clubs, nightlife

Sin? O RLY?

Guest post

There’s a strong chance I am alone on this, but personally I like my rock venues to be shit scary. Dark basements you would only consider entering when recklessly drunk, on the tail end of a speed binge. I remember in my teenage years at the Brixton Fridge, watching a guy bleed all over a sink as he reset his broken nose and ran back out to mosh in front of Poison Ivy. I like my venues to double as gay bars on Tuesdays, so if you get the wrong day you’ll wind up having a very different experience. These things reassure me that rock is alive and pulsating with the hate and violence of our jilted generation.

Sin, located in the down market end of the West End is not such a place. I must be candid about the fact I do not know what they were playing downstairs. Perhaps you could ask the guy with more piercings than a smack addict, whose name was Harry and he worked in a Sussex architect’s office. It was certainly some shouty combination of drums and guitars, gravely vocals forced out of a middle class throat. I do remember the opening DJ was an extremely hot girl and then when I went back at 2am to ask for Rage Against the Machine the DJ had morphed into a man in drag. It did take me longer than it should for me to realise, but he was facing away from me and wearing a black wig. Really.

But I deviate. My point is about Harry, the man with a shitty face and a charming demeanour. Everyone wore black at this place. In much the same way as The Electric Showrooms, it is easy to feel like you are attending an international ‘I love the Crow’ convention. (I was only at the Camden Electric Ballrooms because I had got the venue confused with the Angel one. The website is confusing, I think deliberately in an attempt to dilute all the Crow fanatics).

No one at Sin scared me, I was by far and away the most unhinged person there. The dance floor was self conscious and no one could quite settle on quite how to rock out in the appropriate manner. People were having a good time, there were plenty of bull horn fists and long ‘Bodyform’ / Timotei hair. From what I could tell they were predominantly revelling in the thrill of being out of the chatroom and in the club, sharing their music without the hindrance of typing. No one intimidated me, which I found disappointing. Trodden toes responded with polite apologies. Newcastle Brown Ale was sold by the bottle, often associate with commercial suicide. A nice big bottle of fight juice you can smash in half when you get to the bottom.

My Dad tells me stories of Nottingham bars where Newcy Broon was served in draught. Outside on the street, the men fought on the right of the door and women fought on the left. The streets were busy on a Friday night. All I have to come back at him with is Harry and that makes me feel like a pussy. My father mocks me with his tales of ‘The Stones’. Of breaking in to Hendrix gigs, standing at the back of the upper balcony and still not being able to heae a person shouting directly into your ear. Let’s get back to basics. Go on Sin, go ahead, ‘Pick up the gun’.

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