A CASE OF ACID INDIGESTION
Chris Burkham joins a
wild-goose chase for a weekend rave
IT IS one o'clock on Saturday-night- Sunday-morning and Clapham Common is damp and mild. It could be the rush-hour though, there are cars everywhere parked along the kerbs, stopped in the middle of roads, jammed together in the side streets and slowly circling the green. A Dutch television crew is trying to make some sense out of it as they interview a selection of teenagers kitted out in uni- formly baggy and multicoloured clothes. Just beyond the pool of television attention hundreds of figures mill about in the darkness, chatting, questioning and wait- ing. Portable phones are held to ears, huddles form round the payphones. One voice of dissent is heard: 'That's it man, I've had enough of this.' Then suddenly the interviewees are off, off to their cars and vans and off into the night. Where to? And why are they here in the first place?
The tabloids call it 'Acid House', although no one else does. The teenagers in the convoy that snakes away from Clapham Common, heading somewhere even though no one's quite sure where, are in search of this weekend's 'rave'. They have already bought their tickets from an organisation called Biology, and the adver- tising has promised that this will be the first `million pound rave'. This does not refer to the amount of money spent on the enter- tainment, but to the fact that Biology had hoped to sell 40,000 tickets at £25 each. A few years ago these gatherings were known as E-Parties, the 'E.' referring to the drug ecstasy and also rhyming with illegal. In an attempt to avoid the tiresome necessity of obtaining an entertainments licence, Biolo- gy state on their tickets that the tickets are not tickets. They are 'invitations' to 'the largest birthday party ever held'. The only problem at 1.30 in the morning is that no one knows where the 'birthday party' is. There are a variety of telephone numbers to phone, and the answerphone at the other end promises that the location will be announced after midnight. That was one and a half hours ago and the convoy, reacting to a series of Chinese Whispers, is heading for Farnham in Surrey.
But where are the other 38,000 people? They could possibly be converging from all parts of the country as tickets have been on sale as far away as Manchester. There is a problem with this particular rave though. Usually these events attract a primarily white, young suburban audience who en- joy submerging themselves in a mass of like-minded bodies while the disc jockeys play a succession of mainly synthesised records known broadly as 'house'.
Tonight, though, Biology have put together a bill primarily made up of hip- hop acts — the most famous, or the most notorious of which are Public Enemy from America. To the uninitiated (or the unin- terested) both forms of music may sound equally monotonous, but the main differ- ence is that hip-hop has a more rugged sound and tends to attract a black audi- ence. One disc jockey, who questioned Biology's ability to sell 40,000 tickets, pointed out that 'tens of thousands of suburban E-heads will not want to be confronted by a few thousand inner-city black boys'.
In the meantime, while the convoy has reached Guildford and come to a halt, Public Enemy and the other acts are kicking their heels in the lounge of the Park Lane Intercontinental and munching on McDonalds. No one knows what is going on. In Guildford the police, with surprising good humour, monitor the cars jamming the town while leaflets advertis- ing future raves are pushed through car windows. It is 2.30 in the morning and the answerphone announces: 'Biology is de- finitely on. Please call back after midnight for the location.'
The next problem (there are a lot of problems tonight) is that Jarvis Sandy and the rest of Biology Entertainments are still negotiating with the police in a last-ditch attempt to ensure that the event goes ahead. We are now in the murky area of claim and counter-claim. The negotiations are described as 'intense', the police are `panic stricken'; it looks extremely unlikely that anything is going to take place tonight. Another problem is created by the sense that there is a clampdown taking place against all raves of this nature. The pre- vious evening Operation Tiger had re- sulted in a raid on a club in East London and the closure of a pirate radio station known for advertising each weekend's entertainment. The radio station is one of half a dozen operating in London, playing a variety of dance music. Their disc jockeys favour a fractured speech pattern and cryptic messages: 'Strawberry milk- shake... if you're out there... page us man... it'll be worth your while... you know that.'
The convoy still knows nothing. Each handful of party-goers is sealed in their car, each creating their own party on the move and seldom connecting with their fellow travellers. As they meander aimlessly across the home counties the only contact, the only conversation between vehicles consists of: 'Where to now?' Has anyone heard?' And the answer (apart from glassy- eyed stares) consists of shrugs and smiles, and arms pointing ahead. Somewhere. So ignitions are ignited and tapes are turned up on car stereos.
Unfortunately the convoy cannot pick up the remaining pirate stations in the middle of Surrey in the middle of the night. If they could they might hear an announce- ment postponing Biology, or they may hear that tickets are available and on sale at a reduced price outside the London Dungeons. So the convoy moves on through the slow drizzle once again. They have got one chance left. The first meeting- point was Clapham Common; the second was the Happy Eater on the A3, but that has been sealed off by the police; that leaves the Fleet service station on the M3.
The mileage is adding up, almost 100 miles so far and no one is any closer to the destination, or any wiser as to its whereab- outs. This is by no means a cheap night out; while the convoy zig-zags across Sur- rey a lot of money is being made. Vans have been hired for the night; petrol tanks have to be filled; tickets have been bought; drugs have been bought and consumed; the 38p-a-minute phone lines have to be di- alled; the police are on overtime; and some people even go so far as to buy themselves something to eat, although no one can get anything to eat at the Fleet service station.
So the realisation dawns (with dawn itself not too far away) that the rave is off. Not cancelled, Biology says, just post- poned. There were too many problems for them, they wanted the police to help, to make it safe, but they heard that there were riot police waiting to move in if they went ahead. 'Sensationalism', retorts a Field Intelligence Officer from Hertford- shire — although the party was to have taken place in Hampshire. As it turns out the party spirit evaporated at five in the morning just off the M3. Next time (even though they claim to have lost £100K) it will be 'bigger and better', the same tickets will be valid and there will be the added attraction of a hip-hot act called Niggers with Attitude — their best known song is called 'Fuck, Fuck, Fuck tha Police'. See you there?
Previous page
