Flying In The Old Dole House

Flying In The Old Dole House

Part One-The Foothills

It’s London in the 1990’s. 1993 I think, but I can’t quite remember. I’m on the Northern Line hurtling through the tunnels southbound. People are almost being thrown out of their seats. Someone opposite me is balancing a pint of lager on their lap. Hardly a drop is spilt as the train rattles on to our destination. I’m impressed. I do a visual sweep of the carriage. Tonight, not so much a carriage, more an impromptu party. Excited chatter. Animated gestures. Everybody is talking at once. One colourful group, huddled together by the doors, catch my eye. Fishnet stockings, rubber trousers, pigtails, ultra-short hair. No labels. Another group. Mostly in black with Crow’s Nest haircuts. Heavily curated. The singer they idolise emblazoned on their t-shirts.

Tonight, Brixton is the destination. The end of the line. The beginning of my journey. I’m sitting, perched on my seat with this spectacle unfolding. Young, barely into my 20s. Another sweep. The dissonance of auditory and visual feedback sets my thoughts racing.

“Excuse me. Were you at Sugarlump last week?”

I’m yanked from my introspections. One of the colourful lot is suddenly right in front of me. I look up to meet her gaze. A small rush of dopamine. I try to assess what’s happening. She only asked a simple question, but layers of convoluted thoughts hamper my progress. I’m not ready for this. I open my mouth, and something comes out. I don’t know if it made sense. Too late. The train has pulled into Brixton and the doors hiss open. Someone from her tribe pulls her away, and they pile out of the train. I join the herd, slow shuffle down the platform, and eventually get onto the escalator. Standing on the right, I choose to let the escalator do the work. I need time to gather my thoughts anyway. I watch people passing on the left. Some bound up two steps at a time, some step by step. As I am delivered to the level ground of the ticket hall, another spectacle. Objectively, a busy London Underground ticket hall, but it may as well be a bustling carnival or free festival. People crisscrossing the floor, Charity collectors, Underground staff. A horde of people is passing through the barriers and moving with purpose towards the stairs. There must be a show at the Academy tonight. Almost back-to-back with a charity collector, a man is strutting around with an armful of Big Issues. Full of energy, this guy’s an entertainer. His voice cuts through as he almost sings out his request.

“Biggy Biggy Biggy Biggy!! GET YOURRR BIG ISSUE!!!”

I exit the hall and head up the stairs to street level. I look for the others. Mark, Lucy, the usual crew. This is before mobiles, and none of us were on the Internet. I can’t even remember how we organised these things back in the day. I try to spot a familiar face through the exodus of bodies. Mark spots me first. Motions me over. Often the instigator of our weekly gatherings, he seemed to have his ears and eyes closest to the pulse of underground party information. He would call us individually, a pile of promising-looking flyers in his hand. On those occasions, I would often be up in my room. My mum would holler up, “Engin!!!!. It’s Mark on the phone”. The landline was downstairs by the front door. You could sit on the stairs and take your call. Just. Slack on the handset cord stretching just barely enough. Sometimes talk would be in hushed tones. My parents, barely feet away in the living room, the door always slightly ajar. One time. Before I could scurry off back upstairs

“Engin”

My fathers voice carries through the doorway.

“Yeah?”

“Come here”

His tone clever. Not giving anything away just yet.

“I’m going back upstairs”

“Come here. I want to talk to you”

I go. No need to escalate.

“Who were you talking to?”

His questioning is direct.

“Oh it’s just a friend”

“What’s his name?”

“Mark”

“Mark?. What does he do?”

I search internally for an acceptable answer.

“Oh he works in music”

“Music!?”

Wrong!

“Why don’t you get some normal friends? Who are these people?!”

“They are my friends!. I want to be with them!”

My adrenals kick in. My fathers face is visibly reddening. So much for not escalating.

“Why don’t you just act like a normal person a–”

I’m halfway back up the stairs. My mothers voice is audible now.

“Leave him”

Leave?

“-ello Engin!”

Lucy is alongside Mark. Blake has shown up also. Blake turns to me.

“Tonight is gonna be fuckin’ wicked!!!”

