Class of '88 Page 4

  We returned to the warehouse that night to start cleaning up in preparation for Chapter Three in a few days’ time. We could have paid somebody else to do it, but in those days for some reason promoters did everything themselves: from flyposting to cleaning.

  We were pinning some decorations to the warehouse ceiling when two policemen walked in. They asked if we were the organisers because they wanted to see some kind of document stating the building’s exact terms of use. Whenever we were in the building I would make sure I had the lease with me, and gave it to the officers. It said the owner was leasing the building to us for private music-business parties. Dibble wrote the details in their notebooks and left.

  We were lost for words, and stared at each other with huge grins. The police were giving us full permission to continue arranging dance parties. Don’t forget that these were times when party organisers would run a mile at the mere sight of the Old Bill. I was facing them head on by producing documentation of the fact that this event had the full blessing of the owner. There was nothing they could do, not that they wanted to stop it in the first place: they couldn’t give a shite what we were doing so long as it wasn’t dodgy.

  Most of the Old Bill hadn’t even heard of Ecstasy at this point. To older folk, we were a bunch of kids who were having parties in warehouses and not even drinking alcohol. The pubs and clubs gave them more trouble than we did. Once police had established that it was a legal, safe building and no alcohol was being sold, they’d give you the OK. Obviously it helped if you conducted yourself in a professional manner, maybe even claiming that you represented a major entertainment company. The authorities’ main concern back then was the safety and fire regulations. Once they were checked and passed, you avoided the hassle of being harassed by the police and fire department. If you were sensible you’d make sure the venue was safe, clean and not derelict, which would enforce the general belief that they were legal venues.

  Our venue was now almost ready for our next party, and we were running around like lunatics. Genesis was becoming the talk of London. Now we could print 500 flyers with the actual venue address rather than a meeting point. Most people knew where it was by this time anyway, and now that the Old Bill had seen our brief we could be as bold as brass.

  The Christmas period had been chaotic, to say the least, and now we were about to organise our third party in a matter of days on Boxing Day. We’d slogged our guts out through the festive season and so far it had been worth every minute. The door receipts were better than expected and we had become a clubland name.

  We’d never thought about how many people would turn up. We wanted to stage the best gig, but having the biggest parties didn’t enter our heads. To have 900 people show was more than we could ever have asked for. As far as we were concerned, things could only get better.

  In the blink of an eye, Boxing Day was upon us and it was time to get busy. At 9 p.m. a large queue was forming outside, and we weren’t even open for another hour. Our lighting man was having trouble with the electric mains through some technical problem I didn’t understand. About 300 people were lined up outside in the cold winter air and although we hadn’t fixed our electrical problem we decided to let them in. The first 100 were let in free as a gesture of goodwill. Candles flickered around the warehouse as the technicians went through their fault-finding process.

  It took an hour before lights and sound system were restored, which was met by a roar of applause. The first track on the decks was ‘Can You Feel It?’ by Fingers Inc., which got everyone straight in the mood and hands went immediately into the air. Before we knew it, 2,000 thrill-seekers were absolutely going for it. We were caught completely by surprise as again we only had four doormen.

  The drinks stocks wouldn’t last for long, so four different vans were sent out to find more supplies. Luckily, the vans came back half-filled and we didn’t run out of drinks the whole night. The drivers told how they had walked into 7–11 and bought every drink in the building. We didn’t get any discount and paid retail price, leaving all the other customers with nothing to drink!

  The party was peaking and the DJ was playing an electric set. I got introduced to quite a few celebrities that night, including Matt Dillon, Milli Vanilli, Boy George and Derek B. I also met some of the West End’s biggest club owners, who in their own words had ‘come to see what all the fuss was about.’ They’d come to see where their punters had disappeared to and were gutted to find they’d lost them to a party in an old warehouse on a backstreet in east London. Yet we weren’t intentionally stepping on any toes because we were miles from any of the clubs in the area. In any case, this was a different concept to all the other clubs, which were basically still discos.

