DC10 opening party

DC10 opening party

4 June, 2007 | 6.37AM

• Section: Music News Topics: Ibiza, Industry Boy Blog
• Written by: Industry Boy

Whilst the majority of the world wakes up today grim-faced by the prospect of another week of work, we wake up and crack into vodka. It may only be 11am, but that doesn’t matter because we’re in Ibiza. 

Monday morning may mean commute, coffee and computer for the world, but here on the island it only means one thing. DC10.

The special Ibiza club is Industry Boy’s favourite place in the world to dance, and the excitement of returning back to its terrace is enough to make a little bit of wee come out.

Dwayne and Industry Boy hop-skip it to Café Cockroach for take away pizzas whilst Talulla does her make-up and hair.

Then we spend the next two hours drinking and readying our disco clobber in our hotel appartment.

After a quick taxi ride, we find ourselves pulling up to the club, which is located in the middle of the Ibiza desert/countryside, near the airport.

A man in a green uniform and moustache knocks on the taxi window whilst we pay the driver. He beckons us outside.

He has a gun.

“Where are you from?” he asks like an interrogating police officer, the sun itself like a police spotlight, shining brightly on our faces ready to expose any sign of distress or anxiety.

“London,” replies Talulla.

“Ok, go,” the Guardia Civil man orders.

Then he stops Industry Boy.

Great, it must be the new haircut – having shaved off half my head, I’ve been attracting quite a lot of attention.

“Do you have any drugs?” asks the man.

“No,” I respond as politely as possible. I didn’t have any drugs, and I hadn’t murdered anybody but the threatening question made me feel like a serial killer. I felt like I had done something wrong, and it showed in my face.

The cop grabbed me and led me to his car.

He put his fingers into my waistband and pulled my jeans towards him, opening up a gap wide enough so he can get a good view of my penis.

The sudden light and the possibility that there could be a strip search made my cock retract back into my body.

After another violating look, the cop sent me on my way.

In the queue I catch up with Talulla and Dwayne and tell them what happened.

“Surely in England the police can’t do that?” Talulla says.

Once inside DC10, with a vodka limon in my hand, I relax.

I’m determined not to let the search ruin my day so I forget all about it and concentrate on the killer pounding techno that’s coming out of the speakers in the pitch-black room.

It’s totally banging, and it’s only 3pm.

Then we head outside onto the terrace - its four dark red walls guard the craziest dancefloor in the world.

Red stands for fire. Passion. Love. War. Each one of these words is appropriate for Circoloco’s party at DC10.

And in DC10, every single person would gladly shed blood for the club.

Tourists and dreamers are soon found out – the intensity of a thousand disco-connected bodies is too much to bear for someone who hasn’t sworn an oath of allegiance to dance music.

Normally we go through life trying to avoid the touch, smell and sweat of a stranger, but in DC10 you embrace it.

In a world where community is playing a less and less significant part in our lives, and a time where we connect to each other electronically rather than face-to-face, the intimacy of clubs like DC10 is all the more poignant.

This is a place that is built from the imagination of a thousand young clubbers.

Anything goes here. New meaning is given to the words debauchery, decadence and freedom.

Industry Boy looks towards the DJ booth, and spots Lady Desire dancing and smoking.

It has been a while since the dark lady has been in my life, and today I am ready for whatever she throws at me.

A man dressed in a complete Spiderman outfit appears on the shoulders of a nearby muscle man.

A few seconds later on the other side of the dancefloor another Spiderman pops up and the two mimic each other, making hand gestures and signals. The whole club laughs and smiles at them.

A fat Italian encouraged by his mates, jumps up onto the speakers, pulls off his tshirt and trousers and dances like a maniac in just his y-fronts to great applause.

It’s almost as if he is shedding the shackles of daily life and the annoying custom of humans to use clothing, and is screaming at the top of his voice - ‘This is me. I am fat. But I don’t care’.

A man in a clown mask wonders past offering sweets to everybody he meets.

A stunning girl with the body of a catwalk model stands up on the DJ booth, blows kisses at the crowd and throws out red noses.

Today she is the princess of DC10.

A girl throws glittery stars over the crowd from the speakers, like a fairy sprinkling magic dust.

We find a comfortable location on the left-hand side of the dancefloor and get down to the glitchy dirty minimal of Matthias Tanzmann.

Then Talulla spots two people with Circoloco @ DC10 tattoos.

“Told you they were tacky,” she says.

They do look a bit silly.

We soak up the atmosphere and the surrounding anarchy and cuddle it until it has enveloped our bodies.

Time becomes irrelevant, happiness becomes prevalent, life becomes complete.

Josh Wink gets on the decks and drops a tune with the weirdest of breakdowns, just a single electronic whirring noise that rises and falls for about two minutes.

Circoloco’s punters respond my whistling and jumping like kangaroos - they are the most responsive dancefloor a DJ could wish for.

John Digweed is spotted in the DJ booth – perhaps even Diggers is desperate to play at DC10?

Then the soundsystem blows.

Wink turns around and applauds a guy, trying to divert blame to elsewhere.

For a while the club whistles and cheers but after 25 mins of silence, it’s clear that something is badly wrong.

Then it hits me. The terrace must be about 50°C.

For some reason they thought it would be a good idea to put windows on the terrace, which has turned it into a glasshouse.

It might be some clever ploy to get clubbers to purchase more fans, but the poor amp and speakers have probably overheated.

Eventually the soundsystem gets turned back on and once again the Circoloco runaway train careers off on its wild course.

DC10’s female resident DJ Tania Vulcana appears in the booth and takes the mood down to a slow-burning minimal house chug and the sun begins to set.

Dwayne and myself stumble outside for a quick breather.

After dancing for five hours, our bodies and minds are aching.

Industry Boy is admittedly pretty trashed.

As we sit underneath a tree, Lady Desire comes wandering up and sits on Dwayne’s lap.

She tries to kiss Dwayne, but he turns his head the other way.

Then she sits on Industry Boy’s lap and we start kissing.

It feels a bit rough.

She then wonders off into the crowd.

“Dude, you do realise that was a bloke?” says Dwayne.

“Huh?” I respond, barely understanding his words.

“That was a bloke, you just snogged some bloke!” he shouts.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I sober up.

“Seriously geez, I’m not joking you just snogged some bloke.”

“I er…don’t remember, I thought I was dreaming,” I say, my words have difficultly leaving my mouth. “Why the hell didn’t you stop me, you bastard?”

“I thought I was tripping out, I wasn’t sure if it was real or not,” says Dwayne.

“I can’t believe you. I was snogging some bloke, and you didn’t stop me! What kind of friend are you?” I shout at him.

Then the two of us laugh about what just happened for 10 mins straight.

I make Dwayne swear never to tell anyone about the incident and then we head back to our spot on the terrace.

At this point, the terrace is a circus.

Mind-bending, bizarre, ridiculous, preposterous, insane – no word exists in the English language that accurately describes what we see.

Lord Luciano, the master of minimal, plays the most surreal techno I’ve ever heard, dropping rhythms and monstrous basslines that rip right through our bodies crushing any set that has come before.

Of all the parties Industry Boy has been to, of all the DJs I’ve seen, Luciano’s two-hour set which closes the DC10 terrace tonight is the pinnacle, the best dancefloor moment of my life.

The crowd adores Luciano – at one point every single person waves their fans at him whilst he smiles and extends his clenched fist into the air.

He guides us through till midnight controlling our emotions and bodies like a conductor.

As we walk three abreast down the dark Ibiza road in search of a cab home, Talulla, Dwayne and me agree that that was the best night of our lives.

Even if I did snog a bloke.

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