16 ★ † FTWeekend 9 November/10 November 2019
O
n September 7 2016, flow-
ers littered the pavement
outside the old meat mar-
ket in Smithfield, London.
On a pair of unassuming
doors was a notice: “RIP fabric.” Beside
it was a black paper heart, torn in two,
with the message “We all break”, a
memorial for the most influential night-
club of 21st-century Britain, twice voted
best club in the world by DJ Magazine.
Insteadofclubbersqueueingaroundthe
block,therewasghostlysilence.
Fabric’s closure confirmed that Lon-
don’s club scene was in crisis. Over the
previous eight years, the capital had lost
50 per cent of its nightclubs — a threat
that other major cities around the world
were also facing. Fabric had been shut
down following the drug-related deaths
of two 18-year-olds, but commentators
questioned whether this was the real
reason. Fingers were pointed at gentrifi-
cation and the impact of a police force
stretchedbyausteritymeasures.
Whathashappenedsince2016isboth
good and bad news for clubbers — and it
reveals wider changes in how young
people are spending their time and
money. Today, the number of venues in
London is hesitantly on the rise for the
first time in 10 years, with the new clubs
Fold and EartH in east London, and the
opening of Peckham Audio in south
London last month. Each weekend
there’s a wealth of parties, especially at
both the grassroots and blockbuster
endsofthespectrum,withanincreasing
number of spectacular festival-style,
one-offevents.
WhenFabricwasshutdown,theclub-
bing community united around it and
launched afundraising campaign. Five
months on it regained its licence, and it
remains open today. But it remains dif-
ficult to run a venue in London — espe-
cially midsized spaces, which foster
community and help DJs learn their
trade. These venues are under threat,
and this compromises the wider club-
bing infrastructure. The city values
nightclubs economically, but not always
culturally: this means they have little
government protection, and so they
continue to close. What we’re seeing is
notthedeathofclubbinginLondon,but
a fragmentation of the scene and a hol-
lowingoutofthemiddle.
The future of nightlifeaffects more
than just young clubbers. “Fabric’s clo-
sure would have negatively affectedNightlife Is London’s club|
scene under threat? Venues
are closing — but that’s not
the full picture. ByTom Faber
Above: a night at
Pxssy Palace, a
space co-
founded by
Nadine Artois
that prioritises
queer and
trans people of
colour, with a
‘sanctuary
room’ for
sober partyingRight, from top:
the 5,000-
capacity
Printworks in
London, which
puts on events
comparable to
one-day
festivals; floral
tributes left
outside Fabric in
2016 after it was
ordered to close
Sara Ahmad; Jake Davis;
Justin Tallis/AFP
via Getty Imagesthe new drug ecstasy offering vertigi-
nous highs and the synthetic glow of
totalharmony.
The popularity of thisclub culture led
to commercialisation. A party bubble
rose through the 1990s, peaking with
superclubs and celebrity DJs, before
bursting and giving way to understated
clubs like Fabric, which led the new
undergroundwhenitopenedin1999.
This cycle of boom and bust has con-
tinued to today: club scenesbecome
bloated or stagnant and are replaced by
newsub-genresandfreshblood.
Berlin, another major clubbing capi-
tal, was recently facing its own fears of
“Clubsterben” or “club death”. Yet the
community organised robustly and the
city recovered, with the German tax
courts declaring that celebrated night-
club Berghain, a site of pilgrimage for
techno fans from around the world,
would be treated as “culture” rather
than“entertainment”.
“In Berlin the idea is further along
thattechnoisaculturalgoodandshould
have access to the same protections that
an opera house would have,” says Luis-
ManuelGarcia,aclubpromoterandlec-
turer of ethnomusicology at Birming-
ham University. “That conversation has
yettoseriouslyhappeninLondon.”
Given the continued pressureon Lon-
don’s club owners, they must be agile to
survive and pay attention to shifting
youth culture. Young people are
drinking less: the number of 16- to 24-
year-olds who are teetotal increased byby deriding Jay Z as a “stan” on
“Ether”. Lil Wayne inverted its concept
in a series of appreciative, confessional
letters to his fictional “number one
fan” in “Dear Anne” — though he
rightly deemedit too weak to be
album-worthy.
