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I feel love. I feel it every time I walk through these doors. I lost myself here almost a decade ago, and things have never been the same since. Has it really been ten years? It seems a lot longer. It seems like yesterday.
It was the summer of 1995 when The Unabombers first detonated their underground bomb, The Electric Chair, in a sweaty basement below the pavements of Manchester. In the decade since it’s become the worst kept secret in the world of clubbing. A mystic brew of house, disco, hip-hop, broken beat, Latin, R&B, techno and northern sulphuric soul. The heart of Mancunia, a fabled land where everyone parties as one - strangers and soul mates, straights and gays, north and south, students and scallies. Anyone can open a club. Not everyone can open hearts and minds.
The chair outgrew its original home and moved onto a bigger basement club, The Music Box, but somehow the tricky alchemists Luke and Justin Unabomber retained the chemistry and the vibe. Over the years, I’ve had the time of my life with the best bunch of friends there, and woken up not being able to remember a thing. I’ve also danced all night on my own and remembered every minute.
I’ve seen clubbing legends like Joe Claussell, Laurent Garnier and Francois Kevorkian blown away by the energy and the soul of the club. Joe was almost evangelical afterwards, returning to NYC enthusing about the ‘power and the beauty of the spiritual energy that was at that party’.
This is a club to hold close to your heart. A club without a membership, but a club where you can belong. A club to treasure. A club I will tell my grandchildren about. A club I should have told my grandparents about. A club which has changed lives. A club that’s still changing lives. A club where the weak become heroes and everybody feels love.
Electric souls forever.
Luke Bainbrige (Observer Monthly) | | 2008-04-15 14:17:08 | | BLOG ARCHIVE
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