- "I'm starting every night in Manchester with a Zombie," Mike Plant, 2009.
And why not? A large tanker of fruit juices drenched in rum and set on fire with a blowtorch is a perfectly acceptable way to start an evening in Manchester. It brings about the kind of mentality needed for a night at the Roadhouse; softening the deafening sound system while reducing a person to the humble beginnings of a moral deviant.
A welcome breed at the Roadhouse too; they're patted on the back, hurled inside and allowed to stumble freely around the venue's small confined space, safe in the knowledge that they will never fall too far from the dance floor's edge. The bar is, in a way, welcoming too with taunts written in thick black ink on the wall, such as "think you're hard? Try absinthe." No doubt people do—this is the North after all and people rarely back down when challenged in writing.
Photo credit: Nik Torrens
But still, after repeated visits the club does begin to grate. The look and feel doesn't quite fit with a house night—not in any major sense but in a sense that keeps clawing away at the back of my mind like a slow growing tumour. Perhaps it's the odd looks the bar staff give me every time I stumble up to order a drink, not realising that I've left my spleen behind. Perhaps it's because the walls are covered in posters advertising strange unfamiliar acts that I will never fully embrace. Or perhaps I will never be able to forget that the club is actually a live music venue geared more towards an indie clientele.
That said Chez Damier didn't play the most inspirational set I've ever heard—looking back I don't really recall him playing anything of real note—but the momentum was there throughout and so was the atmosphere. The crowd was erupting in a full-on riot as the absinthe seeped from their pores and evaporated into the damp air. Tracks moved from one heavy bassline to the next and although there was little variation, it was good music to get twisted to.
The best of it for me though was when I arrived and Lee Daley and Rashid were bouncing away behind the decks with wide grins painted across their faces. They stole the show playing records that bore the stamp of more interesting recent European releases. Cool grooves and energising rhythms burst the place open like a rush of blood to the neck. It was zombie music, heavy on the grooves with a serious after burn hidden deep within its core that wrenched any downbeat hoodlum from the depths of binging and onto the dance floor.