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    Vote Techno Party (Part 4 of 6)
    Vote Techno Party (Part 4 of 6)
    Vote Techno Party (Part 4 of 6)
    Ebook94 pages1 hour

    Vote Techno Party (Part 4 of 6)

    By A. E. Elliott

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    About this ebook

    Now that the instant commodification of everything underground has become the norm, it's hard to imagine a truly subversive music scene that could change the world... but that's exactly what happened with the squat party movement in late 1990's England.

    Squat party culture helped to launch everything from Reclaim the Streets and the anti capitalist / anti-G20 demonstration movement, to guerilla gardening. It was awash in streetart and electronic musical experimentation that went on day and night. "Vote Tekno Party" is a rare firsthand, personal perspective of the people, places, parties, the DJ's (and occasionally, even the dogs) who were involved in making that happen.

    Vote Tekno Party is a must-read for anyone who loves dancing to techno, or squatting, or DIY activism... or who just can't stand the system. Nostalgia-free and gritty, this fictionalized account is a must read for anyone who wants to learn (or to remember) what a revolution on the dance floor actually looks like.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherA. E. Elliott
    Release dateJun 8, 2018
    Vote Techno Party (Part 4 of 6)
    Author

    A. E. Elliott

    A. E. Elliott is a Berlin-based blogger and e-journalist who has been publishing candid, first-person views on counterculture, music and politics since 2002. Vote Techno Party is her first fiction novel, based on personal experience of London's squat and techno party scenes.She has been a contributor to OpenDemocracy, Urban Challenger Berlin, Alternative Berlin, Siegesaeule, and editor of the Sensanostra magazine. More of her writings on nightlife, politics and ethics can be found on her two blogs: UnsceneBerlin.blogspot.com and FleetingReams.blogspot.com. Some of her even earlier stuff can also be found at http://bubblejam.net.

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      Book preview

      Vote Techno Party (Part 4 of 6) - A. E. Elliott

      Build Up The Pressure

      January 1999

      When we got to the party, in a derelict pool about ten minutes from Fulham Tube, we all got in free with Gwyn. Apparently, she knew the guy on the door. Within minutes of stepping through the door, though, Gwyn had vanished. A few minutes' later Steve’s mates Rob and Muriel were gone, too. As for Steve himself, he didn’t even seem to have made it further than the Tube station.

      So now, suddenly, I was on my own in a darkened echoing pool, bumping against keyed-up people in a space only half-illuminated by the ray of a spotlight by the entrance, at the top of a flight of stairs. I kept looking up those stairs anxiously. We were in West London, and that was Star Territory. What would happen if she turned up? What would I say? She’d left a message for me earlier asking me to call her if I was out tonight.

      After a few minutes of shrinking into the crowd, I finally pulled my mobile out of my bag and dialled Stars number. If she ever heard I’d been here without getting in touch I sensed she’d make a scene, dragging me back out of balance, and into her charismatic, inner melodrama. I really didn’t need that.

      Besides, she was probably asleep and wouldn’t make it, anyway.

      She answered on the second ring. Yawning.

      Hey, it’s Selene. I know it’s late and I won’t be long, I said fast, too fast -but I’m at a party in West London, and just thought I’d let you know. In case you’re awake, you know… But it sounds like you’re not, so… I shrugged, preparing to hang up.

      Hang on, she said and then yawned elaborately. That’s better. I needed to stretch. So where is the party? I wanted to say it was in Barking or Milton Keynes or something but damn it, I had to tell her the truth. Otherwise, I would have wasted a quid on this 45-second call for nothing.

      Fulham, I said as softly as I could. I was muttering for some reason, almost as if I didn't want Star to understand my words… being vague on purpose. Was it just reflex? Or was I still just unsure that I should be seeing her again? She wanted to be friends, after all. I wasn't sure I could say the same.

      Fulham? She perked up audibly. Oh my god, Selene — that’s right around the corner from where I live! What’s going on there? Is it a squat party? Where is it?

      Seems to be in a swimming pool.

      "Pool? Which pool?" Star asked, her drawl perking up audibly.

      I don’t know Star! I'm not a walking A-Z. It's in the Fulham Public Pool or something.

