[Sub]Culture Shock: How's Your Party? @ Sub Club featuring Caspa, Toddla T + Boom Monk Ben, 26/02/10
Written by Lady RaRa
Friday, 05 March 2010 18:00
Until last Friday, the extent of my Dubstep knowledge consisted of a La Roux remix from 2009 and the fact that it's more popular in Edinburgh. I have, in the past, written-off certain music and its followers based on the fact that Glasgow doesn't have the same passion for it as our nation's capital does. Normally, this would seem good grounds for me to ignore it entirely. However, after a very disjointed couple of hours at 'Ladies Night' at the Flying Duck I decided it was time to pop my Dubstep cherry, for lack of housier options.
My two best friends Ally, Joss, and I decided to catch a rickshaw to Sub Club once we agreed that we could take no more of the poorly-mixed 80s cheesy pop blasting out at the Flying Duck. The rickshaw was our wisest indulgence of the evening. Several probing questions about the cyclist's ham string muscles later, we were mounting the pavement outside Sub Club through a crowd of bemused smokers - something that would have, on any familiar occasion, mortified us. Thankfully no one recognised us, and probably presumed we were just a bit arsey (which we kind of were).
The crowd was noticeably different from the normal events we frequent at Sub Club. The boys were mostly bearded, wearing huge woolly jumpers, thick hoodies and Amsterdam-esque stoner flap hats. Not to sound like a Gran, but this seemed wholly impractical considering the sweltering heat of Sub Club's low-ceilinged splendour, and the chaps in the layers did appear to be losing their body weight in perspiration.
The girls were also layered up - not a breast or bare leg in sight. No Ibiza-throwbacks here, just some massive shaggy hair, trouser braces and red lipstick. I felt overdressed in my fake eyelashes and tan. The indifference of the Dubstep ladies was their biggest attraction - they didn't seem to give a shit about anything except the tunes. There was no sign of the posing/dancing that I've become used to, nor did I see groups of girls craning their necks to take aerial pictures of themselves. Always a plus - though I'm guilty of all of the above myself.
The music was also incredibly far from my comfort zone. The bass of the songs resonated deeply in my body, but didn't have the build up and release that I'm used to with house. This is because: "Dubstep tracks are generally produced at a tempo of around 140 beats per minute, and in recent years have developed signature half time rhythms, often heavily shuffled or syncopated, and usually, though not exclusively, including only one snare drum hit per bar, often on the third beat. Such factors make dubstep rhythms markedly different from four-to-the-floor rhythms used in other styles of electronic dance music such as house music, which usually have two snare hits accompanying the second and fourth kick drum"- thanks Wikipedia.
I'm no music expert, so please excuse my very basic explanations, but I felt as if once I'd just started to get into the 'bounce' of one track the DJ would scratch into a completely different one which required an entirely different level of bouncing. Everyone else seemed ecstatic with this, but I felt like a bit of a twat. Whilst I could see the attraction of the tremble of the bass in this intimate sweatfest - especially to a drug-and-hormone fuelled Dubstep aficionado, I myself was surviving on one Red Bull from a 6am start, and the purr of the bass at the bottom of my spine and pelvis was only serving to make me feel a bit sexually frustrated. Any sexual feeling was instantly quashed by the stench of sweat radiating from a group of dreadlocked individuals close by, however. Never had I wondered what a tramp's crotch smells like, but now I think I know. Showering was obviously not on everyone's to-do list before they left the house/squat/swamp, but again no one else seemed to care - which somehow made it OK.
After overhearing several Cockney accents (I at first presumed there were just lots of English people in town) I realised that these were actually Scots trying to be Londoners. A gangly gentleman screamed out "Ruuuuuuuuuuuuuude booiiiii" next to my ear, to which a sweaty random replied “I rememba it bruv! Eavy bounce!" and this completely blew my mind. Were these actual Glaswegians swapping their 'ritthums' for 'riddims'? Dropping their 'h's’ rather than their 't's'? No one else batted an eyelid, so I presume that this is completely normal. A Human Traffic quote rings in my ears: "The bass was so deep, you could feel it in Jamaica...."
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I've never seen a crowd like it at the DJ booth. Swinging and swaying their arms, clawing sweaty palms out towards the MC and tracing their fingers along the condensation of the ceiling, the mob rocked in the throes of Dubstep-induced hysteria. They struggled with each other as if trying to stroke the MC's sweaty coupon. It was like watching some screwy God channel: the MC a crazed preacher working the congregation into thrashing around and speaking in tongues, the congregation in turn worshipping and obsessing over the preacher. The Dubsteppers seemed ecstatic with every tune, with every bass grumble and every assertion from the MC that "Glasgow was fucking mental". Joss was disgusted by this idolisation, and we decided that it was an opportune moment to make our escape.
On the way, we encountered a pretty girl with a skirt full of fairy lights and had to battle our way through a heavy cloud of passive sweat. We bobbed and dived in and out of bouncing groups of effortlessly cool girls and enthusiastic rude boys, eventually making it to the door. A speccy, sweaty fat boy stopped me on the stairs to rap at me, something along the lines of "Wait a minute, let me lick that shit right up..." complete with rapper hand movements and crotch grab. Needless to say he didn't get to lick what he was after. As the cold from outside hit the sweating bodies on the stairs, steam rose off them ferociously as if the whole procession had been set alight. I was disconcerted by how foreign the Dubsteppers seemed to me, but how normal it was for everyone else around me.
Outside, anyone who wasn't sweat-soaked and excitable looked lost. There was no need to huddle together for warmth here - standing next to a Dubstepper was like getting a mini blast from a fan heater. Joss and I, in a feigned attempt to explain Dubstep as a genre, burst into an impromptu version of La Roux and moved around in slow motion. We were met with disapproving looks - it was clear we'd learnt very little from our experience. I asked for a lighter from a jolly overweight man beside me, who promptly offered me a headlight and put my last cigarette between his sweaty, furry lips. I was so appreciative of the nicotine that I ignored this accidental mix of bodily fluids. Ah the kindness of strangers...
So - what did I learn from Dubstep? Beautiful indifferent ladies, bouncing hippies and London accents...dreadlocks and vests, big hair and woollen hats....rappers and rude boys, bass lines to make your womb shake....smeared lipstick, sweat and trembling tunes......Friendly and wonderful people, though some with a lax attitude to personal hygiene.
Till next time bruv. Brraaaaaaaaaaaap!
Our New Glasgow Correspondent brings us...[Sub]Culture Shock!
Written by Lady RaRa
Friday, 05 March 2010 13:49
So accustomed am I to my little Glasgow techno/house bubble (read 'up my own arse' here if you will) that I am invariably shocked to witness the other ever-evolving subcultures that are alive and well in our fair city. So absorbed have I been in my own world of talcum powder-haired girls and swinging-jawed boys, that I simply forgot to take into account that there are other similar people, united by completely different music, moods and ideals, all dancing and sweating and touching each other in their own favourite venues across Glasgow
The culture shock of getting caught up in a dubstep night, especially as it was happening inside my current spiritual home of Sub Club, inspired me to investigate the strangers that I have been blissfully unaware of thus far. My mission, therefore, is to explore other scenes and subcultures within the city. As a clubbing tourist, and being eternally biased towards the techno circuit that I've been lapping for the last couple of years, I will attempt to remain as objective as possible in my descriptions of what I see. Any offence is unintentional, merely an outsider's perspective.
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