More after the jump…

And the obligatory 4:30 am video; sunrise was not a particularly welcome thing inside the club, though most of us did slacken the pace of dancing a little to have a look.

Get involved with the ETA scene, anyway; particularly strong tunes…the remix of Sister Nancy – Bam Bamat the start of the night blew my mind,

And Blackalicious’s Alphabet Aerobics getting dropped at approximately 6am could have been made for me…

You’ll also ge tthe chance to see international rugby stars consuming small mountains of controlled substances and, potentially, at least one of the Irregulars dancing like Suggs for 5 hours solid. Win!

The ‘Pearlies’ have been part of London life since 1875; young Henry Croft, uh, came across a large colleciton of mother-of-pearl buttons (the stories are confused, at least according to wikipedia). He was a costermonger (street vendor) and they gave some added vibe to their suits with mother ofpearl buttons. With his hoard, Henry Croft pimped his suit as much as feasible:

There’s a Pearly King and Queen for each of the boroughs of London, as well as for the City and Westminster. These days, they mainly do stuff for charity, go to Jools Holland’s Hootenanny for NYE each year, and pimp around the east end. Read more about them on their ’site.

The London Astoria is no longer. London’s best gig venue closed its doors late last week after years of “will they? won’t they? Oh just fucking shit or get of the fucking pot”.  It will be felled and replaced by a new over-priced and 20 years too late transport link, and in a typically retarded TFL style, the place didn’t even get to party into oblivion on it’s final night standing due to a mix-up in dates on when the ‘dozers were booked to roll in.

After a truly appalling line up was cobbled together for Wednesday’s Demolition Ball (the last ever event in the main gig venue) hopes were higher for Thursday, which represented last orders in the awesome subterranean Astoria 2 . The highly-rated indie bopper night PUSH took up opportunity to have one last dance before moving to a new regular venue. Anticipation of a nostalgia night filled with revellers wanting to see the old girl off in style and bemoan the failed efforts to save the venue in equal measure was dispelled with the evening quickly descending into an indie pop culture farce. The DJ policy was lacking any hint of respect – blending Dr Dre’s worst pop drivel (California Love) with classics from the Clash, Pulp and suitable new and old luminaries.  “Not Happy” was the call from the back of the room. Even the live elements were disappointing. Cajun Dance Party made their tuneful and usually hope-filled repertoire sound lacklustre with the front man fully immersed in his self indulgent X-Factor style Robert Smith impersonation which was obviously making the rest of the band feel like a gaggle of stage cunts. Good Shoes should have saved the night, but an over-crowded, highly-charged stage bar meant the band had to battle thorough their own failing new material against the backdrop of a non-informed student crowd trying to physically over power them resulting in a poor set with only the occasional highlight of the band’s immense debut material.

[See post to listen to audio]

Maybe it was all for the best that the last show was a fall from grace for a problematic old friend whose fate is already decided. It wasn’t a night that will live long in the memory, and now the appreciation of truly great gigs at the fabled venue is stronger and will be stuff of legend. R.I.P

As we said in our article last year on the death of Shoreditch, we anticipated a move away from the environs of Old Street etc and the clubs that now seem less ‘cooler than thou’ and more ‘only marginally cooler than Slough’. We envisaged the hedonista movement branching further into Hackney, Dalston and beyond and the less eccentric crowd heading down towards London Bridge and returning to Islington. Much of this has happened, with the growing clammer to get onto the 149 being testament to Dalston’s rise to prominence amongst the “n’e'r do wells” of the Capital.

Read on for the roadmap of Dalston hangouts.

This review fits kindly into the format of the matrimonial ditty “something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue”. Dalston Jazz Bar is indeed the wise old head of the Dalston scene, having kept the oddities that wish to be out until 6am well lubricated for as long as I can remember. Now for something new. Efes Snooker Hall will be hosting an warehouse-style rave to mark NYE, Florence & The Machine are doing a DJ set, the flyer sound like someone has scatter-gunned the genres from 1970s to now to derive the line-up. My advice would be to wear your best underwear just in case you don’t come out the other side…

Now the first time I went to our next featured bar, I assumed I had stumbled across a 1980s porn reunion. It was wall-to-wall with hairy-lipped Lotharios; bushy ones, long ones, curly ones and clearly some borrowed ones unless I missed a pandemic of excess hair growth amongst hot arty chicks. The Moustache Bar is a tight, basement venue which is popular with a flamboyant crowd, if you’re the cool kid from accounts, maybe give this one a miss.