      Is it the one with all the twisty slides and the dragon? she asked. I looked around. Twisty slides: check. Dragon: check.

      Must be, I shrugged. Why? Have you been here before, or is...

      "That’s where the party is? Ohmigod! Selene, I used to swim there when I was a kid! I can’t bloody believe that’s where the party is! OHMIGOD!!" A squealing sound erupted from the earpiece and I held the phone away from my ear, wincing.

      Finally, I put the phone back to my ear and heard Star trilling, Selene, STAY THERE. I'm coming RIGHT NOW. Don’t leave or do anything, all right? Just wait! With a final, delighted squeal, the line went dead.

      I stared at the phone thinking, 'Shit. What have I done?'

      An hour later, the techno started up and I wanted to dance, but now I was stuck hanging around near the entrance foyer, eyeing it vigilantly for Star. Where was she? I hated waiting for people, even people who I was ambivalent about seeing. The night felt incomplete until all the pieces were in place, even if the pieces weren’t necessarily a perfect fit.

      Suddenly, the sound levels dropped almost to zero; a few seconds later, the fluorescent overheads switched on. The voices echoing around the pool from a couple of hundred other punters were louder than anything else, except for the distant grating of gabber coming from below, a musical whirlpool. A few seconds after that, even the gabba in the lower room stopped. Fluorescents were abruptly switched on, glaring off of flattened beer cans and electrified, piercing stares. Tobacco smoke wheeled like a trapeze artist in the air.

      A hush settled over the pool.

      An odd, rhythmic sound, coming from somewhere nearby. It was loudening, and it was coming from somewhere outside of the pool. It was also getting louder. I twirled around in a circle, looking for the source of the sound, following the gaze of the people around me who were doing the same. Towards the back of the pool, in dark and half-empty recesses, eyes peered down from fairy-tale dragon waterslides. Stuffed toys were strewn around the dry tiles - liberated from an upper-level crèche and tossed around in a fun-fur fight.

      All eyes converged on the back door, pinpointing the source of the sound there. It was just outside. Then, a silhouetted line of riot cops materialized on the other side of the doorway. One by one, they came in, in a line. Black shields braced on black arms, black clubs clenched in black-gloved hands, riot masks down; they were grim determination personified.

      They marched around the pool, forming a semi circle around it that cut off the crowd from the back door. Their gazes, through the shields, were grimly riveted on the middle distance between the crowd - us - and them. I couldn’t see their point of focus through the dark masks, but it seemed to cut straight through us.

      Negotiations between the representatives of squat and State ensued. The State’s retreat was quickly obtained. The sergeant’s voice was shouting that we must leave immediately, or else they’d move in and take us off the property by force - and at the same time, it was drowned out by the jeering sea of people. I knew why they were jeering too - I, too, recognized the tone he used: it was dry and bored but insistent. He was just another of the Robs of the world, telling us that ‘the party’s over’ cause the Big Cheese said so. And he was expecting us to just disband into manageable pieces, to go back to our stations and sit there on standby, until we were told to move, to be productive, to live together. I saw this all in a bright flash that echoed the streaks of angry, panicked chatter that passed through the crowd. Now, it was loudening to an indignant roar. An enraged yell suddenly ripped out of the throat of someone standing almost behind me:

      Fuck off, pigs!

      These were three words you saw spray painted on every wall, repeated by every mildly dispossessed Yuppie but in this place, it wasn’t just something you said - it was a gut reaction to repel whatever was here to repel us. The police were pigs – acting like hired security for some landlord to defend a piece of property slated for demolition anyway. Whatever happened to this property was ultimately trivial; the fact that we'd squatted it was not. Because we didn't own anything, we didn't own the right to do anything - not even assemble. We couldn’t even afford to be trivial. Democracy was only for those who could afford it.

      A bunch of 'Yeah's' sprung into the air around me, followed by a litany of booing. My voice joined theirs, another noisemaker in the crowd. Water bottles and beer cans were flung, spattering and bouncing off the floor, the door, the walls… the pigs, themselves. The roar was growing, filling the pool with tangible anger.

      The guy I’d met on the door, Gwyn’s friend, emerged from behind

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