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Mousetrap 21st Anniversary Bash

Coming of Age: Mousetrap 21st Anniversary Bash, Orleans Finsbury Park.

As is my custom of a Saturday evening, I like to take my time getting ready for a night out. Treat myself, put on some tunes – maybe some smooth soul, a touch of vintage blues, a couple of up-tempo funk numbers, a bit of psychedelic jazz if the feeling takes me – music I can glide around in my underpants to after a nice relaxing shower/shave combo, as the white twenty-something in me tries in vain to match Curtis Mayfield note for note whilst also pretending that my mum isn’t smirking at me from the other room. And then it’s time for the main event: the outfit. A once tidy abode quickly becomes strewn with multiple pairs of trousers, shirt and tie couplings, loafers/lace-ups/boots; coats collide with knits and roll necks and every colour of sock imaginable until bingo… there it is. From mad technicoloured jumble sale that now comprises my bedroom the winning sartorial combination has majestically presented itself. Or so you would like to think. You know the drill. If you’re going to go narcissist then what’s the point in going half way? And as the music plays out in the background you’re set to go. At least that’s the usual ritual…

But not tonight. Tonight of all nights being a Mousetrap night and with the crucial preparation buffer zone period rolling towards half past 10, I am nowhere near the sanctuary of my bedroom or my wardrobe. I am in fact racing home on the London rail network reeking of beer and tandoori chicken. It’s amazing just how far an impromptu curry with a mate can set you back on a Saturday evening. Combine that with snail paced public transport and you’re practically in no-man’s land.  With our ritual 10-minute train ride to Finsbury Park sailing through the neighbourhood at 20 past 11 and the time all ready 20 to I am compelled to jog at break-sweat speed in a desperate attempt to spare some vital time indoors. All the while I have been turning over potential clothing solutions to my now doomed current attire. Making the most of crisis mode I muster up a winner and grabbing a bottle of beer on the way out hot step it down to the station with 2 minutes to spare. My fellow reveller just manages to get on the train at the next station and then we’re on our way. Finally.

Fast-forward two hours…

Amidst the battling puddles of talc and spilt drinks the proverbial rug is being well and truly cut over the sound of the Five Royales. Within the cramped and sweaty conditions of Orleans basement bar the electric atmosphere of the dancers shines through the overt lack of lighting. Loafers criss-cross and dolly shoes quick step with no intentions of missing a beat. There is the usual throng at the bar waiting with wide eyes to drink from Orlean’s famous disposable cups. The peripheral dancefloor shelves are already littered 3 deep with half drunk Red Stripe and Stella cans though it seems no one really has time to finish them with most people shaking limbs to the driving rhythm and blues beat.

Having been a Mousetrap Regular for nearing 3 years I’ve never known this night to be any different. And rest assured, this time round it is the clubs 21st Anniversary.  Just by scanning the bustling room you could imagine it going for another 21, as long as everyone has their feet left and the fantastic records haven’t been spun smooth. Lest we forget that most of these records have lived through multiple decades delighting the ears and feet of countless people past and present. Tonight’s specials are a winning combination of Northern and Club Soul, vintage R&B, Ska and Boogaloo. From the moment we descend the steps into the thumping subterranean den to the moment we drag ourselves back up to the cruel late-Winter morning, the dancing is ceaseless. Amongst the many immaculate individuals gathered here just looking good is not enough – the inevitable trip to the dry cleaners is a sure fire sign of a sustained stint on the dance floor.

A serious mod jazz vibe is going down as I return from some fresh air an upbeat saxophone spills over a jaunty off beat as shoulders drop to Jolly Jax mod banger ‘’Preciate It’. A few further bangers later and the masterful organ of ‘I’m Longing for You Quick’ by Ann Caudell has the floor alive once more. It’s these little shots of vinyl magic that really transport you to another time. And boy does it get you moving. Alongside hits of classic sax and Hammond sit huge soul dancers ‘Indian Giver’ by the Chantels and ‘Never Learnt to Dance’ by Harvey Averne. Feet don’t fail me now; you could cut the atmosphere with a leather sole.

With spirits running high and being poured the music moves into a Ska section with a bit of Prince Buster. At the encouragement of certain friends some brief and far from mastered ‘Russian dancing’ is momentarily introduced to the floor, of which my trousers and my knee ligaments are lucky to walk away from. Though I will definitely be feeling the results of this the next afternoon.