  One of the perks of being a promoter was the fact we were on every club and concert guest list in the country. We could bring as many people with us as we wanted, and get a free bottle of champagne thrown in. You’d walk into a club and get five different wraps of charlie put in your hand by dealers who wanted to be on our guest list. You’d have a trail of women from the door to the bar and then no one would let you buy a single drink.

  These were hangers-on: women would let us use and abuse them just to be in the company of well-known party promoters. It was a two-way thing: we’d let them hang out with us if they let us live out some schoolboy fantasy. The girls would keep us entertained for days after the parties; we used to grab a few from our party and take them home with us. While other people went to early-morning post-party parties at clubs and bars, we had our own private drug-and-sex orgy: a couple of mates and a motor full of beautiful chicks.

  Tony from Sunrise came to see us that day and asked if we’d made our mind up about co-promoting the New Year’s Eve party five days later. Even though we could get 2,000 people on our own, the warehouse was still only partially filled. I knew joining with Sunrise would be a positive move and beneficial to us all. We were the biggest promoters in the east of London, and they were the biggest in the west. If we worked together it was possible to capture the whole market and produce the best and biggest events in England.

  Our decision was yes, so we immediately began planning the night ahead. We made up some photocopied flyers because there wasn’t time for printers to make any original ones. This time, our aim was to stage the biggest Acid House party the world had ever seen.

  GENESIS SUNSET CHAPTER THREE: THE FUTURE IS NOW

  At 8 p.m. on a cold New Year’s Eve we were standing outside the warehouse in deep discussion with a police chief about the event scheduled for later that night. Tony Colston-Hayter and myself were trying to convince the officer this was a genuine music-business showcase for invited guests only.

  The inspector insisted on looking around the large warehouse for fire risks or anything else that could be viewed as dangerous. The interior of the warehouse had already been transformed into a full-scale twilight zone. Giant stage props were strategically placed around the venue and we’d hired lighting and sound companies to supply the equipment and co-design the finished effects. The venue and operation team looked very professionally coordinated and the security wore penguin suits and communicated via radio.

  Some local Del Boy had sold us a van filled with fire extinguishers, illuminated exit signs and crash barriers. We made sure fire regulations were implemented and anything flammable was removed or sprayed with fire-resistant chemicals. Little did the chief know we’d only started decorating earlier that day. Although the interior couldn’t be faulted, he still wasn’t happy about letting the event take place.

  We insisted on our legal rights to be on the property with the landlord’s full blessing and showed our documentation. In fact we were quite within our rights to ask him to leave the building and only return with a court order or warrant. We told Dibble we had 1,000 especially invited guests from the world’s music industry, ranging from celebrities to major record company MDs. Stepping on our toes could lead to massive law suits and huge compensation fines.

  Th
e discussion between ourselves and the officer was conducted in a courteous manner. We knew our legal rights and had full confidence in our presentation. An icy wind ripped through our cotton suits and my hands were frozen to the clipboard I held tight to my body. Our blag involved moody celebrity guest lists, band schedules and other false info. Our adrenaline was flowing.

  After 45 minutes of us giving out the biggest load of bullshit you’ve ever heard, the chief decided to bring in a fire inspector to make the final decision. The station was ten minutes away so we hoped the inspector would hurry to get here: in less than two hours this street and the surrounding area would be invaded by outsiders.

  I walked back into the warehouse, giving Tony a sly signal to keep the copper just where he was. Shit! I had thunderbolts ripping through my stomach! I’d just remembered that after our Christmas Eve party, due to our rush to get home for Christmas dinner, we’d swept and left thousands of plastic bottles, cans and general rubbish on the fire escape at the back of the warehouse.

