- It's never nice to find yourself the victim as a nauseatingly jobsworthy bouncer proverbially fans his tail feathers. It went like this: With the queue queue shorter than the guestlist queue, I respectfully asked the delightful gent "if I join the normal queue, will I get in quicker?" "Probably," he offered helpfully. Seconds later, at the front of the queue, I let him know that I'm on the guestlist to which he coolly replies, savouring his big moment, "You'll need to join the back of the guestlist queue, then." Precious, huh? Anyway, pleased at making new friends already, I eventually rocketed into The Space for my inaugural visit.
And it's a solid club: spacious without feeling impersonal, loads of bars, snug ceilings and, most importantly, a sharp, far-reaching sound system. The only problem with basement clubbing like this is the temperature. To give you an idea of how hot it gets in there: it gets very hot in there.
The astute amongst you will have wondered why the aforementioned queues were so modest. Well, I agree with the popular opinion I've heard through the bassline (sorry), that Magda has had a tough year. Her recent sets at Timewarp, Exit and Technique have been dismissed as too minimal and (here comes the science) "too up her own arse." Word is, she's only now beginning to inspire once again.
Can't blame her, really. Imagine being the warm-up DJ for Richie Hawtin, with thousands of staunch Hawtiners waiting to take notes on their chosen one's latest micro re-edit. If you do manage to keep the 'racks at bay long enough to finish a set, and maybe even flourish into a headline act in your own right, might you eventually want to distance yourself from your mentor to show you have your own style? Well, that's my theory, and, who knows?, maybe it was a catalyst in her decision to explore uber minimales and all those other reportedly conceited, and since derided, sounds. Whatever, it was still busy enough to get very hot indeed—did I mention that?
Before the diminutive one came Clickbox: two dudes and a bunch of kit all the way from Sao Paolo. Initially, basic kick drum thuds alone were enough to have the entire floor militantly shuffling in sync. But from then on, snares and percussive pricks gradually infused the stripped back soundscapes as hands branched out to shift evermore adventurous shapes in rightful recognition of these boys' skills.
There seemed to be a symbiotic relationship between the music and the disco goers. Both evolved from being subtle like Berlin to unabashed like Detroit. By the end of their set, woops of endorsement were meeting every breakdown and each clipped beat was tapped out on the floor. The boys had steadily increased the tempo throughout (mirroring the temperature), surreptitiously locking people into their deep grooves with no chance of parole. (No one wanted out anyway.) The original lo-fi thuds which eventually melted away in favour of the splinters of jerky tech were indicative of the transient, enjoyable and well executed journey from 'down there' to 'up here.' The opposite of what was to come...
And so to 'A Lady of Techno' (there are just so many now) who squarely rebuffed the modus operandi of any journeying DJ. Having cut her teeth in front of those impatient Hawtiners, it's unsurprising that she was in fifth gear from the first leaked bleep. I'm pleased, though, to report it was classic Magda with her trademark polyrhythmic beats each holding their own: the overall sound being neither undernourished K-hole tosh, nor overly indulgent pony.
Hammering through tunes at a precisely unpedestrian rate, the pretty Pole worked two 1210s and a Mac hard, digressing only for glugs from a 'Buca bottle...and then another one. The syncopated beats were naught but bouncy and brash, riddled with machine manufactured pops and hops which nudged every apathetic neuron--whether you were consenting or not. If that was dull minimal, she disguised it bloody well.
A Technique resident, Magda clearly gets on with promoter Dave Martin and seems to be refocused and just about refiring, with the rather chore-like last hour her only demerit. The pair were jesting in the booth like siblings and maybe that's why the techno kept rolling, in truth unnecessarily, until gone 6 AM. At that point, I sadly waved goodbye to my new chum from the door and left my first, and Technique's last, night at The Space...but thankfully only 'til September.
Photo credit: Lisa Loco