Blake, the youngest of us, and a big lad!. Long black hair tied back in a neat ponytail. He’s a bit of a young prodigy. Sound theory, electronics, guitars, you name it. A genius at reverse engineering. In his hand a plastic bag full of technical publications. Mark and Lucy are joined at the feet, hip, and shoulders!. Quick hugs all round. Mark and Lucy go back to their embrace. Mark updates me and Blake on party info. Slight and delicate in build, Mark more than makes up for that with charisma, and his red Fur Coat brings him up a size or two. Lucy, not overstated. Jeans, tie-dyed shirt, and a cool red beanie. Sweet, affectionate, and full of enthusiasm, Lucy is infectious. I’m a little less bold in my black jeans and Hair and Skin Trading Company t-shirt. It bears a psychedelically swirled image of Christopher Mayhew, a Labour MP who took Mescaline in the 1950s. Drawing in all those who cast eyes on it. Maybe a bizarre choice for me at that time, as the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself!! Or was it?.

“Evenin’ all”

Danny is here. Tall and lanky, his bonce nice and snugly under a huge trapper hat, matched with a woolly rainbow hoody. A combination which seems to have everyone queuing up to hug him all night!. Danny, outwardly at least, has a serene and even-tempered demeanour. A kind of wisdom that belies his age. Marco arrives just behind Danny. Like myself, he shies away from the colour fest, holds his own with a cool red cotton shirt and beanie. Marco has an almost effortless cool, albeit slightly aloof manner. Add his sharp wit and commentary, and it sets him apart somehow. Chloe and Parvati are here. Chloe, tall with beautiful long dreads, a long tie-dyed dress and red DM’s. She looks cool. She wears her heart on her sleeve, but also has an emotional maturity and grounding that In hindsight I think we needed. Everyone likes Chloe. And then we have Parvati, who is visibly excited about tonight.

“I can’t wait for Liberator’s set!”

Flowing dreads, big shaggy fleece and black leggings. She’s the party animal. We all dabble by comparison. Super touchy-feely, she will need someone to cling to tonight. And so she grabs my hand and pulls me along. I go erm..., willingly. Everyone present, we all start making our way to the party.

Autumn is giving way to winter, and the sky is already dark. There’s a crispness in the air, and even under the city glow, we can make out a few stars. We cut down Station Road. The ambience is a concoction of tension and pent-up energy. A little hustling here, a little banter there. Traffic signs and the occasional police car create a sense of law and order, yet it feels like we are on the verge of tipping into total lawlessness at any moment. We pass the Brixton Rec (Recreation Centre). Jah Shaka is playing tonight. A booming dub bassline is delivered to us on the night air. The riff is repeated again and again. Each new iteration pulling you deeper into the experience. We comment that we must check that out sometime, then push on. As we reach the top of Station Road a man darts across from the other side and approaches us. He singles me out and holds my gaze.

‘Ya want sometin’!?”

“I, I,... I’m”

I feel incredibly awkward, my face turning visibly pale. Sensing my vulnerability, the man moves in closer to try and seal a deal.

Mark cuts in.

“We’re sorted for tonight mate, thanks”

Mark ushers us onwards, we approach the old dole house on Coldharbour Lane, now re-christened as Cooltan. Repurposed into a hub for creativity, events and activism. From government gateway to gateway to bliss. A two-story brown brick building. Set back from the road with a small grassy area in front. On the opposite side of the road, the imposing, brutalist Barrier Block looms large.

There is a lively scene as we approach the front doors. A small, colourful, upbeat crowd are here already. Friendly vibe. Everyone’s in “The Tribe”. One voice is soaring above everyone else’s. It’s Victor who’s on the door tonight. He clearly likes to be the centre of attention!. His unending stream of jibes and jokes is not particularly PC. No one is exempt!. A couple in front turn to face each other, blank expressions. They shrug their shoulders. Victor calls out to someone behind me.

“John Boy!!”

I turn around. A guy with his mates, an annoyed look on his face.

“It’s Colin mate”

As the banter continues I catch a glimpse of another chap, just inside the door collecting money. Exasperated, he glares at Victor, eyes briefly closing, he turns to face the other way.

