Stephen McGinty reports on the Glasgow club scene doing its duty --

uniting youths

EVERY night we come to dance. Thousands of us caught up in a scene

which rewinds with every song or track. Each with a separate identity

stamped on our clothes. We sweat and move to a deafening beat, a pulse

even, as spots, strobes and fluorescent beams wink above, casting

shadows which shimmer to the bar. Here others stand staring on, watching

skirts stretch, hips swing and chests tighten. Sex on sticks for all

sides. In cramped corners people whisper of tablets and powders while

all around many more reach a state unaided but for a few drinks. The

Glasgow club scene doing its duty; uniting youths.

As inexplicable as the sum of its parts, clubs play mishmash with sex,

fashion and music, rolling them into an attractive ball which leads us

to queue in the rain, dance till dawn and sweat till the stains mark our

clothes. Afterwards, hung over and exhausted, we tumble through college,

work or both, cursing the night before but knowing we'll return.

Aladdin's caves for promoter and punter, clubs cannot be pigeon-holed,

for each venue runs a different club every night with a sound directed

to a target audience. Yet midweek clubs maintain certain characteristics

such as a casual door policy, student-dominated and drug-free, with

drinks promotions to tempt the unconverted into the sauna atmosphere.

Friday and Saturday see the standards stiffen. Trade names such as

Ichi-Ni-San are bandied about, yet clean black gear acts as an entrance

anywhere while crusties, metalheads and shopping accidents are dismissed

at the door with a cursory: ''Regulars only''.

The media perception of clubs claims sex and drugs hang around waiting

to cosh unsuspecting patrons. Sex, of course, is unavoidable. Not the

performance but the thoughts, which flow, heightened by liquor's warm

glow and the view of attractive people moving. Whether an individual

cares to pursue these thoughts or tidy them away to be taken out later,

under the bedsheets, is their decision. However, despite nightclubs'

well-earned reputation as pick-up joints notching up a century worth of

one-night stands every year, the majority come to dance and shun the

optional extras.

But drugs are the issue on every parent's mind as they wave the kids

out the door to return to tabloid headlines screaming: ''ECSTASY

AGONY''. Drugs always will be a club subculture, but one for the

predatory user seeking a dealer. Doctors continue daily to fall heavily

on the dangers of the dance drug, and users dabbling do so at their

peril. But at most reputable city-centre clubs the narcotic naive could

wander in and out unaware of the backdoor dealing which escapes even the

most eagle-eyed security crew.

Other callous clubs advertise their ''attractions'', designing posters

and flyers to accentuate every ''E''. Here the 18-year-olds with

Brylcreemed hair pop pills and strap on paint-stripper masks coated with

Vick's Rub to heighten the high. Each to their own, but the warnings are

written on the wall.

No point preaching to the converted, so for those wriggling into their

dancing breeks for the first time here is a handful of celebratory clubs

ready to pass a current through even the most inanimate sceptic. They

did with me.

* ZFD, Monday at Fury Murry's: A cauldron of funsters unshackled from

musical barriers, ZFD (Zebedee / Florence / Dougal), bounces and springs

through a magic roundabout of popular tunes. DJs spin styled discs with

the randomness of Russian roulette producing a delightful stew of

indie-dance, soul, funk, etc. Watch bemused as half the dance-floor

troop off to be replaced by surprised spectators with the switch of a

stylus.

Reel to Dancing Queen and unexpected trash hits from when bedtime was

straight after Top of the Pops. A stalwart club, Fury Murry's play

receptacle to the blushing Shag on Friday nights when dancers lose

themselves in the smoky mists of dry ice and other people's arms and

mouths.

* CHOPPER, Wednesday at Club X, 23 Royal Exchange Square: An ambiguous

title for this gay spot's solitary straight night, but guys, packed

jeans are not mandatory at this easy-osy student mecca. Dress as you

please, but remember a shooting-stick to combat fatigue in the queue.

Inside lies a subterranean Spanish cantina with a square bar always

three deep with boogiers bawling for double vodkas for a quid. Cramped

twin dance-floors offer outrageous exhibitionists the chance to

shake-a-leg in one of three steel cages to popular charts and

dancy-dancy house Muzak. A relaxed pick-up joint with the friendliest

bouncers this side of nirvana.

* THE TUNNEL, 84 Mitchell Street: Glasgow's hippest hang-out (rumoured

to be Europe's) offers a two-faced door policy. Weeknights anything goes

-- especially on Thursday which could claim the disco crown for

Scotland's busiest club night. Yet the drawbridge is up weekends as

designer clotheshorses hog the dance-floor amid an atmosphere where the

pressure to ''pull'' is tangible.

Waterfalls in the urinals, pints poured from dangling hoses, and

bouncers fitted with granddad's hearing-aids all add to the spectacle of

a Tunnel trip. The music is across the board, running smoothly through

charts, hip-hop and dance to the more palatable boundaries of techno.

Their decision to install metal detectors and security which tops that

of airports is a welcome but frightening sign of the times.

* REDS, 370 Sauchiehall Street: On a fine Friday night it has the

atmosphere of an exclusive party with you as a valued guest. Through the

velvet curtain you enter a wonderland of pout and pose, dance and

designs. The cover charge reflects the clientele of preened people, but

no-one is short-changed by the music.

Based on a postage-stamp dance-floor, beboppers move to the latest

serious dance tracks spun inches away behind the wire mesh of the DJ

Den, home regularly to the business's best.

* Top tip: anti-dandruff shampoo is essential pre-partying, as the

club's powerful fluorescent lights pin-point offending matter,

especially on black.

* CLUB LOCO, Friday at The Arches, Renfield Street: A sonic cathedral

to pretentious pop-pickers, Club Loco does benefit tremendously from its

cavernous surround. The outer arch contains the bar while further inside

the walls run with sweat from the combined outpourings of hundreds of

revellers.

A Mardi Gras in Glasgow, Club Loco enjoys the jubilant atmosphere of

shared passions as dancers unite to techno's typewriter beats. Lights

scan the crowd like a war zone, yet the only casualties are the

dehydrated and exhausted, left panting on steel-framed seats.

Disc-spinning is by the Slam-Crew, Orde Meikle and Stuart McMillan,

sprung from their Saturday Sub-Club residence. Saturday night also plays

host to a more older-oriented club complete with cabaret and the

occasional wispy form of David Belcher as DJ.

* VOLCANO, 15 Benalder Street, Partick: Standing tall on diverse

musical merits, Volcano has broken the big city club cartel and located

successfully in the West End, heartland of the student population. An

exotic title, the venue is vacuum-packed at weekends with dynamic

dancers with the looks to back their moves.

It is not one for the easily intimidated. However, Volcano changes

hats nightly mixing jazz and reggae midweek while indie-dance, garage

and soul wrestle control of the turntables during the weekend.

Sunday converts the club into Bobby's Disco where he spins the great

dance tracks other clubs orphan as OTT. Perks include air vents which

pump on to fevered dancers who can't afford the drink prices.