Class of '88

by Wayne Anthony

  Change is what was really needed. We wanted to identify with our own cult, not one handed down from the Sixties or Seventies. We were like children who had reached a point in life where they begin to create and follow their own paths.

  Communication and compromise were necessary. Communication is a vital step in the right direction: the government has to keep in touch with the youth of today. If you don’t understand, how can you advise or guide? Compromise is a concept devised to open all the options and safeguard the objectives of all parties concerned. Party promoters had always been willing to talk to government and police officials before the media outrage. But, after a frenzy of misleading headlines and stories, government opinion changed and the illegal parties were almost completely stopped. There was an end to the possibility of compromise.

  A parliamentary bill completely outlawing illegal events (by ‘illegal’ I mean gigs without an entertainment licence) and laying down stricter guidelines for licensing dance parties brought the extravaganzas in line with pop concerts or music festivals.

  The MP leading the campaign, Graham Bright, commented: ‘I have not found anyone who is in any way opposed to what I’m trying to do, such has been the impact of news stories relating to illegal Acid House parties.’ Not one MP opposed the bill. Laws were being drawn up on the basis of tabloid reports and the nationwide hysteria they evoked. Yet clubs all over Europe opened late: in Spain, Holland, France, Italy and even in Scotland clubs opened until 5 a.m. It was time to change direction and campaign for all-night entertainment licences and later club-closing times.

  An Association of Dance Party Promoters (ADPPro) was formed by the linchpins of the four biggest registered organisations: Tony Colston-Hayter (Sunrise, Back to the Future), Anton Le Pirate (Energy/World Dance), Jarvis (Biology) and Jeremy (Energy). They were supported by illegal-party promoters, clubbers, pirate radio, recording companies, DJs, magazines, club owners and a host of other companies sympathetic to the cause.

  The date was set for a public demonstration, the first of its kind in the world, which would take place in Trafalgar Square on Saturday 27 January, 1990. Manchester was to host a demonstration on the same day, campaigning for the same rights as us. Not a single flyer was printed but word was spread through all the usual outlets used to promote dance parties. Tight legal restrictions meant no music or amplified sound, other than vocals.

  We met up at Biology’s office and drove down to the square. This was an historic day in the calendar of dance parties and nightclubs. I remembered early 1989, when Tony and I toyed with the idea of organising such a spectacle. Now our wishes had materialised and we were about to grab the attention of the national and world media. The public needed to be convinced these parties weren’t just about drugs and to know we weren’t the drug-pushing terrorists we were alleged to be. We were young, ordinary people – neither dealers nor gangsters – who wanted an opportunity to present legal dance parties to meet an ever-increasing demand.

  We arrived at Trafalgar Square at 1 p.m. Around a thousand people stood in the rain waiting for the opening speeches. We climbed up on to the first level of Nelson’s Column, which stood three feet above everyone’s heads. The square was gradually beginning to get busy, and by 2 p.m. 8,000 party people filled the area directly in front of the improvised platform. A van equipped with a full sound system was turned away by the police. The speakers, including Tony, Jarvis, Anton, DJs and Freedom to Party campaigners, spent the following hours making unrehearsed speeches, mainly about our right to party and how basic civil rights were being broken on a grand scale.

  I was scheduled to make a speech but changed my mind when I saw how many photographers, TV crews and journalists were on site and taking pictures by the bucketload. I didn’t want to put my face up front telling the square I ran Genesis, no fucking way. I’d bet half the photographers were Old Bill, snapping all the otherwise unknown faces behind the illegal gatherings. I wasn’t even doing parties any more. There was no way I was standing at the front of that stage. I counted at least 40 photographers, five camera crews and twenty-odd journalists.

  It was pouring down as 6,000 people waved banners, sang, danced and voiced their opinions. Someone passed a small generator up to the platform, but it was immediately spotted by the police, who moved in to confiscate it. A struggle took place as police and demonstrators wrestled over the generator, until twenty officers came charging in and grabbed it. The crowds booed and jeered as the officers made off with the power. About 30 mobile phones came out and promoters got on the line to track down a replacement.

