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.
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