Check out a stronger, better, faster version of this article over at Noisey UK. There’s photos of Lex Luger with a stonking great joint. You’ll love it.
The last time Land of Kings descended upon Dalston it was amid a universal consensus that E8 had finally succumbed to gentrification and should be left to slowly suffocate in the limp, clammy grasp of Harry Styles and co. A 2014 absence of the one day, multi-venue festival was taken as just one of a surfeit of signs that the dream of a patch of land free from corporate suits, where creatives could pet their rabbits, was officially over.
Yet, defying the odds and some embarrassing Time Out Game of Thrones puns, Land of Kings announced it would ride again in 2015. So I decided to sacrifice my Sunday marathon of Millionaire Matchmaker and take a trip across the river in the hope of discovering whether Dalston had taken a leaf out of your divorced Mum’s book (‘Salsa on Tuesdays, Zumba on Thursdays!’) and found a whole new lease of life.
Peering down at paeans.
Land of Kings properly cranked into gear at about 4pm. Four hours later, I’d raced up Kingsland Road in both directions, been spanked by a fearsome woman wielding a riding crop at Bunker and was treated to a tone deaf yet weirdly heartening Backstreet Boys karaoke number, but I was yet to find an act that had blown my nuts off. Queuing outside Dalston Roof Park for three-quarters of an hour to watch Flyte peddle their winning brand of indie-pop for five minutes hadn’t quite justified panting up the stairs in stupidly tight jeans. The presence of the legendary Don Letts had briefly taken things up a notch, but there was barely any time to bask in rooftop reggae before I had to traipse up to the EPIC to check out Wyles & Simpson. It wouldn’t be the last time I’d curse the Land of Kings itinerary for screwing me sideways- making the Sophie’s Choice between catching Chløë Black at Birthdays or Boxed In’s Total Refreshment Centre show was torturous.
Flyte being attractive.
Dusk was beginning to fall as I exited EPIC. Wyles & Simpson had served up some gossamer electronica, including a Tears for Fears cover that was almost enough to expunge any lingering memories of the 2010 world cup anthem fronted by sentient tumour James Corden, and Dizzee at his lowest ebb. Almost. Yet the most enthralling event of the day to that point had been a pavement fight between a girl and her teenaged brother. ‘I’m gonna fucking kill you!’ she bawled, straining against her father’s grip. The ugly domestic was a world away from the politely appreciative audiences I’d come across, but somehow it seemed a truer display of the Dalston spirit than had been presented by PR girls in Mango jumpsuits and their graphic designer boyfriends thus far. I munched on a Nakd bar and wondered whether we’d collectively killed the concept of cool.
Thank fuck for Chloe Black. Performing at our very own Noisey takeover of Birthdays, her look was Wednesday Addams meets Kim Kardashian and she liberally dripped charisma all over stage, knocking back whiskey and shooting coy glances at the punters through Bambi-wide eyes. “Y’all are drunk motherfuckers in the corner” she drawled to a group of girls who were shitfaced in a distinctly non-Dalston way. Her addressees were at the Tiger Tiger scale of drunk and leading a group singalong to Black’s songs rather than opting for the aloof state of inebriation being practiced by the quiffs-and-loafers gang at the back. By the end of the set though, everyone was on a level pegging and begging for an encore as Black finished up with Yeezy’s douchebag anthem ‘Runaway’. It was glorious.
For the first time that day, I was properly feeling it- it may have been the two vodka lemonades I’d sunk but let’s attribute it to the music instead, yeah? Brolin took to the stage next, his distinctive mask obscuring the upper half of his face. Didn’t impede upon his blistering performance though, which instilled a buoyant euphoria in the audience. The couple in front of me began furiously making out; a boy brushed my arm and then asked for my number- Brolin had lit a fire underneath audience libidos. The only jarring moment occurred when he asked the audience in his thick Northern accent, if ‘anyone here’s taken any drugs?’ A strange silence descended upon the onlookers; no one wanted to admit to a whiff of the powders in case of repercussions. We were starkly reminded of the structured nature of the new Dalston; a Dalston where today’s actions could have consequences for tomorrow morning. Brolin covered the awkward hush by mumbling that he ‘loved drugs’ and launching into his final banger.