  One was found and delivery to the square promised within half an hour. Meanwhile, one of the demonstrators, an old school-mate of mine, passed his large cassette recorder over the heads of the crowd and up to the platform. We put the microphone to the speakers and thumped out some House music, which lasted about two minutes until the police homed in on the blaster. We stopped the music, passing the recorder back down to the crowd, who returned it to its owner. We were given a stern warmng by the officer in charge, who said the demo would be broken up and the organisers placed under arrest…

  The MC, Ozzie Gee, grabbed the microphone and did a rap about the freedom to party. Everyone was in high spirits and really enjoying the day. After the MC did his thing, a human beatbox took the mike and whipped up a live jam. Next up was Debbie Malone, who sang ‘Rescue Me’, an anthem on the party circuit. Hands were in the air and smiles on the faces of people who would remember the day for the rest of their lives. People were everywhere and standing on anything that would give them a better view. They danced in empty fountains and on top of the lions that guard Nelson’s Column. A cheer went up as someone announced the arrival of a van carrying a generator. A group of people jumped from the platform, rushing over to the gennie, closely followed by Old Bill. A commotion around the van followed and eventually the driver had to scarper. At the same time, an MC, Chalky White, was being arrested. No one knew why, but it completely antagonised the whole crowd.

  I spotted a posse of about 30 geezers rushing through the crowd to where Chalky was being held. I could see by the expressions on their faces that they were definitely going to start something with the police. I pointed out the firm to Jarvis and we quickly got down from the platform and headed them off before they reached the squad, reasoning with them not to fuck all the work we’d been doing. They calmed down before disappearing into the crowd. We didn’t know why our pal was being arrested but we knew we couldn’t win a physical battle with the law. The only way we’d win this battle would be in the courts and with the help of the civil-rights organisations. Violence was exactly what the government and police needed to close the chapter on dance parties for good.

  The day passed quickly, and the last announcement was that a free party was scheduled for later that night. Everyone was told to stay tuned to pirate radio stations for more information. Jarvis, Tarquin, Keith and I met others to discuss the party. We didn’t have a venue so each went his separate way in search of a big fuck-off gaff. Three hours later, we’d found a warehouse and were about to break in when I got a call from Tony. He said a brand-new place, a huge warehouse in Radlett, had been discovered, and we should make our way there to meet Tarquin, who had already gained entry.

  The meeting point was announced on air every fifteen minutes. I didn’t fancy arriving at the venue too early, in case Old Bill stormed the gaff before anyone turned up. We drove to the service station where a DJ, Face, was holding the fort. Like rush hour at Liverpool Street, the place was packed solid and traffic was at a standstill. We decided to tell the drivers where the venue was and cleared a path for the lead cars to get through. Gavin and I took control of the traffic flow by the exit.

  The police sat back and watched as we organised thousands of cars and sent them merrily on their way. But, in the confusion, the lead cars missed the turning and continued round the roundabout to be confronted by a tailback. We gave the next lot of vehicles the right directions but they
too became gridlocked outside the service station. I got my cousin Bobby to drive us through the blockade and on to the venue. About 50 cars followed us down a winding country lane, which eventually led back on to the motorway. When we arrived at the warehouse there were roughly a hundred people inside. The sound system, mobile burger van and drinks vans turned up at the same time.

  The building was brand-new and had space for untold numbers of people. It was perfect. The crews began setting their equipment up; it was a complete cowboy job and wouldn’t take long to organise. A startled Tarquin asked if I had five hundred quid. A pikey who owned the sound system had pulled a shotgun on him and said none of his stuff was being touched unless we handed over some wonga. We each put some dosh in the kitty and gave the traveller his money.