Finally something blue, well at least I think it’s blue. Something there was definitely blue, either that or I was visually challenged through my exploits in Holloway before heading to this place. Visions Video Bar is another basement bar who’s spiritual possession of this former film stockist just feels kinda right in a kitsch way.

The beauty of Dalston junction is that if you go down Kingsland Road you’re in Shoreditch, if you go up Kingsland Road you’re in good ol’ Stokey…if you go East you’re in Hackney Central and West you’re in Essex Road/Islington. That puts Dalston firmly in the centre of the North East London nightlife compass for me. Also as noted in our earlier piece on ‘free buses’ in London, Dalston and it’s surrounding areas are serviced joyfully by a bevvy of bendy buses for the thrify/risk-seeking amongst you.

Oh yeah, and Simian Mobile Disco are rocking up as well. If you haven’t already got a ticket, get one because I guarantee you’ll be dancing all day and night finding “your new favourite track” on an hourly basis. Here’s one to get you started:

[See post to listen to audio]

If you can’t make it today, here’s Skull Juice latest radio installment which puts you half way towards having your own little house party.

[See post to listen to audio]

Away from the DJ side of things, there are some interesting acts playing. Regular readers will know that Mystery Jets and Laura Marling are firm favourites of ours, so it’ll be good to see them again. The NME hype machine will be in full flow as Lightspeed Champion, Foals and Wild Beasts roll into town, if I’m honest, none of which do a great deal for me (aside from Foals – French Open). By the time Rob Da Bank takes the stage at 7pm, there will still be 12 hours of partying to be had considering the afterparty ends at 7am at the End! Expect to bump into characters like this…

If the sun comes out, I predict Of Montreal will have an epic set with their unique brand of camp experimental rock.

As a sucker for a generous helping of scuzzy guitar, my one to watch is New York rockers Les Savy Fav and ask yourself; what would wolves do?

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’.

Cowards die many times before their death

Shoreditch hasn’t always been packed full of languishing artistes, whining musicians and general “cooler than thou” fuck tools. Some of it’s famous former residents include Jeremy Beadle (RIP), Barbara Windsor (watch the infamous Carry on Camping scene here) and none other than William Shakespeare. In fact, if the Bard was still around today he’d pretty much be the next door neighbour of the Irregulars and we would no doubt be big buddies, pulling all nighters dancing to victorian electro mash ups.

As a hat-tip to the ruff-sporting maestro, a number of performance are planned at the Old Blue Last this month. Drop by on either 2,9, 16, 23 or 30 August to be immersed in some wordsmithery which will far surpass the usual sub-normal lyrics that spew out the mouths of the bands who normally take to the stage at this venue. Check out some tickets here. If you fancy a quick read of some of his handiwork, the complete works can be found here.

No doubt the fashionistas of Shoreditch will shortly be sporting this tasty little number…

Spotted down in the Shad Thames area (south side of tower bridge). No idea who the artist is, but I like it.

To recant some epic scenester fail we heard on the way to Today is Boring last night, we overheard this statement:

Failing Scenester dude: Yeah I know how the Sunday night vibe goes down, Secret Sundaze, Brick Lane (languishing scenester looks over the road to Herbal) and er, Herbal.

Us: Fail. Although two outta three ain’t bad.

As regular readers will know, we’re fans of the occasional blip and beep and fellow Shoreditch residents will know that if you can’t deal with a bit of minimal house, fidget, techno and the like then you might as well stay in and watch Britain’s Got Talent.

Last year you may remember it was electro of a Parisian flavour via Sebastian, Kavinsky (and most things coming out of Kitsune come to think of it) that had us bouncing around like bunnies but since they denied us a response on Myspace, they are officially dead to us.

Now, there seems to be lots of hype swelling around the WYS vibe, and along those lines, we tip our hat to Peter Pixzel , who is often in situ behind the 1s and 2s, churning out tasty strands of ocassionally 8-bit infused tracks for party robots and night time ghouls at the Wet Yourself! sessions. To see him in action, check this Youtube video or conversely, you could get your lazy asses to Field Day to see him in the flesh alongside the glitterati that is the painfully cool line-up for the East End festival.

Check out the track below and remember to take your speedos if you do rock up at Aquarium to catch his shit.