Published in Mixmag Vol. 2 Issue No. 25 – June 1993 as part of their 24 Page Clubbing Special.
A SCRAP of advice is thrown our way – “make sure you park on the main road.” Wise words in the kebabland of Hackney. Previous visits have involved being harassed by mini-cab drivers, shot at by crackheads and mugged by street-weirdos. And so when we arrive at Club Labyrinth and realise it’s actually the Four Aces, a former yardie drinking club notorious for its shootings, we consider a drive-by review.
As we step through the door a well-dressed, well-spoken lady steps out and asks, “Would you like to view the property, sir and madam?” At least that’s the gist of what she said, the exact words lost amid the blast of breakbeats that confronts us. She then leads us, like an estate agent, around the club. We soon understand why. Club Labyrinth is just that, a maze of dark tunnels, staircases and caves like one of those haunted houses at the funfair. We keep expecting the floor to cave in and the walls to start moving.
Our guide takes us to view The Garden. It’s out some fire doors, past a gigantic stack of debris including about 20 bin-bags. And what a cute scene awaits us. A bunch of tripped-out clubbers sat in a kind of corrugated iron shed. It’s freezing cold. One of them sees me taking notes and panics.
“You’re not the Old Bill are you?” he stammers.
“No,” I tell him. “If I was, I’d have a baseball hat and a hooded top.” He seems slightly reassured.
“We got raided last week,” explains Guide Girl Gwen. “About 50 police in riot gear came through the garden. They didn’t find anything, of course.”
To the chill-out room! It has the slowest beats in the club, yet there’s few tracks slower than 130 bpm. On a video screen, mind-bending cyberdelic videos are being shown. “This is our cinema. We switch the music off and show a movie here every week at one. Last week Police Academy, this week it’s Hook.”
Next she apologises about the state of the toilets (“we’re getting them done up soon”) and shows us The Tunnel and the Trance Room, before leaving us in the main arena. This is the domain of Warlock, Bill Bunter and his gang of ridiculously-named DJs. The breakbeats seem to be getting faster, the faces bonier and uglier, the eyes expanding like they’re about to explode. “Oh my God,” I announce and turn to lan, but he has gone.
I’m alone in hardcore hell, being jostled by skinny lads who are jogging on the spot. Everywhere I look I see The Scream cartoon. My heartbeat seems to have speeded up to the 175 bpm of the music.
The phrase ‘loved-up’ could never apply to these gurning hardcore children. The grinning ones look like mass murderers; the aggressive dancers resemble skinhead thugs and the ones with vacant stares look like the scary schizophrenics you meet in shopping centres. Somebody grabs my arm and | actually scream.
It’s lan back from taking his pictures. We stumble to the exit and out on to the street. The alarm of some nearby shop is ringing loud and clear, raided while we were in the club. We make a quick escape.