  Two hundred people were now in the building patiently awaiting party time. At one end of the building was a row of ten or so windows looking on to the road in front of the warehouse. Peering out, I could see 30 or 40 policemen running towards the building. The alarm went up as we prepared to be raided. The loading shutters and windows were closed and people started banging on them in a plot to scare the riot squad. The policemen had brought their own camera team and were pointing spotlights on the warehouse. They didn’t attempt to enter the building, which led us to believe they were going to try to stop people from getting into the party.

  Two guys came up to the shutters and started opening them, and then from nowhere two others ran past us and charged into the police outside. One ran back over to the warehouse and grabbed some Coke cans, lobbing them at the front line. The geezers were going mad, screaming and shouting at the cops, but we got them back inside, closing the shutters behind us. I walked down to where the windows were and looked out to see what the police were doing.

  I could see a group of 50 people running down the road towards us, so I got everyone to open the windows and tried to get as many bodies into the warehouse before the long arm got to them. When the officers did reach the people who were left outside, we shut the windows. I was told there was a roadblock about a mile up the road, and that thousands of people were on their way. I looked down the dark, straight road and saw, coming out of the shadows, a huge crowd of people. They were walking in the road and on the pavements.

  Spotting this large congregation, the police blocked their route to the warehouse. We opened the windows and cheered them as they started running towards the blockade. The riot police held their ground and stopped the charge while everyone in the warehouse made as much noise as they could. Some people broke through the chain and made a dash for open windows. We opened the shutters and loads of people went outside into the yard, encouraging the others to break the deadlock.

  When he saw another huge crowd come charging down the road, the chief quickly decided to let everyone through. It would have been only a matter of minutes before they got through anyway. They made it, the party was on. Everyone was really hyped up, expressing their joy at reaching the final destination. The last head count was 8,000, all well and truly ’aving it. We sent the buckets round at 2 a.m. for everyone to stick a quid in the kitty; it was a good crowd who gladly put hands in pockets. The DJ, Face, accompanied by other top DJs, lined up to play atmospheric sets. It was a great night, which ended around 9 a.m.

  On the following two mornings I went to the newsagent and bought every newspaper and magazine in the shop. To my shock, just one small article in one of the tabloids said 500 people attended the demo. Related music magazines covered the demo but there was nothing in the national or regional press. There was no other mention of the day’s events. Surprising, considering that 8,000 people assembled in central London on a cold Saturday afternoon. And where else in the world had a demonstration of this nature taken place? That’s news in itself. Thousands of dance-music enthusiasts protesting their democratic right to dance all night long in aircraft hangars, country fields and nightclubs. Come on! We’re not living in a totalitarian state, are we? This is England nearing the new millennium: surely suppression of this sort is a thing of the past. Fleet Street and others had been publishing shocking ‘revelations’ about dance parties and promoters for two years, so what had changed? Why didn’t they publish a story on this peaceful protest?

  Of all the TV camera crews, reporters and photographers who were at Trafalgar Square, none was invited. Our main objective was to pull everyone together, combining the efforts of the driving forces behind dance culture and, more importantly, the people who attended dance parties. Witnessed by the nation’s press, we anticipated the demonstration would make the news. The film crews were rolling for the duration of the rally and crews were directly behind us and had clear shots of everyone. No pictures made it to the TV screens. It’s a prime example of how much influence the powers that be have over our tiny island.

  A second demonstration was arranged for 3 March at Hyde Park. It started at Speakers’ Corner. Although 50,000 flyers were printed, by 3 p.m. only a few thousand people had turned up. The huge police presence was only too visible. A convoy of riot vans in full kit were parked 500 yards away. Promoter after promoter stood on top of soapboxes, letting opinions rip. Then, after a couple of hours, the organisers decided to march peacefully along Oxford Street, down to Trafalgar Square and then on to the Home Office by way of Buckingham Palace. Here the procession was met by a full riot squad, who were definitely not keen on letting us approach the palace gates. Not that anyone planned to cause trouble outside the Queen’s gaff – but we did feel an urge to bring the plight of young people to the attention of the royal family.

