An evening with 'Ketty Seb' @ the 'Eat Your Own Ears' Warehouse Project

Less than 24 hours after being at the White Hotel, Seb was back in the dance, this time at the “Eat Your Own Ears” Warehouse Project, to see Four Tet, Floating Points, and more…

A self described “electronic music oficionado” and “wonkanaught”, billing himself as a “Hunter S Thompson for the horse (and sometimes rhino) tranquiliser generation”, occasional DJ and full time sesh-head Ketty Seb attends raves and writes hard-hitting and courageously honest accounts of his wild and varied experiences at them. 

Greetings, reader. 

The last time you were reading my work, I had left The Hotel White, convinced the hallowed Manchester rave scene had truly nothing else it could possibly offer me. A Guy Called Gerald would be turning in his grave, if he was dead. I’m looking at Ryanair flights to Berlin or Beirut the following day, before being reminded by my girlfriend (who I will refer to as Benjamin Netenyahoo so as to protect her anonymity from my potentially billions of readers) that we have tickets to go back out again tonight, to The Warehouse Project. I instantly feel genuine jealousy for the people of Ukraine, who at least don’t have to face situations like these, which Benjamin Netenyahoo describes as “ridiculous” as she begins to re-apply her eyeliner. I weigh up my options. The easy one is to not go, stay in and watch a gloriously impenetrable foreign film with my Mubi subscription, allowing half an hour at the end of the night to explain to Benjamin Netenyahoo various themes of the film she may have missed. Then there’s the option of going - a tough one considering how I’m shaping up after the night before and the prospect of a hellish early last entry at the Mayfield Depot. I’d rather not, but after the very probable shock-waves of my previous article I really owe it to my potentially trillions of readers to go. I’m not just a raver now, I’m a purveyor of polemic chic and I owe that service to a sick and suffering world. I also consider that the night will end with the techno Jedi that is Four Tet and his plucky young padawan Floating Points playing a Back2Back, and before long I’m texting my dealer. I should have a loyalty card for this guy by now, and begin the process of procuring the night’s necessary bag of bladder-ripper. 

The truth is, if Call Super at White the hotel was too commercial for me, the Warehouse Project is another level of late stage capitalism's post-fascist corporate hell. The evil operation of commodifying the hallowed experience of a rave is run by Sacha Lord, who also puts on Parklife festival, and is like an Altrincham-born cross between Rupert Murdoch and Benito Mussolini. Oooh, let’s transform the Mayfield Depot into a big warehouse rave that costs 40 quid for a ticket and £6.50 for those little cans of Asahi once you’re in there… How cool. That’s what the infamously unpleasant man says, probably. It’s a complete mystery to me why I gave this malevolent maniac my money, a transaction I don’t recall. Maybe I was ketty.

Lord also operates as a machiavellian, shadowy adviser to Andy-The-Lego-Man-Burnham, mayor of Manchester and unforgivable Blairite. So Sacha’s branching into politics, is he? Fascinating. I don’t want to run into libelous trouble here, but I’ve heard some dark things about their operation. I’d love to run a genuine expose on this, but would no doubt be silenced if I was explicit here. As a result I have left my allegation in the form of an extremely concealed coded message within this article. If you can spot it get Newsnight on the phone immediately.

Sacha Lord. Ew.

But, as I said earlier, any redemption from being a part of this cultural genocide lies in the line up: Four Tet, Floating Points, Overmono, Daphni, Joy Orbison, and more. I guess that’s how they get you in this gulag. We cue up at an unspeakably early hour - 7.30pm - in fear of Lord’s draconian last entry policy that clearly aims to get you inside buying his overpriced lukewarm Asahi for as long as possible. As Benjamin Netenyahoo and I move slowly towards the sniffer dogs and I feel our bags of ket rub against the rim of my arsehole, I think back to the last time I attended the Warehouse Project. Peggy Gou was headlining. As a valiant ally of the 5th wave feminist push for more female DJ’s, I take real issue with Peggy Gou. Her success and mainstream appeal sickens me, clearly entirely achieved solely by her good looks, which is quite oppressive when you think about it. I’m not looking for praise, the 5th wave feminist push for more female DJ’s isn’t about me, but personally I prefer to champion more underground and ugly female mixers. For this reason, I avoided Pretty Peggy’s set on my last visit to this depot, preferring to see Partyboi69 instead, who admittedly is an ugly male. Some philistines, who almost certainly can’t mix, say Partyboi69 is just an average DJ whose USP is simply to get crowds of morons to shout about having ketamine on their various sexual organs. These people clearly don’t understand his layered artistic genius, and I see little reason as to why I should have to explain that here, so I shall not. You can lead a horse to water, you know? Since then they’ve had all manner of events and DJ’s playing here, from serious heads such as Helena Hauff and DJ Stingray 313, to their fair share of drum and bass (YAWN), to lobotomised old men who incorrectly believe themselves to be young and cool like Craig David and Mike Skinner. A few weeks ago, at the Repercussions event, one of the headliners was an absolutely cretinous chancer who I don’t wish to name in full but will simply refer to as FR** AG**N… 

After a nervy exchange with security, but one in which they thankfully do not check my anus for drugs (I prefer to not risk simply “ballsing” it), we are in. It seems absolutely absurd to me that these knuckle-draggers take drugs off people at events. I get that they’re “illegal”, but one day I’d like to sit down with these people and explain to them about the psychedelic glories and neural transgressions that these illicit substances can achieve, and their essential role in appreciating high quality techno music. Have they heard of Jon Hopkins and his recent album exploring this topic? I very much doubt it. Regardless, I’m sure they’d be interested in what I have to say - without wishing to toot my own trombone I think I’m pretty good at explaining complicated ideas to people who may not initially have the mental capacity to understand them in ways that they find accessible. Once inside the WHP, the huge crowd makes for frustratingly long cues to get to a cubicle to get this ket out of my arsehole, and later in the queue for the shockingly priced Asahi I’ve already mentioned. There’s just too many people here, and we’re talking real quantity over quality, if you get my drift.  