In 2017 Mancunian rapper Bugzy
Malone’s “Dan” smartly updated Stan’s
story for today (“Yo Bugz, I hit you up
on Snapchat”). Meanwhile Arizona
singer-songwriter Alec Benjamin
commits the heinous
acoustic-rap cover crime of
sentimentalising: his vocals
carry all the threat of a
woolly cardigan.
In 2013 Eminem revisited
“Stan”.The Marshall Mathers
LP 2opens with its sequel,
“Bad Guy”, where Stan’s
younger brother Matthew
exacts revenge. His stilted,
prickly flow may lack his
brother’s unhinged lucidity,
but his motives transcend
fraternal loyalty. Matthew
claims he represents “anyone
on the receiving end of those
jokes”, including women
and homosexuals.
Despitethe apparent contrition
of “Bad Guy”, some stans’ loyalty
remains unimpeachable. When
Eminem called rapper Tyler, the
Creator a “faggot” last year, fans
rushed to his defence. Perhaps
Em’s letter didn’t reach them in
time. Perhaps they weren’t paying
attention. Even when Eminem later
apologised, the Real Slim Shadys
still stanned up for their idol.
am TaylorS
For more in the series,
go to ft.com/life-of-a-songT
his April, Merriam-Webster
expanded its dictionary to
include the word “stan”. It
means to “exhibit fandom
to an extreme or excessive
degree”. Whether self-deprecatingly
ironic or alarmingly sincere, stans are
inescapable, from Beyoncé’s Beyhive ot
Benedict Cumberbatch’s Cumberbabes.
The word can also be used as a verb: as
in: “We stan a legend.”
A portmanteau of “stalker” and
“fan”, the word is attributed to
Marshall Bruce Mathers III, aka
Eminem,who studied the dictionary in
his youth to amass ammunition for his
lyrical arsenal.
Few songs probe the artist-fan
dynamic as disturbingly as his chart-
topping 2000 single “Stan”. An
epistolary short story, “Stan” stretches
the narrative possibilities of rap,
examining fan entitlement, their
delusions of shared experience and
the unwelcome visibility of sudden
superstardom. Enraged by his idol’s
apparent indifference to his existence,
Stan drives off a bridge, killing himself
andhis pregnant girlfriend trapped in
the car’s trunk.
Though its instrumental is austere,
the song has a filmic quality. A steady
downpour and rumbles of thunder
soundtrack Dido’s gauzy, doleful vocals
— a sample from her sleeper hit
“Thank You”. Stan’s pencil scribblesaway, forming indents and creases on
the page as his emphasis grows more
pointed. Later we hearmuffled
screams as his car plunges into water.
Though its lyrics are more
conversational than the intoxicating
assonance andsledgehammer rhymes
that typify his raps, “Stan” is arguably
Eminem’smost thoughtful and
thought-provoking song. Stan
interprets as gospel the sermons of
Slim Shady — to some Mathers’
cartoonish alter-ego, to others a cover
for his vilest impulses. He even
enacts his idol’s lyrics: “Hey Slim,
I just drank a fifth of vodka, dare
me to drive?” he slurs, quoting the
1999 single “My Name Is”.
Eminem acknowledges his
cultural influence but denies
culpability for Stan’s actions. Yet
onThe Marshall Mathers LP, one of
the bestselling albums of the
2000s, “Stan” sits uneasily
between the hyperviolent “Kill
You” and “Who Knew”, which
mock gay men and joke about
choking “whores” and raping
“sluts”. Given the rapper’s measured
advice that Stan treat his girlfriend
better, the misogynist murder
fantasy “Kim” is particularly jarring;
Eminem’s ventriloquised victim is
not a fictional persona like Slim
Shady but his then wife.
Such songs are deliberate acts of
provocation. Frequently accused
of corrupting white America’s
suburban youth, Mathers goads his
censors by doubling down on his
freedom to offend. If Slim Shady
anticipated stan culture, he was
also a proto-troll.
While LGBT+ and women’s rights
groups protested outside, Elton Johncontroversially performed “Stan” with
Eminem at the 2001 Grammys. The
duet marked the start of a lasting
friendship. The singer once referred to
“the meanest MC on Earth” as “you
gorgeous thing”, while Mathers’
wedding gift to Elton and David
Furnish was “two diamond-encrusted
cock-rings on velvet cushions”.