  The rally finished outside the Home Office where a couple of hundred people carrying banners chanted ‘Freedom to party’. The demo was badly organised, and received even less press than the first. We knew the government wouldn’t listen to our pleas for all-night licences and later club-closing times. But it was still a positive step to advance the cause of dance music and its way of life.

  Another objective was to attract the attention of as many members of the public as possible. We hoped to shed more light on dance parties and display our feelings about the way government and police treated the ordinary, hard-working people who attended these events. We wanted the public to witness our frustration at not being allowed to move with the times, and how civil rights were brutally ignored each time a riot squad crashed a party.

  Admittedly, in 1990 a lot of people were using Ecstasy, but the rush of actually attending a large, all-night extravaganza was greater than the buzz of the drug. You’d see sons and daughters of lords dancing with Cindy’s kids from the corner shop, raggas grooving with hippies, football hooligans hugging, stockbrokers boogieing with telephone operators, sons of MPs chatting on the mike, men of war jumping for joy with men of peace, East End boys and West End girls, farmers getting down with A&R people, Rastamen and baldheads, Mancunians and south Londoners bustin’ moves, film and pop stars drinking with shelf-stackers and postmen, mums and dads, Sloanes and rappers, page-three girls and car dealers, Poms kissing Sheilas, road sweepers swinging with undercover cops, libertarians philosophising with labourers. The list goes on and on but, whoever attended, gatherings of this kind posed no threat to national security. Partygoers only felt the need to fight back and, if necessary, physically defend their civil rights, after months of being repeatedly intimidated by the heavy-handed tactics of the law-enforcement agencies.

  GENESIS 1990 AND FANTASY FM RADIO: THE WAREHOUSE EXPERIENCE

  Despite having said we’d had it with parties, we were annoyed at the numbers of rip-offs and dodge events going on. We decided Genesis should make a comeback after we were approached in late 1990 by one of the best pirate radio stations, Fantasy FM.

  Foxy was the driving force behind Fantasy and I met him at the Biology office. He and Jarvis had just closed a deal regarding recorded telephone lines. Jarvis hooked up with a service provider who owned every 0839 number that existed and leased both parties (and us) as many lines as were desired. The numbers were co
nstantly plugged on radio, and advertised and printed on hundreds of thousands of flyers, posters and all other promotional literature. He used the exposure to push his newly founded company to businesses and other service providers.

  Benn loved everything about the parties. They completely changed and engulfed his life: he was always running around going nuts. He was a true character who I got on well with. Like most workaholics, he was constantly running his mind and body into the ground, without replacing vital vitamins to maintain the pace. This, added to the effects of class As, can only lead one way and that’s downhill. The pressure became too much and his father sent him on a world cruise aboard his own motor yacht (that’ll do nicely!)

  We leased 20 phone lines for Genesis. They had to be updated regularly, so I visited the offices daily. Although the law had declared a ban on the announcement of dance-party locations on recorded telephone lines, there were a number of services that could be provided: event information, mailing-list registration, merchandise and ticket outlet names.

  We discovered another huge venue, which could easily hold 10,000 people. It was close to a housing estate, situated in the East End. The police in this part of town had already shown that they didn’t want parties, full stop. If the event was to be held here, there’d have to be a strong firm ready to counteract police tactics. I mentioned the plot to Foxy, who suggested a joint venture. I thought it was a good idea, because maximum airplay was guaranteed. Fantasy FM was a very popular station with a large following: a line-up of wicked DJs played live House and hardcore sets, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. We negotiated the terms and the event was set for two weeks from that day. We didn’t print flyers. The party would be promoted on the air, and a series of commercials were recorded using my voiceover and broadcast on the hour every hour. The backing track was ‘Can You Feel It?’ by Fingers Inc. and one of the scripts went like this: