Benjamin Goode reports from the front line at Cable.
All my friends (if I ever had any) were busy. So, if you have ever wondered what it is like to be a single, very available heteropolitan male, in the most unforgiving jungle known to man – that of club-land – and often thought what a pride swallowing experience it must be, then, please, read on.
Why do this? Well, for you of course, so I’ll start. Cable is a nice enough venue: it is neither too small to feel cramped or large enough to get lost in, the drinks are averagely expensive (£4.50 for a single spirit and mixer), there's a good sized smoking area and the clientelle seem to err on the genteel side of amicable hedonism.
Another friendless reviewer, took up my offer of my vacant guest list. He reminded me of an austere Saxon: he said neither thank you for my kindness (which I suspect he viewed rather as weakness) nor did he give me a single word of acknowledgement. In the middle of Doc Scott’s set I spied him, still alone, in the midst of the dance floor, apparently trying to eat his own ears off.
Speaking of which, Doc Scott’s set, like most of the night, seemed to be building beautifully toward something…which never arrived. I have never been one to need much encouragement – alone or ensemble – to dance like an idiot, especially to drum and bass, but this is where my paucity of social skills and sobriety works to your advantage my dear reader. I was not swayed by my excessive alcohol consumption nor the excitable babble of my friends as another mediocre song got played. Marcus Intalex’s set was one of the few real highlights: it had a diversity that pricked the senses and kept you guessing rather than pandering to the rather one-dimensional prevailing deeper sound of drum and bass. Then mid-way through came a truly wonderful switch, that sent the whole place wild.
There was a multitude of people there having a marvellous time, and in that respect it was good, but I could not help but feel that SP:MC et al were having just another day at the office. And I think this is my problem: maybe I need more friends, maybe this is just the sour grapes of a man reduced to going it alone and finding that there is no Life Less Ordinary waiting just after the queue and beyond the metal railings. But A Bunch of Cuts promised so, so much but did not quite deliver as I'd hoped.
Photos by Danjah
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