“Stan” is a common reference point
for US and UK rappers. Nas cemented
the song’s place in the hip-hop canonTHE LIFE
OF A SONGSTAN
people who had never been through its
doors,” says Dan Beaumont, a DJ who
founded several London venues.
Besides being a crucial component of
the night-time industries, which con-
tribute an estimated £66bn to the UK
eachyear,Fabricattractedtouristsfrom
all over the world andincubated emer-
gent strains of electronic music that
reverberated far beyond the club scene.
The sugary vocal hooks of today’s
commercial pop hits are regularly forti-
fied by muscular electronic beats.
Beyoncé, Drake and Kanye West have
sampledundergrounddanceproducers.
Adele releases her music with XL
Recordings, which started out as a hard-
coreravelabelin1989.
AsInto the Night, the current exhibi-
tion at London’s Barbican, illustrates,
the history of nightclubs stretches back
over a century. Today’s techno temples
are descended from music halls where
radical ideologies collided with unbri-
dled hedonism. The sound of contem-
porarydancemusicandtheculturethat
went with it — letting loose to the pneu-
matic funk of drum machines and syn-
thesisers — was born inChicago and
Detroitin the mid-1980s, where the
blueprints for house and techno were
forged in communities of colour, often
byqueermusiciansandDJs.
These sounds exploded in the UK,
whereayounggenerationdisaffectedby
the individualism of the Thatcher era
sought a unifying force. They found
transcendence on the dance floor, withEminem rehearsing at Radio
City Music Hall, New York, in
2000 —Jeff Kravitz/FilmMagicNextGen
Dancing to a different tune
11 per cent from 2005 to 2015. And
where once going to clubs would be the
only way to hear certain genres, now
everythingisavailableonline.
Massive venues, like the 5,000-
capacity Printworks in London, are tap-
ping into these shifting attitudes. It puts
on events comparable to one-day festi-
vals, with big-budget lighting and big-
name DJs. It suits dancers who only
want to go out once every few months.
PrintworksisownedbyBroadwickLive,
a company that runs festivals and ven-
ues in Europe. Managing director Brad-
ley Thompson believes that part of its
success is the diversification of pro-
gramming, hosting music at weekends
but remaining open midweek for film-
ing and corporate events. He extols the
virtues of a “balance of corporate and
ticketculture”.
Yet for many devotees of club culture,
itfeelslikeLondon’sbigpartieshavelost
their vitality. “When culture moves
towards the mainstream its political
dimensions are scraped off so it can be
refashioned into an attractive commod-
ity,”saysGarcia.Tofindaclubscenethat
is still genuinely political, dancers must
look further afield: to the parties rising
in cities including Mexico City, Kampala
and Shanghai. Or to Tbilisi, Georgia,where last year thousands of clubbers
staged a rave protest in front of parlia-
menttoprotestagainstbrutalclubraids.
Ten years ago, New York’s clubscape
faced a crisis similar to London’s today.
Its revitalisation was spearheaded by
parties on the fringes which were un-
afraid of politics, oftenaimed at queer
communities and people of colour (a
nodtoclubculture’sroots).
ThesearebeginningtoemergeinLon-
don, too. Pxssy Palace is described by
co-founder Nadine Artois, a non-binary
person of colour who uses the pronouns
they/them, as being born of a need. “A
lot of people like me felt frustrated not
seeing themselves represented in night-
life,” they tell me. “Not feeling safe, not
having their needs met.” At Pxssy Pal-
ace,queerandtranspeopleofcolourare
offered accessible venues, a sanctuary
room for sober partying and a buddy
systemforpeoplewhocomealone.
The emergence of parties catering to
marginalised communities highlights
one of the many beautiful contradic-
tions that clubs ontain: the specific andc
the universal. When a dancer feels they
belong as an individual, they can freely
dissolveintothecrowd.
“People have been dancing until the
sun comes up for as long as people have
been people,” says Beaumont. “They’re
going out to feel music physically, in a
way you can’t anywhere else. They’re
searching for their community. Every-
one’slooking for the same thing, really,
inthedark.”Clubs must be agile to
survive and pay
attention to shifting
culture. Young people
are drinking less
NOVEMBER 9 2019 Section:Weekend Time: 11/20198/ - 15:32 User:andrew.higton Page Name:WKD16, Part,Page,Edition:WKD, 16, 1