from enough to draw me back into that den of woe and I can only speculate as to how his set was. Photo credit: Nik Torrens Bruised, battered and aurally assaulted I found myself waiting impatiently upstairs for Derrick Carter. It was 2:30 AM when the Chicago-born giant came on, after a disappointing warm-up from Greg Vickers and someone that I didn't recognise. Contrary to what had come before, the next three-and-a-half hours were nothing short of breathtaking. The momentum Carter thrust upon the room devastated me. The mood skyrocketed to a level far beyond my elbows' reach and the big man shuffled behind the decks with great ease. I can't begin to fathom how he does it, but by some unholy use of the filters and mixing at a level too brilliant to summarise, he turns ordinary tracks into something truly magical. I'm of the opinion that no one else in the world could get away with the number of vocal tracks that he did. To label his sound as simply "groovy" barely begins to even cover it. I came away from the night thinking it was one of, if not THE best set I'd ever seen. The mark I gave this night was for Carter and Carter alone. Sankeys may have lost the plot, but one of house music's most adored legends most definitely hasn't.
RA