We’re in

Part Two - Journey to the Summit

We have to push through a large dance space, heading deeper in. Huge analogue sounds. Booming kicks and basses. Reverberated by the room. The infinite thud thud thud beats a ritualistic echo to the past. We feel our way through the space. Darkness interspersed with intense short strobes of light. In those frozen moments , faces. Contorted, blissed, serious, laughing. People just like us. Looking to get off their heads for the weekend and leave this world behind. The air is somehow infused with a higher purpose. It invites us to stay, but we push on to the main attraction. Just before we exit the room, a solitary dancer catches my eye. It’s Blake’s sister Vicky. The embodiment of a tribal raver. She’s carved out a space in the sea of bodies. Dilated pupils insanely fixed on something that’s not there. Frenzied, her hands dart in and out of each other. Locked into the clattering beat. For the briefest moment her eyes align with mine. But she’s looking past me. She folds back into the crowd and we exit the space.

We enter our home for the night. A narrow room at the back. Much smaller than the dance space, but big enough to accommodate 80-100 people. Mattresses line either side, and down the far end the DJ’s work their magic. Next to them, the VJ’s. Beautiful sculptures adorn the space, resting on the floor, or hanging from the ceiling. All covered in fluorescent paint and lit from below. They are positively glowing. I see fish, giant conches, flora and fauna. Of course! It’s a coral reef. Other people file into the room and find a space on the mattresses. There is a shared sense of excitement. Of newness. Nobody knows what they are doing, but we all participate in this experiment. We find our spot on the mattresses and sit down. Slowly, everybody settles in. I find just enough space to lie down and close my eyes. A little self-conscious at first. Aware of people moving around me and the last undertones of conversation. Soon there is a change. Slowly, I start to synchronise with the sounds, with the images. We transition into something a little more serious. The ascent ramps up. A voice emerges, then falls away. A soundbyte dropped by the DJ. With little option I am brought “Online”. Sound doesn’t just have my attention now. It’s a landscape. There is motion, there is movement. It undulates as I pass over it. My senses converge. The boundary between what I am hearing, seeing, feeling, and thinking is dissolving. Occasionally I open my eyes to look around. They come to rest on the projection screen. The VJ’s are busy channelling this crazy stream of colour and movement onto it. It’s engaging and entertaining. But also, I want to make sense of it. Inject meaning. Wheels turning within wheels. The passage of time. Crossfade into. American movie stars from a bygone age are tap dancing against the backdrop of an underwater scene. Cut to the scene of a desert, and a camera pans and follows a tumbleweed as it’s propelled along by the wind. Behind the tumbleweed, crowds of people move in the opposite direction. City workers!. These two scenes have no right to be together, but somehow it works - are they coordinating, or is this just the magic working?. Everything in the moment feels deeply significant.

It seems like me and Marco have turned to face each other at exactly the same moment. He looks pensive, contemplative. What just passed between us?. Reams of literature, sacred texts, unspoken knowledge, fleetingly imparted to us for tonight’s show. Mark and Lucy are all over each other snogging. I’m wondering when one of them is going to come up for air. Blake is flat on his back looking up at the ceiling. Wide-eyed. Astonished. Not content with the already abundant streams of light and video, he’s pulled his mini maglite out and points it at the sculptures. At a guess, I’d say he’s making notes for later.

Looking around again, my eyes fall on the DJ. Shaved head, combat trousers, and a striking holographic jacket. He is swinging from side to side like a pendulum. Mark was talking about him earlier. Apparently he’s the figurehead of this new resurgent interest in Ambient music. Next to him at the VJ console, a very charismatic man, wearing a striped bohemian waistcoat and purple flares. With long flowing hair and a serene expression he’s a handsome chap. Marco later points out that he’s one half of a successful chart act at the moment, and also running a very cool record label. This being a very underground event he’s a man traversing two worlds The music changes direction slightly. Choppy and syncopated now. A single arpeggiated sound fades in. It plays with me and I’m elevated, as it goes from clear and defined to resonant and spacey. Danny has a big smirk on his face, and now he’s laughing and issues forth a few finger slaps as the DJ works in another tune. Clearly one he was waiting for. I have finally registered that Chloe and Parvati are not with us. They’ll be in the main space. They always did prefer the dance floor. Pulled into the sound again, a gentle, meditative American voice comes in -

“Float beyond fear. Float beyond desire... Into this Mystery of Mysteries”

It’s Timothy Leary. Reciting from the Tao Te Ching. Add to that a new age backing track with a soaring guitar melody, and a pulsing synth line, and I completely succumb.

