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The Convex Club Review

Ben Hodgkiss is vexed at The Convex Club

Published on June 10th 2011.

The Convex Club Review

THE sound throbs dully, emanating onto the smokers’ pavement. An art crowd buzzes around, fresh from tonight’s opening, a ceremony of shadowed questions and answers. Strangling the last breaths on a death rattle cigarette, collecting and composing myself, I descend the time warp staircase, transported into another place and plane. Arriving at a curtain, the room calls from behind it, the music beckons, the throbbing dull becomes a pertinent reality. With two deliberate footsteps forward, one line in particular is brought to mind: ‘Where there's music and there's people, who are young and alive’.

A tall, striking figure moving behind music equipment, you’d be hard pushed not to notice Farris, thoroughly riffling and rummaging through his box of singles, pausing and pondering at times on what to play next.

Refracted white light stalks the ceiling and walls, embellishing the exposed brickwork. A happening after a fashion, or at the very least, something happening, in a room where not much else is at this point – the basement guts of The Book Club’s concrete innards. Psychedelic colour creeps and cloaks the evening’s participants, who at once transpire into an ever-changing cast of innumerable calculations. As further guests arrive, the night shapes up to be something of the untypical and The Convex Club, or what it seems is essentially known as ‘Farris from The Horrors club night’, begins to hold court.

IMG_0563.JPGProposed and executed by a close circle of friends, the club’s records become the soundtrack of the night, and will naturally end their course in tomorrow mornings’ vague memory. Yet, as the tracks spin, my wires become crossed. I have to admit, I had expected something a little different from tonight’s proceedings, perhaps to be taken a little further back in time, to experience a rawer more basic idea and ideal, something along the lines of minimal chords, fuzz and howled vocals. Instead, New Wave, Post Punk, New Romance, Disco, Electro, Grunge, Indie and all things considered and celebrated quite rightfully as ‘other’ are served up like tapas, little tasters of years of musical culture. Nonetheless, as every song sings about yesterday’s heartaches today, the general feeling is still just as valid and still just as thrilling.

The scene, the seen, the fashionably late, the fashionably numb, the deliberately cold, the hangers on, the casualties, the legitimate, the sincere, the faces, the invisible, the hair thrown car crashes, the head-turning attention seekers, the well dressed, the well versed, the posed to death, those who need no introduction, the movers, the shakers, the shimmies, struts, twists and twirls. Good and bad ideas surf the highs and lows of darkness and crash like waves on a dance floor of moving feet, beneath a blanket of extinguished light bulbs.

Standing before a well stocked bar, which houses an array of alcohol I’ve never heard of, it strikes me that tonight’s crowd seems a little masculine. Women are few and far between, their only representatives a few beatnik dregs. As I sip on some foreign sounding purple liquid from an oversized glass, I overhear a bright ideas plan to secure one girl, whose attention and affections, like the others of her kind, have been shunned by the night’s coy host. Sadly for the speaker, it seems lots of others have struck gold and cried eureka with this very same thought, and now find themselves ankle deep in reevaluating their strategies.

A tall, striking figure moving behind music equipment, you’d be hard pushed not to notice Farris, thoroughly riffling and rummaging through his box of singles, pausing and pondering at times on what to play next. After another song and a few more minutes, he seamlessly swaps with a female colleague and the attitude shifts just a little, but the tone’s legitimacy goes on unaffected. As tastemakers, the DJs are hot and informed. With hit after hit and no faults, they become our guides and we their passengers. Although it may seem folly to begin to explain what one should expect from a future event, if tonight is anything to go by, guests should look forward to experiencing sounds from the esoteric, whether the anthem or the criminally underrated, whether the crowd pleaser or the willfully obscure. Artists ring in my ears and remain fresh in my memory (think DEVO, The Cure, PiL, Au Pairs, Suicide and Depeche Mode, as well as a horde of other names I didn’t think to note down).

Soon the peek is reached, the summit, and I must submit, as we arrive at my time to call it time. The pace alters and the mood shifts and I pull the plug. My exit music plays, whilst their party shows no signs of slowing down. With throngs going strong, elbow to elbow, through the thick and thin, I abandon ship, kiss goodbyes and good nights and return to Earth.


The Convex Club night at The Book Club

100 Leonard Street


T: 020 7684 8618

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