  I broke out into an instant sweat. All our hard work could be on the verge of being fucked. I called out to the security team and told them a fire chief was on his way and the cans had to be cleared from the fire escapes. They sprang into immediate action, grabbing anything that could scoop the rubbish up. We slammed out through one of the fire doors and nearly passed out.

  A mass of cans and bottles lay before us, knee-deep. We started throwing the cans into bags and over the wall. We formed a line and frantically cleaned the surrounding area of any obstacles. Each of us got dirty and sticky from all the shit that poured out of the rubbish. Amazingly, in only 30 minutes we’d almost finished.

  I decided to see what was happening out front. Tony was still engrossed in conversation with the officer on the merits of what we were doing. However, the chief didn’t want the responsibility of a thousand party revellers congregating on his manor. It was stalemate.

  We were expecting a huge turn-out that night so we’d hired a professional security team. A good friend of mine named Ed, who had been a marine for most of his life, had told me he knew some mean, highly trained motherfuckers who had gone AWOL from the army. They had been in the special services for more than ten years before deciding to establish an international agency of their own. The geezers lived on the outskirts of London and spent most of their time abroad. They all had their own special skills, learnt in the paratroopers, navy or whatever infantry divisions they had signed up to. The men were very disciplined, worked really well together and were gentle but firm.

  We paid them £1,500 for a team of fifteen, with a further ten members as back-up if required. This was a lot more money than we would have paid a pub or club doorman, who usually earned between £30 and £50 a night. But these guys were worth every penny. They’d been shot at, fought behind enemy lines, and had come back telling jokes about the things they’d done.

  Tony brought his own team of six who were also from out of London and they treated the event like a military operation. The governor justified the high fee by telling us his men would stand firm against anything, even if a shooter was stuck in their mush. No one would be leaving the building with any money belonging to us.

  Being robbed was our main concern because, in a lot of interested people’s eyes, we were making dodgy money. We weren’t regarded as an entertainment company staging extravagant special events. To blaggers, robbing us could be easier than doing a bank and there could even be more dosh involved. It was very important for us to have the right team around us: geezers who wouldn’t bottle it if they were faced with armed robbers.

  Anyway, I looked back down the dark street and spotted a tall thin man walking along the road with his head down. The policeman happily announced the arrival of the fire chief and walked towards him, closely followed by us.

  ‘They’re planning some kind of party,’ the Old Bill said. ‘We don’t want it and I’m sure it’s not safe. Have a look. It’s down to you.’

  The fireman didn’t look very happy at the fact that he’d had to break away from the festivities back at the station. I looked at him and thought we had no chance. He was in his late forties, grey hair, stone-cold Cockney accent, and looked bloody efficient. He’d given Dibble a boost to say the least.

  By this time my thoughts were going ballistic. Why us? Why now? I wondered if the fire guy was prepared to take a bribe, as I told him all about the strict fire regulations at our events. Our illuminated EXIT signs were clearly visible, as was our variety of stolen fire-extinguishers. So we all entered the warehouse, where our lighting technicians were running through their routines.

  You can’t even imagine how I felt as I watched these two middle-aged blokes, who had no understanding of our culture and the kind of event we were trying to stage, deciding whether our party could go on. I could hardly believe my ears when the fire chief turned to the Old Bill and said, ‘Everything seems fine to me. As far as I’m concerned they can have their party.’

  We felt like crying! Our whole mind, body and soul was in this event and the police and fire department had given us a green light to print money and change the future! I would quite happily have given them five grand each. All they would have had to do was drop me the slightest of hints and it would have been theirs.

  On this particular night, we had decided to open another part of the warehouse which was a third of the size of the main room, and connected to it by a short tunnel. We put three inflatable bouncy castles and some fan lights into the chamber, then added another sound system with double decks.

  The large room itself had our command centre in the corner. Lined up on a long table were all the phones, about ten in all, which would ring constantly until 6 a.m. People would be calling from all over the country to find out exactly where the venue was located and if the party was still on. This was part of the excitement: finding your way to a warehouse party was almost as good as actually being there.

