Who Needs a Nightclub

“Any idea what side of London the party’ll be?”

“No clue mate, got to break into a building first”

These are some of the initial messages (now deleted) between myself and the

organiser of a squat rave I’d been invited to DJ at in London a couple months ago. I

was initially apprehensive. Having decided to shift my focus to the legal club

landscape in 2024 having been previously attacked while playing, sick of dealing

with poorly organised crews and parties that were outright dangerous. This was

different, a freeparty crew from out of town (@Faktion.23) was coming down to the

acid city for an unlicensed warehouse party. SIA security, food stands, and an

absolutely massive soundsystem. The lot. So I agreed to it, and it wasn’t hard to

convince some pals to come along with me.

It’s now the night of. I’m sat on a friend's balcony smoking a cigarette and staring

holes into the London skyline. I’m supposed to be playing in only 3 hours and I still

have no clue where the party will be at. Despite all but begging for a rough idea of

the location in the days previous, the organisers had remained steadfast in their

operational security. I waited, then I waited a little longer.

Finally. 11:30pm - a set of coordinates are posted on a telegram channel. Just my

luck, it’s only a 40 minute bus journey from where I’m staying. Wicked. I make the

journey with a friend and we eventually find ourselves in an industrial estate just a

stones throw from London’s famed Venue MOT. As we approach the coordinates, a

tall figure anonymised by the shade leans behind a row of gapped steel fencing.

“We’re here for the party”.

He gives us a smirk, unlocks a heavy-duty padlock and lets us through. We walk 10

steps and are greeted by security in high vis jackets who proceed to search me like

I’ve never been searched in my life, as though I was concealing a knife within my

femur itself. But they weren’t looking for drugs. We’re then cleared and allowed to

proceed through the second iron fence. At the end of the maze-like security system

was a ticket queue, which I promptly skipped holding my headphones proudly high.We entered into a courtyard area and through to the warehouse itself, greeted by a

cacophony of “E’s/Ket/Whizz?”. I politely declined. The place was absolutely

massive, with the rig safely tucked away in a corner and the crowd still pouring in

through the dark and derelict ex-office. No music was on yet so I found a nice dry

spot to sit and relax until it was time for my set.

There was an atmosphere in the air, if you’ve never been to a proper party like such

it’s hard to describe. A sense of absolute freedom and liberatory joy coupled with a

mild anxiety, I’ve seen enough things go wrong when you have too much anarchy

and too little community. But this was community. People looking out for each other,

chatting to total strangers, setting up water stands to keep people hydrated while

selling ketamine by the gram on the side. The incredibly stringent door searches,

usually a sight of pain for many at licensed events, left me with a feeling of quiet

ease throughout the night.

The parties now started over an hour late and people are raring to go, bouncing from

the first beat in a sea of collective unity. I watch on with a satisfied excitement, when

faced with such an extravagant display of collective ecstacy it’s difficult to keep a

smile off your face. 5 minutes before my set I walk over and make myself

comfortable in the booth, tucked in a corner opposite the massive soundsystem - out

of sight and out of mind to the average punter. What I didn’t realise is that the decks

face away from the rig, so I’d have to be DJ’ing with my back to the crowd!

As I come outside after my set I’m informed the police arrived sometime between 2-

3am and managed to wake their way into the building during my set. A combination

of the urge to lose themselves in the rhythmic pounding, coupled with the sight of

near a thousand drug-fuelled ravers must’ve overwhelmed the two poor bastards -

as they fled as quickly as they had arrived.

The resourceful exploitation of legal grey areas in UK squat laws by the organisers

(the official excuse being “we live here and we’re throwing a birthday party!!”)

accompanied by the Metropolitan ‘police’ only arriving 3 hours after a thousand odd

punters had already made their way into the disused and seemingly fortified

industrial complex; created an effective reversal on the states monopoly on violence.

They knew there was nothing to do because the power now lay with the people.

That’s the beauty of this all. Anarchy.When faced with such numbers the police usually take a very hands off approach

because they know it’s safer to allow the party to continue. Continue it did, and I

stayed for another 4 hours or so well into the daybreak. If there was any trouble, I

didn’t seem to notice. After calling it a night at around 6am, I could still hear the

pounding bass a mile away as I walked home - smiling with my eyes the whole

journey.

From what I can gather, the party finished at around 11am due to the police

threatening to seize the rig if the party wasn’t shut down. I can only assume due to a

dwindling crowd the police felt more confident they could take physical action and

break into the compound. It’s a bit embarrassing for them that they’d been bested,

and the local residents probably had enough of having 303 basslines and distorted

kick drums beamed into their homes. I can only hope they enjoyed my set.

By Emre Muzammal