Eventually though, the call of nature. I have been putting it off, but I really am going to have to go soon. Usually of course, a straightforward task, but in my current state of dissociation this is a major undertaking!. Spatial awareness has taken a leave of absence and an attempt to stand up leaves me unaware which axis I revolve on. I’m trying to hold it together, but there are a few giggles and smirks, so that’s clearly not happening! After some moments I’m looking down at the sea of stoners sprawled out on the springy floor. I guess I’m standing now. Maybe this is what astronauts experience after months up in the space station.

I finally make it back. Just inside the door a familiar figure is pacing and he appears to be muttering to himself. He turns to face me and there is recognition. It’s Sarvesh, a good friend. Disheveled, sleep deprived, clearly been on the go for days. I am aware that he was recently sectioned and everyone is very concerned about him. He starts to talk. I really can’t hear with a bass bin behind him. We move away slightly but I only pick up fragments of words. He really wants to communicate something to me. His eyes are serious and reflective and he holds me in place. As much as he wants to communicate, I want to know, and so I wait. He has a small shoulder bag on. He rummages about for a moment and pulls out a filofax. He opens it and flips through the pages. It’s full of notes, contacts, addresses, numbers. His life mapped out in this leatherbound repository. Although he doesn’t fully carry out the action, he enacts the process of tearing the pages in half, and throwing it away. As he does this he looks at me. A simple action, but the meaning of this goes straight to the heart. The mind somehow bypassed. It’s powerful. These few short moments stay with me for the rest of my life.

Transformative and transitory, this sublime night of music and visuals would appear to be drawing to a close. The DJ has one more treat for us. A new tune. Kicks off with a ticking grandfather clock. Then ethereal voices sneak in. Deep bassy analogue sounds swell up, and a haunting piano riff on a loop. This is Quintessentially ambient music but played incredibly loud, and in this room in a squatted venue full of activists, ravers, and artists, it has the rawness and energy of punk!

Part Three - Coming Down

The overhead fluorescent lights have been turned on leaving us nowhere to hide. We are in a delicate state, and not ready for the outside world just yet. Fortunately there is a space on the first floor where we can lie low a little longer.

As we enter through the draped doorway, the first thing we see is the DJ. Delivering up mellow tunes to ease the collective down. The sun is rising now and bathes the room in a warm hazy light. The tall windows throw a soft edged pattern across the tables and the floor. It’s busy with a discernible low murmur of voices. Small groups are seated around the tables. One or two individuals leaned back in their chairs, eyes closed. Serene and tranquil expressions. Others chat, highly motivated. Those that are able are sticking Rizla papers together, while others wait their turn. A buffer between the dizzy heights and a safe landing. There’s a large square serving hatch, and I can see people cooking hot food. In my current altered state watching this team at work, it seems nothing short of wizardry!. There’s a small queue, and as they pass out plates of food and steaming hot drinks I realise that I quite fancy a fry up. I’m gonna go for it. I turn to the others and ask if anyone fancies getting breakfast. Mark and Danny exchange a look, shaking their heads. Clearly not ready to think about food. Blake however is ready so he joins me. A large fried mushroom, beans, toast, and a hot mug of coffee.

“Oh, when the intro of Stella came in I was just like ahhhhhhh”

Mark is recounting his highlight moments. How to put it into words?. Mark spreads his hands. Open and facing down, they slowly rise to head height. This does a much better job of describing the experience. But apart from the odd exchange of words we are all a little overwhelmed with a mixture of emotions, thoughts, and feelings. Glances around the table confirm we’re all in different places right now. Then, a change in the atmosphere. I hear very naughty laughter coming from the corridor outside. I don’t know why, but I really want to see who it is. I tell the others I need the loo and head out there. I see Victor first. He’s one of the ones laughing, but he’s looking a bit sheepish and on the back foot. Across from Victor I see the woman who is having the exchange with him.

