Two London clubs currently appear to be under threat. The Ministry of Sound, one of the most successful brands in club music's history, is kicking up a fuss because new housing block planned opposite it may make it vulnerable to noise complaints. Meanwhile, rumours have flown around over the last 48 hours that police are lobbying Hackney Council against Plastic People in Shoreditch whose licence is currently under review for reasons of “prevention of crime and disorder and public nuisance basis”.
It's funny that these two have become news at the same time, as you could not find two more opposite poles within clubland. Plastic People – recently immortalised in a track and stunning DJ mix by Four Tet – is a haven, a place for people who don't so much “go out” as feel at home within clubs. It is a small, unpretentious dark basement with a stupendous, beautifully tuned soundsystem, and a DJ booth which is practically part of the dancefloor. It is the hub for the collisions of black, white and other music that have defined the underground sound of London over the past decade, and its contribution to the vibrancy of this country's music cannot be overestimated. Electronic musicians and connoisseur DJs around the world sing its praises, and the passion for the place in the Facebook and Twitter traffic that has been bubbling around its potential closure is palpable.
The labyrinthine Ministry also prides itself on its soundsystem, but the similarity ends there. The place is, not to put too fine a point on it, a hellhole. Founded by mate-of-Mandelson James Palumbo, it was the sine qua non of mid-1990s shackling of the acid house explosion within the exploitative confines of the “superclub”, all pretence of democracy subjugated to superstar DJs and VIP rooms within VIP rooms. It's played host to great DJs in its time, but it has never had one iota of innovation about its booking policies, and is ultimately all about milking maximum profit from lowest-common-denominator dance music and crowds.
Palumbo may self-righteously trumpet his single-handed defeat of South London's gangsters and drug dealers, but the metal detectors on the doors and a recent fatal shooting in the club's queue speak volumes about the “vibe” of the place, and it's as likely as any other club in town to be packed with bovine casualties with papier maché for brains.
Plastic People, on the other hand, while it may suffer occasionally from the cliqueishness of any small venue, is the constituency of a switched-on, diverse crowd, and as such is fundamentally unthreatening – indeed its renowned FWD>> night was a pioneer in showing that grime MCs from London's most notorious estates could perform without crowd trouble. Without even getting into the question of the gentrification of Shoreditch, it seems bizarre to say the least if it is being persecuted as is being suggested.
It is grimly ironic, then, that Plastic People appears to be threatened by the police, while the Ministry finds its source of peril to be affordable housing being built on its doorstep. And how ironic, too, that the iconic Ministry may be national news (thanks, one suspects, to the Ministry's press people) but rouses little real passion, while the tiny, underground Plastic People has already provoked spontaneous waves of disbelief and defiance amongst the people who have sampled its unique showcasing of the greatest music London and the world have to offer.
The labyrinthine Ministry also prides itself on its soundsystem, but the similarity ends there. The place is, not to put too fine a point on it, a hellhole. Founded by mate-of-Mandelson James Palumbo, it was the sine qua non of mid-1990s shackling of the acid house explosion within the exploitative confines of the “superclub”, all pretence of democracy subjugated to superstar DJs and VIP rooms within VIP rooms. It's played host to great DJs in its time, but it has never had one iota of innovation about its booking policies, and is ultimately all about milking maximum profit from lowest-common-denominator dance music and crowds.Palumbo may self-righteously trumpet his single-handed defeat of South London's gangsters and drug dealers, but the metal detectors on the doors and a recent fatal shooting in the club's queue speak volumes about the “vibe” of the place, and it's as likely as any other club in town to be packed with bovine casualties with papier maché for brains.
Plastic People, on the other hand, while it may suffer occasionally from the cliqueishness of any small venue, is the constituency of a switched-on, diverse crowd, and as such is fundamentally unthreatening – indeed its renowned FWD>> night was a pioneer in showing that grime MCs from London's most notorious estates could perform without crowd trouble. Without even getting into the question of the gentrification of Shoreditch, it seems bizarre to say the least if it is being persecuted as is being suggested.
It is grimly ironic, then, that Plastic People appears to be threatened by the police, while the Ministry finds its source of peril to be affordable housing being built on its doorstep. And how ironic, too, that the iconic Ministry may be national news (thanks, one suspects, to the Ministry's press people) but rouses little real passion, while the tiny, underground Plastic People has already provoked spontaneous waves of disbelief and defiance amongst the people who have sampled its unique showcasing of the greatest music London and the world have to offer.
- UPDATE: here is an excellent blog on Plastic People's place in the Shoreditch ecosystem by a DJ and regular of Plastic People