  At 10 p.m. a 500-strong gathering of the happiest, most excited thrill-seekers you could ever lay your eyes on cheered and clapped as we officially announced the gig open. On the stroke of midnight a thousand E’d-up party animals held their hands in the air and sang Joe Smooth’s anthem ‘Promised Land’. Picture this: a huge art deco warehouse; thousands of ecstatic people, most of whom were experiencing their first Ecstasy tabs (Calies) and parties. We danced and sang at the top of our voices: ‘Brothers, sisters, one day we will be free, from trouble and violence, people fighting in the street.’ We sang the song word for word. Wow, what a russsshh. I wanted it to last for ever! We’d booked some really talented DJs, including Terry Farley, Tony Wilson, Eddie Richards, Fat Tony, Phil and Ben, and Colin Hudd. The building was old and had seen better days and this made it a security coordinator’s worst nightmare. The floor we intended to use was in good shape, but there were three other floors, all with broken doors and windows. The ground floor windows were covered with heavy-duty backdrops, and the main staircase from the first level down was blocked off with hundreds of used car tyres. There was no lighting on the fire escape out back or above ground level and the restricted areas were cornered off and in total darkness.

  We were in our command centre counting the loot when a call on the walkie-talkie informed us the building was under siege by hundreds of people hellbent on bunking in! They were trying to gain entrance by any means necessary, including violence. Our security was stretched to the max and struggled to regain control of the fire escape, where a group of geezers were throwing bricks and rubble at them. It was pitch-black out there. We brought our guys inside to man the exit doors and sent out a call for reinforcements. Our home-made tyre barricade on the first floor was trashed, and twenty-odd geezers were taunting the doorman from the upper level. Some people on the fire escape made unsuccessful attempts to cut through our backdrops with knives and broken glass. An arsenal of weapons was brought into the office to protect us and the cash.

  It didn’t take long for the back-up team to arrive, and cont
rol was quickly restored and the building fully secured, without any casualties. Then my mates from down the pub in Hackney turned up in fancy-dress costumes, shouting ‘Aceeed!’ I couldn’t believe it: Crimble, Blond, Short, Scarfee, Lloyd, Scrap Iron and Buff running around introducing themselves to everyone! Here was first-hand evidence that Ecstasy enhanced happy feelings towards others! These guys were ex-blaggers who loved a punch-up and only weeks ago told me they’d attack anyone who hugged them, and here they were hugging anyone who walked by. Not only that: they were dancing! These geezers had never danced anywhere before! But this was a dramatic transformation I was happy to witness.

  The same change was taking place simultaneously across London and the Home Counties and up north. Before long, the whole country was projecting love and harmony on the dance floor, at home and at work. There was so much energy in the warehouse that I think, if you really concentrated and had meditation experience, you could levitate purely on the vibe. I know it sounds like bollocks and one of those mad thoughts you get while you’re buzzing, but I have to admit that I did try it!

  Sadly our party had to end at 10 a.m., although there were still hundreds of enthusiastic punters desperately clinging on to the vibe. We thanked them all for turning up, then kicked them out. The money had already been divided between me and Tony and secured in separate safe houses nearby. The security team wasn’t really needed so we sent them home, which left six people in the building. Keith, Tony, KP and I were in the back office counting what was left of the pound coins taken at the bar. There must have been three grand in ten-pound stacks on the table. We heard the sound of voices in the corridor outside and Keith and KP went to investigate, thinking it could be the Old Bill.

  I heard them saying the area was out of bounds, but an agitated voice said they were looking for the promoters. I grabbed an iron bar from the table and told Tony to get security on the mobile. The office door crashed open and a tall skinny geezer came charging into the tiny narrow room. I whacked him hard and he fell to the ground. Tony was wrestling with a second intruder and I whacked him in the nut as well for good measure.