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Some dissent was expressed about whether
I should be the one to review this club but I thought, fuck it. I'd been
a voracious supporter of Asia (which is about to be 'revisited, remixed and
refreshed' at the same venue, and about time too) and it turned out that
I had more in common Club Kali's philosophy - as an oasis for 'attitude-free
connoisseurs' in a sea of queer conformity - than my detractors did. Turned
out they had a fantastic time, and stayed on after I'd left (lingering summer
flu meant I couldn't hack it, much to my chagrin).
No wonder really: Club Kali was supreme. And no, don't imagine for a nanosecond
that is just PC claptrap. The mix of Bhangra and Hindi 'with a Western influence'
means that a thumping bass is largely, blissfully absent. The drum is the
heartbeat here: it inspires a kind of bhakti from the crowd, which included
blue-haired Goths, white shaven faggots, sari-clad men and women, blacks
and Chinese as well as a hoardes of gleeful Asiatics.
DJ Ritu played at the first gay club I ever went to, a decade ago and continues
to stretch the boundaries. People still wave their hands in the air, but
they do it with a bit more flair. When was the last time you went to a place
where that happened, eh?
If like me, you never imagined
that the squat, square building outside Euston Station was nothing more than
a drab storage facility for British Rail, hold onto your handbag. Not only
is it a club, but it's lesbian-only (I felt we needed a Special Secret Knock
to get in) and on Fridays, the space is taken over by a jazz bar.
For years, to enjoy live jazz you had to go to straight clubs which, I must
say, marred the experience. But no more. The Glass Bar isn't quite big enough
for even a trio, let alone an ensemble as the stage is the size of a hankerchief
and the sound system only marginally larger. But that's a rather lovely bonus,
to find a place where the conversational noise is louder than the entertainment.
No wonder such a wide variety of 'gay women' frequent the club, which has
'over 800' members.
One difficulty arises if you aren't really a jazz fan or have just popped
in for a pre-dinner or pre-club drink (that's £1 per person for the
privilege and then £2 a bottle). Once the duo starts to warm up, you
have to troop upstairs and wait until the music's faded away. Or you can
pay an extra £1.50 to listen, and if you're knowledgeable enough, fox
the singer with an obscure request. The biggest draw for me was the seating.
A bit chintzy but tremendously comfy, The toilet is very lovely
too.
I can't dance for toffee: all I
can do is frug wildly on the sidelines. I was once dragged onto the floor
for the Gay Gordons at Butlin's but all that gliding, spinning and dipping
is out of my league. The last club I thought I would visit on earth would
be a ballroom. How wrong I was.
Don't even think 'Wot! No Techno?' This is the world of mirror balls, Julie
Andrews and the New Seekers, Frankie baby and Ginger Rogers. It's full of
twirling fags and dykes who two-step, military march and Lilac waltz their
cares away, wearing desert boots and shorts, dolly shoes and 40's dresses,
check shirts, chaps and DMs. Leave your tuxedo or sequinned dress in the
closet and check your attitude at the door. The tea dance is not formal and
you don't have to be Gene Kelly to go.
The Garage may lack the gilted-edge glamour of the old dance halls, and may
not seem the best venue for tea, cucumber sandwiches and tripping the light
fantastic, but it works extremely well. The air is cool and free from smoke
and poppers, although occasionally clouded by talcum powder which stops the
hoofers slipping during the Tango. The floor is thankfully large enough to
accomodate a polka of breakneck speed or line dancing to the 'Hairspray'
soundtrack.
I really enjoyed myself. It seems I'm not the only one fed up with rice krispie
music and all that posing and posturing: there were lesbians and gay men
of all ages and all abilities whisking and twisting. Count me in for one
more reel.
The Pembury has certainly been through
the mill. Eight years ago, it was a haven for Hackney's legions of crusties
and squatters. After a while, it became a biker's bar, complete with resplendent
Harleys parked permanently outside and hairy brutes dominating the pool table.
Then it transformed into an Irish bar, added a shamrock on the door and
MacCaffrey's on the pumps. Now, it's been taken over by lesbians who have
plans to turn the venue 'exclusively gay'. The local yokels will just have
to bibulate elsewhere in future...
The pub has only been open for a very short time, and word needs to get round.
The Pembury's almost cavernous compared to other pubs from E1 to N17. The
beer's £1.80 a pint, there's a red pool table with blue balls (nothing
to do with the lack of heating) and no door charge for the weekend entertainment.
Plans are afloat to get an extended licence, and a women's night on Monday
is anticipated. There's even the obligatory wobbly table! The decor might
be a trifle lurid (the greens and reds are striking but a tad calamitous)
and the silk flower arrangements on the wall smack of Dagenham Interior Design
Co., but it's a gilt-edged opportunity. All it needs now is you
punters.
Who would have thought it eh? Yet another
safe haven from the techno terror that is London town. Of course, you have
to go East to get there but it's well worth it the walk from Liverpool Street.
Oh, and it helps considerably if you're a lesbian because - for once - this
a straight venue that hopes to go women-only.
Pussycats used to be the infamous Alternative, an extremely popular pub night
that ran during the 1908s. Although the pub itself has an ample bar and garden,
Pussycats is held in the function room. Oh yes, I hear you - most bashes
held in this sort of space are drab, grotty and cold. That certainly isn't
the case here, as the management have made a real effort to make the space
comfortable, even adding chips and dips for each table, hanging baskets and
low level lighting.
The music - provided by DJ Angie - is a tip-top mix from the 70's and beyond
including the likes of the B52's, EWF, Hot Chocolate, New Order, Cher and
Candi Stanton, Detroit Spinners, Take That, the Eurythmics and Lionel Richie.
It's definitely a play list with some kudos: the dykes that turned up bopped
the night away quite merrily, rarely parking their bums on seats at all.
Pussycats is very a relaxed space for every sort of lesbian but the slightly
older generation (30+) seem to love it the most. When the clock struck one,
it seemed that no-one wanted to leave, which might pave the way for longer
hours. Depending on the success of Pussycats, the whole pub might just provide
a lesbian-only sanctuary with an excellent atmosphere. And it doesn't cost
a bean to get in either.
All ©Megan Radclyffe Publ. Time Out Magazine 1995-1998
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