I went raving in a fish and chip shop with Superstar DJ Eats Everything
What a venue
When I think of the backdrop to the kind of night to tell the grandchildren about in hushed tones, with a gently crackling fireplace warming your arthritic fingers and a Werthers Original perched on the tongue, a chippy on the outskirts of Weston-Super-Mare might not be the location that springs to mind.
However, when Eats Everything and co. descended upon it, it felt like stumbling into another world.
Eats Everything was kind of enough to let me get the bus down to Weston with him and his mates, and put me on the guest list for the Hot Creations set at Motion after. The coach down was reminiscent of a fucking rowdy school bus, only loaded with Belvedere champagne instead of the regulation Calypso orange juice boxes, with Eats Everything absolutely roasting the shit out of his friends and just generally being hilarious.
I don’t think I’m at liberty to repeat some of the jokes or relay to you some of the antics that occurred on that bus, but it was pretty fucking wild.
Once proceedings had begun, there was a palpable sense of community. The kind that is oft romanticised by crusty forty somethings who haven’t washed since they saw Mike Pickering that one time, and who seem now to solely exist to talk about the strength of pingers in the 80’s in Vice documentaries.
There was none of the River Island last summer collection, super skinny H&M black jeans, top knot-resembling-a-leek-poorly-Sellotaped-to-scalp squad in sight. Just a universal acknowledgement amongst the partygoers that the music was king here, and the absence of people skulking about the perimeter of the floor searching for an unfulfilling tongue lashing made the night feel that much better.
The quirky, intimate setting didn’t deter some of the fucking gremlins that had made their way down. The “sesh” was well represented, and the crowd looked as mashed as the stray chips that had fallen to the floor, which was good to see.
I decided to get stuck in and go full on front row twat, getting in the obnoxiously loud four on the floor claps, neck damaging head bobs and peppering the air with military grade bursts of fire from my permanently aloft finger gun. Before I knew it, questionable phrases such as “that is naughty”, “fucking cheeky”, and the simple, yet elegant “oiiiiiiiii” were tumbling out of my cider filled mouth at astonishing speed.
Such was my enjoyment that I got dangerously close to genuinely using the word “spiritual” to describe the proceedings. Thankfully, I’m not that much of a cunt (though I’m sure many, Eats Everything included, would probably beg to differ).
The set itself was beautifully capricious, with 125bpm tech house shufflers rubbing shoulders with disco classics and even a sly drop of Estelle’s “American Boy”. Eats was flicking the faders with disgusting amounts of nonchalance, and was somehow able to perform feats of absolute wizardry upon the CDJs whilst simultaneously miming an act of aggressive fellatio towards his mates, and pouring out what can only be described as “very generous” glasses of that teeth crumbling grade West Country cider for the entirety of the front row like a fucking boss.
Motion was just as good. Eats had brought the lazers and the dirtiest of tech house with him to everyone’s favourite MDMA storage facility. The floor was enveloped in a canopy of neon beams, and both the VIP crew and the ketty ravers heaving on the floor below fucking appreciated it. As with any good night, 90% of the jaws on show were swinging like pendulums that had done six lines of speed.
To tip an already surreal night into dreamland manifest, Eats recognised me and sent down a bottle of Grey Goose from the decks and told me to let everyone have a swig. I then bumped into Richy Ahmed (another hero of mine) sipping a pint backstage prior to his set.
He graciously responded as I attempted to interrogate him about how he EQ’d his kick drums and requested him to play “The Drums” and “some of that new Jamie Jones shit” like he was one of those sad, folorn creatures who haunt the DJ booths at Pryzm, perpetually taking requests for “Drunk in Love” from wasted white girls whilst slowly realising that the Martinez Bros are never going to respond to their promo. To his credit, I’m pretty sure he did play some Jamie Jones – cheers for that Richy.
Sprawled in the backseat of my Uber, feeling (and probably looking) as shit as Richie Hawtin’s trim, I remember thinking, my head still clogged with kick drums, that was probably the best night of my life. And writing this now, sober, as wet as it sounds, I know that it was definitely the best night of my life.