- On the night of Atomic Jam's recent 16th birthday celebrations, a majestic red glow radiated from the monumental brickwork of Birmingham's Q Club as the venue's gallant and iconic terracotta tower loomed proud and tall. It appeared to be almost bracing itself for one final showdown, the foot of the tower eventually met with flocks of enraptured ravers who have turned out in their masses to bid farewell to the pioneering rave-haven partnership Atomic Jam and the soon-to-be-closed venue.
Bedfellows since 1995, Q Club and Atomic Jam have been through years of turbulence that has, at times, seen the duo miserably disjointed. Forced into sofa-surfing in 2003 when its original (and only) home was ordered to close it doors, Atomic Jam swooned around, touching down for short stints at a number of venues. Failing to ever find a bond as strong as with its primary host, Chris Finke and the Atomic Jam residents were overjoyed to return home in 2007, when The Q Club re-opened its doors for five more years of techno. Forward to January 2012, and the pair were reunited for one final party.
Photo credit: Guy Hornsby
Inside, the dank and dishevelled church interior proved to be a crude contrast to the exterior's prominent grandeur, drenching the night's proceedings in an aura reminiscent of the acid house and techno of days gone by. Heading down a winding maze of cryptic corridors towards the main room, there was an overwhelming musk of sewage-like-sweat. Fortunately, though, overshadowing the stench was the brisk and brooding pulse of pounding techno, one that plummeted any other senses into an instant state comatose. Beckoning all into the main room, Chris Finke was 30 minutes deep into his first set of the night and was churning out his usual blend of intelligent techno and acid. A synonymous fixture with Atomic Jam, Finke laid his craft with an intricate finesse that had the packed floor (and side structures) transfixed on every beat. By the time Marcel Fengler took over, the crowd was primed.
Colossal makeshift mines that became sporadically illuminated by intense flickers and flashes of stark red, green and blue neon lasers hung from the ceiling rafters above. Darting throughout the cavernous space as the music progressed, the lighting increased, highlighting a frivolous concoction of old-school ravers and Atomic Jam virgins. As darkness enveloped the tight chasm of bodies that spilled from the main floor, a brief silence struck, after which Dave Clarke let fly with a Rodney King & The Nightsticks classic that had a gaggle of fluorescent-clad nuns wildly reaching for the lasers. The entire ocean of bodies appeared mesmerised by this baron of the game.
Atomic Jam, the pioneering institution, and its domineering partnership with Q Club once lead the way on the underground techno scene. The bond may (for the time being) be broken, but at what better place to say goodbye than a grade2 listed Methodist church. Techno at its best, after all, is pretty much a religious experience.