“It’s past your bedtime isn’t it!”

She’s teasing Victor with a mischievous look on her face. Alongside her, two men look on, giggling too, with an equally mischievous gaze. The men. At a guess, about my age. Seasoned in appearance, their hair sheared uber short. The woman is short with dreads and a colourful puffy bomber jacket. Victor is trying to hold his own, but clearly not with the confidence he was displaying earlier on. The woman turns to face me and I realise I am just standing there staring.

“Hello!”

Same mischievous look, her gaze is unwavering. After a few seconds I become a little uncomfortable and avert my eyes. They are not like anyone I’ve met up to that point. Eyes glistening, they appear to be lit from within. The woman has a presence and energy that fascinates me. Another older man approaches. Skinny. Bright red hair and jacket. He’s got a record bag slung over his shoulders. Guess he was DJ’ing downstairs at some point. Same look in the eyes, he forms a big smile and a large gold front inlay completes the picture.

The woman turns to him.

“We’d better get back to the bus”

The bus?

And the four of them are gone.

Eventually the Cooltan crew need to kick everyone out. It’s fair enough. They need to get the place cleaned up.

We step outside. Into the day light. People and traffic stream by. Literally. I’m almost seeing vapour trails in their wake. In a liminal space, I continue to embrace the feeling brought on by this past night, but thoughts of life at home and work on Monday start to creep in. We have one more opportunity to delay the inevitable though. There’s a small gathering of people outside. The grassy area inside the perimeter fence. A border between nation states of mind. Me, Blake and Danny choose to stay a little longer, but some of the others are ready to go. Mark wants to check out another club in town. A ‘post-club’ club if you will. Hugs exchanged between those parting and staying. The embrace held for a few seconds longer. Visibly, splitting up feels awkward for all. Someone’s cobbled together a small D.I.Y soundsystem. Two speakers on poles and an amp in a rack tucked under some plastic sheeting. It’s actually quite loud and some of the passers by look on with disdain. The atmospheric conditions seem to play with the sound and act like a natural filter. It almost seems to come and go, as though being served up on the breeze. Blake is starting to get talkative, and within a few minutes we are up to speed about how the sound system can be reconfigured to sound much better. He presents his findings to the guy manning the rig, who in fairness looks quite interested. Danny seems content to lie back and absorb the ambience. I am less at ease so attempt a little small talk. Danny looks visibly irritated by this so I abandon that idea.

Slowly the crowd starts thinning out. Homeward bound for sleep. Some already asleep on the grass. A man comes in from the street. A tinned beverage in his hand. Us being the last few still awake, he makes a beeline for us. He looks like he’s in his late forties or early fifties. Facially he’s unshaven and his opening smile reveals quite a few missing teeth. He’s got a leather jacket on that appears well lived-in, and a slightly flattened Mohican. Bypassing introductions, as though he already knows us, he launches into a stream-of-consciousness ramble. His voice is hoarse, and his words seem to slip and slide into each other. We are struggling to follow!. I clumsily attempt to pin labels on him. He has more dimensions though. Glassy eyed, he looks right at us and without inhibitions recounts local stories and folklore. Despite his outward appearance and distinctive voice there’s a tenderness to his face and manner. We are welcomed into his world. As long as we are willing to sit there and listen. He intimidates us a bit, but I’m drawn to him too. Along with the rugged charm he also has the ability to “talk the hind legs off a donkey”, so a good time to head off home.

We part company at the station and I am back on the Northern Line heading north. The atmosphere totally sober, and nothing like last night. I see out the rest of the journey behind closed lids. In a fragile state, I’ll need a few more days to absorb what just happened, and there are people I want to meet again. I am beginning to realise that it’s time to move on to pastures new. This has been a profound night in this crappy old dole house.

So, all these years later, how do I sum up that night? A seismic shift, or a barely registered movement of a needle?

Hmmm

Both I guess.