Sunday, 24 May 2009

So trendy it doesn't have a tube, and gold hot pants can get you in anywhere.


" So where's the after party? Joiners?," Then a look of displeasure entered his face, " Like every other fucking afterparty, every week."
Said gay was complaining at BBB, but let's face it who doesn't complain at BBB these days. Daniel Lismore's days at the height of fashionable society are fading fast and the free night of hyperfashionista cocktails has turned into a few desperate old tranny's and a gaggle of Essex girls who have the gall to ask, " Why are you dressed  up?" Honey, you are in East London. 
 
Yes this is East London and that means you need not restrict your weekend nights to one party and a dirty, crowded late night gay bar with the odd house party (which in London are very hit or miss). But it does take a little bus ride, up to up and coming Dalston, for the Superstore.
Ah Dalston, a place filled with down dressing hipsters who hypocritically beride Shoreditch for being pretentious, clearly they think because their neighbourhood is not serviced by London Underground they are just so cutting edge. But there is an attraction to this underdeveloped, dirty, crime ridden area, sort of like the intrigue surrounding raves in third world countries. But unlike Nigeria Dalston does have a Nando's on the corner, so clearly it would seem gentrification is eminent.  However not having a tube could save Dalston from the fate currently being suffered by Hoxton and Old Street, Essex Invasion. As these areas are so close to the great Liverpool Street Terminus servicing such fabulous breeding grounds of some of the worst people in Britain such as Shenfield and Romford, they can just roll off the train and totter up the street in heels they have no idea to walk in. Getting to Dalston is hardly for the faint hearted and unsavy country folk, it's a good fifteen minutes with plenty of gorgeous scenery including housing estates and more than a few flashing sirens. But it isn't a party unless there is the danger of being knifed. So it's quite possible the common people will not venture into Dalston, except those immigrant masses placed there under some generous government housing scheme (which explains the Nandos).
Now to the club, Dalston Superstore, clubs like this are why London has one of the best gay and clubbing scenes in the world. It was housed in some lovely converted convenience shop, with a skylight, projected tranny film, fabulous avant garde posters of art and photography. It just prompts the question when you see something so well and apparently effortlessly done, why can't more gay places be like this?? No where in Soho can even hold a candle to this, with the possible exception of The Friendly Society. 
Upstairs in the sort of lounge, bar bit some lovely remixed eighties was playing, for the slightly discerning alternative but still a bit of stereotypical queen gay who can't resist some Madonna, I must say I enjoyed it. Downstairs on the other hand was EPIC, I loved it. The dancefloor was on fire with the electro techno remix mastery of Trailer Trash doing a set. Some of the best music I've heard ever, edging out Friday night's Trailer Trash warehouse party by a hair. And of course there was heavy light and strobe display happening in the hot little basement, for those on some alternative medicines.
The crowd was the sort of typical strain that frequents establishments with unisex toilets. Half drop dead gorgeous, a bit older, muscley, alternative, well dressed, though this being Dalston not overly unless of course a tranny or girl. (But it's not like my gold hotpants were not appreciated quite the opposite). The other half on the quite old side who look like they could give you five different STDs or teenage club kids trying their hardest to contract some. Nothing to complain about.
An incredible dance, in a great space, with hot, interesting people. Sadly only open until two on Sunday night but there was a great cheap kebab shop across the road to cushion the blow of the loss and restore much needed calories post boogie. And of course it was packed unlike a certain other bank holiday club night....

Marcel
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