The rest of the night plays out to prime northern soul and true to form we are sad to have to leave the dance floor. After another fantastic Mousetrap evening all that’s left to be said is a big congratulations to Rob Bailey and the rest of the team on London’s finest underground club night making to full legal adult age (Mousetrap can now drink even in the USA). If the tide is strong enough and we haven’t all been wiped out by nuclear Armageddon 1960’s Cold War style then this one may even make it to free bus pass age.

Arthur Gun over and out.

 


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Arthur Gun

North London son and 23 year old retro-enthusiast freelance aspiring writer/singer/illustrator/anything-goes reporter in the field, Arthur Gun likes to be at the forefront of the revelry on any given night out. After various periods of teenage transgression throughout several scenes he arrived at 'the 60s thing' in the latter half of that mixed-up decade of the so-called Noughties. With an eclectic taste in many things subcultural, it has been the stylistic and musical revolution of the former decade that has captured a permanent corner of his imagination and which continues to live on in the hearts and minds of so many others. Taking a reporter-in-the-field approach to is review writing, Arthur can be seen amongst the thick of the action at New Untouchables events, whilst spending the following days trying to recollect the often incendiary events in the form of words. He hopes that one day words may provide enough income to foot his dry-cleaning bill.

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May 21, 2012 By : Category : Articles Clubs Events Front Page Reviews Scene UK Tags:, , ,
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Le Beat Bespoké 8 – Review

Taking The Beat By The Teeth: Le Beat Bespoké 8

Slap bang wallop! Without even a moments thought April has swung back round again and the Easter Bank Holiday has reared its handsome face. The worker ants of England are assembling with the prospect of a three-day weekend just too hot to handle. Pint arms are winding up and cigarettes jingling in their boxes, while the pub tills are grinning their toothless smiles in wait of the precious pound notes that will soon be jumping eagerly to their alcohol-induced doom.

Some people are choosing their outfits, and a few of them have been choosing more carefully than others. One such member of the few happens to be me, and it’s vintage suede on the outerwear agenda as I walk a walk of walks in repossessed Italian lace-ups and gunmetal strides down Great Portland Street. My consideration has been of due importance as my destination tonight is none other than the all singing all dancing Le Beat Bespoke weekender; the holy grail of modernist and 1960s orientated events on these fair isles.

As I near the end of Great Portland Street the venue looms into view and the scene is awash with psychedelic overtones: floral shirts, formidable sideburns, shaggy mop tops and tight flares, girls in every shade of paisley, cigarette smoke billowing from under Sassoon bobs; the occasional suit a close fit over spindly limbs. This is of course because taking the stage tonight will be three separate counts of psych rock majesty: fabled Ealing group July playing their eponymously titled ’68 album in full; on-stage arson enthusiast and godfather of shock rock Arthur Brown brings his ‘Crazy World of’… album to life track by track; and to cap the nights live music Dartford garage rock icons the Pretty Things will be serving up a helping of personal highlights from their string of Electric Banana albums. So descending the steps into the main hall I swing myself a beer in at the bar and join the steadily amassing crowd as Friday night begins…

A luminously coloured 4-foot dwarf-like monster of sorts is slowly parading across the stage shaking some kind of cosmic African staff when July take the stage, unbeknownst at this point that peculiar costumes and masks will feature steadily throughout the evening and beyond. Kaleidoscopic visuals swirl overhead as the band launch into opener ‘My Clown’, far-off harmonies and organs oscillating above the steady snare beat, with screeching guitars wail throughout ending with a warm applause from the crowd. Four minutes in and things are decidedly acidy already, and it’s all Eastern leaning space rock from here on out. Bongos ripple under driving rhythm guitar on ‘You Missed it All’ and languid sitar drones while distorted solos spiral on ‘The Way’, not to mention a ‘July’ shaped bass appearing in the hands of singer Tom Newman (of which someone tells me he crafted himself). All these elements are combined throughout the on stage reincarnation of the album, and personal favourite ‘Crying Is For Writers’ goes down a storm before the band finishes with classic track ‘Dandelion Seeds’.  Everything technicoloured and dandy so far.

After a brief smoking intermission I re-beer and prepare for Arthur Brown to make his Crazy World live music reality. Though infamous for the insanity of his live shows nobody can quite prepare you for the crew of druid-like figures that walk on stage in bizarre brightly coloured masks and shimmering cloaks. Organs sing out as the imposing frame of Mr Brown takes position at the front and a wild garage drum beat kicks in with quick firing guitar. Brown screeches and the mask is off revealing a black and white painted face that resembles something halfway between a panda and a vampire. As Brown howls his way through opener ‘Prelude/Fanfare’ I’m quite literally taken aback by the wild majesty of his voice; 69 years of living seem meaningless as he bellows maniacally over duelling organs nailing every piercing note. After shaking and shimmying like the proverbial madman through the jazz flute synth mayhem of ‘Fanfare/Fire Poem’, the moment many people have been anticipating takes place. A diminutive LSD-goblin appears from behind the stage carrying the notorious crown of fire, which is subsequently fastened to Arthur Brown’s head and set alight to cries of adulation from the audience. The sacred words of ‘I am the Lord of Hellfire…’ are uttered and the band catapults into that most famous of Hammond electronic organ tunes. A simply unbelievable rendition of his famous cover of Screaming Jay Hawkins track ‘I Put a Spell on You’ follows amidst ritualistic dancing all round and a golden-winged woman joining the caped melee of the band, as the Crazy World of Arthur Brown hurtles towards its brilliant end. For tonight at least.

With Arthur Brown living up to his name with fry…flying colours it seemed even a band as feted as the Pretty Things would have a bit of trouble following on from the wild display just witnessed. Though in their Electric Banana guise, it’s not long before the crowd are once more fully engrossed in the psychedelic buzz. Bright coloured hypnotic projections follow once again and I make a mental note that something similar might be a worthwhile installation in my room at home. Having missed a chance to see the Pretty Things before at the Charlotte Street Blues club before it closed down it doesn’t take me long to start enjoying myself as the cacophony of garage psych and turbo blues spills forward from the stage.  Complete with Go-Go dancers some fine vintage late 60s psych is being played, ‘What’s Good for the Goose’ goes down perfectly with a rum and coke, as well as a favourite of mine ‘It’ll Never Be Me’, and as the set reaches it’s acid drenched crescendo ‘£.S.D’ is fittingly dropped into the mix and there isn’t a single person seen to be standing still.

Shortly after the live entertainment is finished I’m working over my game plan for the weekend over a cigarette. Do break it in gently on the Friday and gradually gather pace towards Sunday’s finale, or just say, “fuck it” and take Le Beat by the teeth and get well and truly weekendered? Knowing that this is now my third Le Beat Bespoke in a row I am aware of the fact that the ‘gently does it’ approach didn’t work the last two times, or in fact rarely ever. As I take the penultimate drag of my cigarette the party gene within is fully expressing itself, and having already made the decision for me I throw any lingering caution rather casually to the wind. As you do.

After the collective madness of tonight’s psychedelic live adventure I decide to delve back into the earlier half of the decade over in the R&B room, with tonight’s tunes supplied by the DJs of renowned Sheffield club night ‘Pow Wow’. As usual there is some fine dance moves on show, young guns and old hands alike in perspiration defying suits, more pristine hair-dos and dresses than you can shake a seven inch single at. Between fast paced R&B belters there’s club soul and boogaloo, cut with rum and ginger ale, and crucial cooling down outside which is making it a bad weekend to quite smoking. Two friends appear out of nowhere shuffling along to some up-tempo latin and remind me that it is in fact my birthday. I agree that it is and after a celebratory shot at the bar it’s dance dance dance non-stop until kicking out time, and after somewhat drunken and unsuccessful attempts to get ourselves some ‘Boris’ bikes Friday night is done and dusted with Saturday already poking it’s nose into view.

Feeling rougher than expected I awake with this years Le Beat soundtrack tune ‘Shake Yourself Down’ by the Checkerlads on repeat in an otherwise vacant mind. I am also horrified to discover that it is 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Thinking so much for making a birthday of it I call my mate to find that he’s gone to 229 to check out the vintage market which serves as one of Le Beat’s daytime features. The clothes obsessive in me is crying but my wallet is relieved. I resolve to get myself together and chip back into town later to catch 60s rock’n’roll Minnesota surfin’ birds the Trashmen who are, rather unbelievably, playing their first ever UK show. Arranging to meet fresh accomplices at a nearby drinking establishment round number two has arrived and Saturday night starts.

We arrive in time to catch the last third of the Screamin’ Vendettas’ set. Following on from Arthur Brown and his bands lead the masks are out again, complete with spooky hoods. Raucous garage rock & roll is blaring from the stage with gravelly vocals that put me in the mind of the John Spencer Blues Explosion all dressed up for Halloween. It’s brash, stripped-down cover stuff with a slight rockabilly lean, which suits tonight’s main room residents The Rock Around. Plenty of quiffs are bobbing in the audience and I even spot a couple of yes-drill-sergeant buzz cuts staring intently at the on-stage spectacle.

Still feeling suspect after last night I steady myself with a beer and when we return to the crowd the Trashmen are taking the stage. Dressed in black and looking understandably more mature than the sleeve of infamous single ‘Surfin’ Bird’, the drummer gibbers wildly into the mic and the band launches into their set, and suddenly the night is feeling very ‘Pulp Fiction’. With this gig decades in the making and also coinciding with the bands 50th anniversary it’s clear that none of the original enthusiasm has waned. Amidst a set of classic songs such as ‘King of the Surf’ and a thrilling rendition of Dick Dale stormer ‘Misirlou’ (that Pulp Fiction banger to anyone who was wondering) there’s a three song Link Wray medley and an interesting surf re-working of classic Spanish folk song ‘Malaguena’, all of which are warmly received by the crowd. Undeniably the set highlight is of course ‘Surfin Bird’, which is by anyone’s estimation and undying staple in the classic rock canon, to which everyone in the crowd has buzzed-up shimmy and a shake to.

Following their departure and having re-found my feet somewhat, I decide to pick up where Friday’s ’68 sound left off. As the rockers and rollers begin to hit the main room floor we saunter through to the Beat Basement where I am met with more congratulatory birthday shots. And all of a sudden the weekend is back into top gear. I spend the best part of the evening swinging between the floppy fedoras and swirly dresses of the psych room and that sharp suited sounds of the R&B room, where guest DJs from Spanish stalwart The Boiler club are laying down some serious vintage black dancers. Everyone and everything seems in fine form with not a sorry face is to be seen.

Finding ourselves back in the psych room ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’ blares forth from the speakers and now being well into the run of things drinks-wise I foresee that tomorrow will know less jovial times. But it matters not, because in the words of Lou Reed, ‘tomorrows just some other time’. At that care-free intersection of the evening where the music and people are at fun-induced critical mass I realise that there is only 45 minutes left. Resolving to carry on the party Elsewhere we leave in a taxi to an undisclosed location where the general merriment of the evening spirals into the wee hours in a ceaseless haze of happiness.

At around 8am it slowly dawns on me that there is something important that I am meant to already be awake for. And in the drunken fug I realise that I’m due to meet my own band for a recording session. Feeling a little bit sick and Hastily leaving in a shamble I head for the tube, drawing some very confused, if not concerned looks from various passers by. I suspect it’s either down to the un-dead pallour my skin has taken on or the rather conspicuous fringed suede jacket I’m wearing.

Several hours and countless coffees later I’m beginning to feel a little bit delirious. By half 5 in the afternoon I’m seriously questioning my will to carry on and by the time I leave to get ready for the third and final round I have decided with absolute conviction, that the idea of ‘rock and roll’ people are so often using to categorise a lifestyle of musical and recreational excess is thoroughly overrated. But what else can you do at this point and suck it up and make it to the next inning.

I just about pull my sanity and my body back together after a 2 hour sleep/coma and make it out of the house by 11. For the second time in 24 hours it once again dawns on me that I’ve forgotten something important, in that I missing Sunday’s live finale; the focal point of which will be another New Untouchables live coup- Scotland’s finest freakbeat emissaries The Poets. Lamenting the rickety state of my fragile weekend being I pray there might be another time.

For the third night in a row and my body now about as good as a cardboard cut-out of a former self I arrange to meet with startlingly fresh faced and large numbered group of friends at a flat near Great Portland Street. Everyone is gathered for Sunday’s Crossfire event, the immensely popular oldies night Crossfire. Bar two or three of us present this is the only night most of the assembled group had planned on going to, and a feeling of high spiritedness is unanimous. Having started the weekend as quite the game young buck I’m now feeling approximately twice my age (24) and my state of mind can be compared to that of a homeless Vietnam veteran. As someone sticks on Yvonne Baker behemoth ‘You Didn’t Say a Word’ I drain the content of my predominantly gin-filled glass in one and decide that only Northern Soul can save me now…

This is where the story ends, or rather cuts-out, as most of the hours following our arrival at 229 are a soul-fuelled blur. All I can say is that there was lots of soul, and lots of dancing, and lots of lots of things, all of which I can guarantee… It finally took me till half 7 in the morning at another after party in Elswhereville to declare my self 100% Weekendered. Gold stamp approved. Congratulations as always to Rob Bailey and the New Untouchables team for a thoroughly monumental weekend and roll on the next one. Maybe next year I’ll try the full 3 days without sleep and make things really interesting. Until next time, over and out- like a light.


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Arthur Gun

North London son and 23 year old retro-enthusiast freelance aspiring writer/singer/illustrator/anything-goes reporter in the field, Arthur Gun likes to be at the forefront of the revelry on any given night out. After various periods of teenage transgression throughout several scenes he arrived at 'the 60s thing' in the latter half of that mixed-up decade of the so-called Noughties. With an eclectic taste in many things subcultural, it has been the stylistic and musical revolution of the former decade that has captured a permanent corner of his imagination and which continues to live on in the hearts and minds of so many others. Taking a reporter-in-the-field approach to is review writing, Arthur can be seen amongst the thick of the action at New Untouchables events, whilst spending the following days trying to recollect the often incendiary events in the form of words. He hopes that one day words may provide enough income to foot his dry-cleaning bill.

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May 21, 2012 By : Category : Articles Events Front Page Reviews Scene UK Tags:, , ,
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Making a Scene

Making a Scene – Original Underground for Faces Old and New at the New Untouchables Nutty New Year.

It seems like an oddly long time since me and a handful of friends stumbled across our first ‘Mousetrap’ down in Finsbury Park. But suffice to say, as I sit here typing out this article, that particular night those couple years ago left quite an impression on us then unwitting new comers. As the last few years have flown by in a wild blur, so too did the night of December 31st 2011, where the very same little group of us found ourselves dancing relentlessly into 2012 at the New Untouchables Nutty New Year. Truth be told, we’ve always had a storming night at New Untouchables do’s, happy to part with our pounds and our brain cells and dance till dawn- whether it be to vintage soul, R&B, garage, psych or reggae.

Over the course of time we’ve met some top people too amongst the motley crew of characters that attend – with last Saturday’s round of fun being no exception. And if there’s one thing for sure that you can take from a NUTs night it’s that everyone present is here to revel bask in that everlasting decade which refuses to die, the fair old 1960s. Uniting die hard enthusiasts and scene tourists alike, the Nutty New Year was a terrific testament to the decades continued longevity. After attending the 2011 new years bash, I decided to get down with a little bit of Gonzo journalism and give the folks at NUTsMag a few words on how things unfolded at this year’s big farewell.

After what seemed like a life time of waiting for my right hand man Alex to get his act together, and feeling like the world’s sharpest 60’s football manager throw back in my mohair strides and sheepskin coat, I set foot on the local tube platform in wait of the revelry ahead. Inevitably drawing a few interesting looks from the low-jeaned wet look would-be-lotharios of the local Walkabout branch, I reflected to myself that it’s nice to know that whatever alcopop-fuelled orange skinned and ugg-booted distressed denim disaster that would be taking place elsewhere on the streets of England on New Years Eve, would certainly not being taking place inside the walls of 229 this evening. Snobbery aside perhaps, one thing that’s for sure is that an absolute blinder of an evening was laying in wait for me, my good friend Alex, and everyone else in attendance for that matter.

Following more than a couple of rum and cokes at a nearby residence we made our entrance at 229 and the night is already in top gear, the swinging combination of a festive atmosphere and giddy hedonism putting paid to anyone who was planning on having a dull time tonight. A throng of people crowd the bar and the main room dance floor is buzzing. I get a drink in and chew the fat with the assembled crew and take a look around the place.

With the main musical touchstones of the 60’s thoroughly attended to by the DJ’s, every respective scene is out in force. Amidst the bobbing heads you can take your pick of haircuts and get-ups- for the blokes it’s Jones-esque mop-tops bobbing to British beat above roll necks, sharp side partings to finish trim suits cutting moves to vintage R&B, hippyish side-burned fops in flares strut to psych, oxford bags abound out on the floor amongst the numbers here for classic Northern, and more than a few chrome-domed veterans out to show a few of us younger characters how it’s done.

And what about the girls? Well the girls are Fine, and also everywhere. Beehives mingle with bobs and like the chaps it’s no-styles-barred with psych girls in baby doll dresses and skin chicks in skirts and Weejuns; there’s white tights and shift dresses and dolly shoes, plenty of porcelain faces and dark lashes galore adorning dusky eye shadow; floppy hats and bright tunics with splashes of paisley and not to mention the occasional 50’s chick looking delightfully dolled up in red lipstick and curled hair, and generally plenty of oh-so-pretty numbers floating and dancing about looking tip top.

It’s a visual banquet for sure, and then before you’ve had time to take it all in and manage to say all your hellos you’re zipping around fully loaded breathing in the surroundings, bumping into familiars and acquaintances, all to the original hip sound track. It’s a task to keep one foot in the present with a cigarette on the outside before shaking to garage rock in the ‘beat basement’, then hopping to the R&B room to cut a shuffle with some seriously good dancers; ‘Pow Wow’ comes on and everyone’s on the floor dancing to what will incidentally be the only song I will be able to properly remember from the mad fog of  this Saturday night… Bad I know- but there’s just no time to make a note let alone a mental one when things are going this fast and every tune’s a winner.

The continuous rampage through the rotation of rooms inevitably leads me back to the main hall to join the bustling masses dancing to Northern Soul. It’s near on impossible to break the rhythm with everyone putting in the usual monumental shift on the dance floor, and it is hear along with all the familiar faces and friends around that the night drifts effortlessly into the small hours. Demands for one more song are met with everyone moving frenziedly till the very last note. And then just like that, it’s all over. Another night consigned to the scrapbook, although admittedly taking the executive decision to Hunter S. Thompson this night till the very last tune spun out on the turntable, has meant it’s proved rather hard for me to recall the multitude of top tunes I heard throughout the course of the night.

And though this particular bout of alc-zeimers saddens me somewhat I know for sure that the excellency of the music is not up for dispute, and rarely has it ever been at the many New Untouchables nights I’ve been too.  From Charles Sheffield to Chuck Wood through to Cherry Slush and The Seeds then back round to Don Drummond, and while we’re at it Shocking Blue and The Attack, there’s isn’t a stone-cold 60’s gem I haven’t heard at a NUTs all-nighter, not to mention the many rarities that’s had me hurriedly making lists on my phone at the side of the floor in the not-so-distant past.

But don’t leave it to a sift-brained punter like me to tell you how it is, because there’s no substitute for experience. Sharpen up and get yourself along to the next New Untouchable’s date and let the real experts educate your ears and get your feet stepping to the vintage sounds of that old 60s ship that’s showing no signs of sinking any time soon. That’s if you haven’t done already of course.

So for now this has been Arthur Gun for New Untouchables Magazine a.k.a NUTsMag. Happy belated New Year to everyone and I guess I’ll be seeing you at the next one. Until then…


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Arthur Gun

North London son and 23 year old retro-enthusiast freelance aspiring writer/singer/illustrator/anything-goes reporter in the field, Arthur Gun likes to be at the forefront of the revelry on any given night out. After various periods of teenage transgression throughout several scenes he arrived at 'the 60s thing' in the latter half of that mixed-up decade of the so-called Noughties. With an eclectic taste in many things subcultural, it has been the stylistic and musical revolution of the former decade that has captured a permanent corner of his imagination and which continues to live on in the hearts and minds of so many others. Taking a reporter-in-the-field approach to is review writing, Arthur can be seen amongst the thick of the action at New Untouchables events, whilst spending the following days trying to recollect the often incendiary events in the form of words. He hopes that one day words may provide enough income to foot his dry-cleaning bill.

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February 6, 2012 By : Category : Clubs Events Front Page Reviews Tags:, ,
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