After Brolin had ambled off stage, I sprinted to the Huntley + Palmers showcase at The Alibi to check out pre-Raphaelite deckmaster Ghost Culture cast his spell over a crammed basement crowd. It was packed; my hair was expanding to Gretchen Wieners proportions as I watched two girls kitted out in identical shorts and vest combinations perform a synchronised shuffle-side step. They moved in tandem dreamily and I left The Alibi still confused as to whether they’d choreographed their dance or unconsciously mimicked each other.
My return to Birthdays was intended to coincide with Lex Luger’s arrival onstage but I was met instead by Albert Redwine’s aquamarine mop of hair, Ultrademon still manning the decks as Luger was apparently hella late. No complaints from the Birthdays throng; the place went absolutely mad as Ultrademon dropped T2’s ‘Heartbroken’ and followed it with one of the best DJ sets I’ve heard in a while. People were lit for that shit. One grown man went into paroxysms of glee upon registering a ‘Touch My Body’ remix: ‘MARIAH!’ he howled excitedly. Ultrademon had played for an entire hour later than planned but sweaty, heaving knot of people would clearly have been happy if he’d just taken over the whole night.
Ultrademon, tearing it up.
Ultrademon’s set left my spirits so high that I lost it and blew my last fiver on another vodka lemonade. Fuck it, I thought. Youth is a precious gift and I shouldn’t be wasting mine sober. In an hour, penniless and seriously flagging, I regretted my cavalier spending. At the time though, my endorphins were pulsing and a warm buzz was pooling in my stomach. I was ready for Luger to bring it.
And oh my word did he. Despite not actually touching the decks once, ‘The Lex Luger Experience’, as his DJ and hypeman dubbed it, was pure, raging fire from start to finish, eliciting the sort of insane energy from the crowd usually only found at Danny Brown gigs. Luger also sports Brown’s trademark tooth gap: maybe it’s a biological stamp to mark out those who truly dgaf about anything but squeezing every last drop of sweat from the audience. Sauntering on to the bombastic H. A. M instrumental Luger’s first act was to puff and pass the massive fuck off joint he was holding to those of us watching who lacked the artistic privilege of openly smoking dope in clubs. Then he went in, accompanied by a crew who made it their mission to dial the atmosphere all the way to 100%: Birthdays was going up on a Sunday.
At one point he dropped thumping remixes of ‘Don’t Waste My Time’ and ‘Know Me From’ one after another and a sweet little blonde girl with a trilby perched precariously on her head yelled something in my ear.
“WHAT?” I shouted back.
“I SAID… I’VE NEVER BEEN TURNT LIKE THIS BEFORE.” she bellowed, wearing a slightly fearful expression, pronouncing ‘turnt’ as ‘turned’. “I USUALLY DON’T GO IN.”
By 1am I was done. Movement was barely possible: my limbs ached, my hair was now at the Donna Summer stage and I was soaked, partly due to the water Luger was flinging about but mostly thanks to my self-produced perspiration. Yummy.
But I still found the energy somewhere to stick around for Noisey’s patented grime karaoke, this time featuring OGz member Jendor, joined by Jammz and Row D who proceeded to burn up the stage for the smart patrons who’d seen the showcase through to the end.
Wearily, I crawled out of Birthdays and started limping towards a bus, or any moving automobile that promised to take me south of the river. Raf Daddy and Psychemagik were smacking down basslines at Oval Space but Land of Kings had finished me; I couldn’t even bring myself to queue for a 99er at McDonalds.
Twenty minutes later, I had spurned the advances of an elderly man (‘Come to mine luv, I’ve got heating’- the mating call of a winner) and was reflecting on my fragmented day against the backdrop of 2005’s Pride and Prejudice soundtrack. From about 9pm onwards, the acts had been killer but ultimately there’s very little Dalston in Land of Kings. Not to sound like your ma, but watching the envisioned shit ton of bands isn’t feasible thanks to overlapping schedules. Equally, the gorgeous, homogenous audience would have flocked to any part of London for the privilege of queuing in order to get on a roof. Give it two years and fests like this will have re-located themselves in Peckham, with venues like Bussey and Canavan’s hosting reclusive bedroom producers and rising Soundcloud stars. At Land of Kings, you end up flitting between two sites in close proximity, or committing yourself to one showcase. There’s no sense of the connected or cohesive Dalston #scene of yore here- it’s just a succession of gigs that happen to be in the same locale. Dalston may still be a land of scrappy dye jobs and late night organic cafes, but it long ago abdicated its throne as king of culture.
Orpheus Speaks 