Once the never ending queues are navigated, the night at least begins with some great stuff. Joy Orbison’s set at the Concourse kicks things off nicely, as do the slugs of arseket Benjamin Netenyahoo and I snort once sufficiently out of sight of security within the crowd. We opt to base ourselves away from the raised area behind the decks, where the sound is awful but it feels like you’re in some sort of pseudo-VIP area, and get down in front of the big JO where you can hear him sufficiently instead. His set features all manner of bangers, and despite its association with the above mentioned FR** AG**N, when he drops that one about killers in the jungle I feel so irresistibly urban that I get a massive erection, metaphorically speaking. Joy Orbison’s selection of dark, moody tech creates a fascinating dichotomy with his jaunty, punny name. The same cannot be said of Barry Can’t Swim, who we have to trek across three rooms to see next at Benjamin Netenyahoo’s insistence. Who is this Barry? And why can’t he swim? How awfully mysterious and elusive. Perhaps we are being referred to Barry Chuckle, who infamously struggled with his butterfly? I mean, please. Who does this guy think he is, Beckett? Pinter? Banksy? 

FR** AG**N - a cretinous chancer

After having to push through hordes of morons to get back to the very same spot we were at for Joy Orbison, we are then treated to Daphni, who looks uncannily like former Boards of Canada member Caribou. “Now we’re talking” I shout in Benjamin Netenyahoo’s ear, as colliding dimensions within dimensions within dimensions crash into each other in a glorious ketception. This tranq-hole is accompanied by the wily old wizard of Daphni, treating us to an absolute myriad (change later to “utter plethora”) of robotic noises. Noises like “zzzzzz”, “padowww”, “nyeeee” and “grrrrr”. I’m beginning to really enjoy myself, even appreciating the light show, and thus give Benjamin Netenyahoo “the nod” again. However, this soon all changes in a matter of a few selections, as Daphni moves from the sounds of a futuristic physician bending his favourite robot over the lab table to the nauseating lowbrow of garage music. To my horror, Flowers by Sweet Female Attitude (made popular more recently by a Live Lounge cover from Georgia Smith and JA Tracy) is dropped. A couple next to me, who I would guess are on the popular drug MDMA, turn to each other and say “I love you” to one another. They look a couple of years younger than me, and I’m sure I recognise the girl from somewhere, I just can’t quite place where, which frustrates me. At the point of their “romantic” interaction” my soul is filled with an expanding black mass of hatred. No chance of such an interaction between myself and Benjamin Netenyahoo, who can see my grin turning to a scowl and knows by now not to say such things to me when bad music is playing. I’m particularly disappointed with the young woman in this couple who looks to be so clearly enjoying herself, and feel an overwhelming desire to carefully explain to her that Sweet Female Attitude didn’t fight for the freedoms she enjoys today, but that the Suffragettes, the Pankhurst’s, and Boudicca did. But I’m not stupid. I know this endeavour would be futile - she seems in no fit state to learn anything important right now. No, instead she’ll continue to assert that early noughties girl garage broke the glass ceiling single handedly, like the swivel-eyed, internalised-misogyny hate-child of Rose West and Julia Hartley Brewer that she is. I just can’t bear to see women hating other women so much, instead of fighting for their common cause together.  

After briefly losing and then finding Benjamin Netenyahoo again in the battery-farm-esque smoking area, we arrive to the main depot stage to hear the sounds of TSHA, who I’d never heard of before. She seems cool - who invited this groovy little chick down to the party?! It dawns on me while watching her that female DJ’s can be both attractive and talented, and I wonder briefly whether I should cut Peggy Gou some slack. I like TSHA. I like her a lot. I start to dance with Benjamin Netenyahoo a bit, and she seems glad of my rare PDA towards her. TSHA’s set very much reminds me of two very distinct things. The first is bath times with my mother as a child. Before you think this is a bit weird, it’s not - the two women have absolutely nothing in common. My mum can’t mix, and TSHA is what I would call not a white woman. So it’s not weird, I’m just enjoying music. Is that such a crime? The second, and I admit this is a bit strange, is that Netflix documentary everyone was talking about for a while about the deep sea diver who fucks, and then unfortunately falls in love with, an octopus. I never actually watched it myself, but I’m reliably informed that it ends with the deep sea diver killing himself because the octopus got arthritis, therefore losing dexterity in its tentacles, meaning it could no longer use them to engulf his penis in an underwater reach-around and provide suction-based pleasure on his anus simultaneously. Anyway, I liked TSHA’s set. 

TSHA - pretty cool

Next are Overmono LIVE (whatever that means), whose set gives off the feel of real raw masculinity. Asexual, solid, masculine energy. I look around me, and other than Benjamin Netenyahoo, seem to be entirely surrounded by young men. I like this. Not in a sexist or homosexual way, I just like it. It’s a rare thing in life these days, I guess. Those whippets or bloodhounds or whatever they have projected up on the screen really add to that. I notice my fellow fellow’s eyeing up Benjamin Netenyahoo, and put my hands around her waist a bit tighter, enjoying having a bit of ownership of the only woman in the vicinity. The music played seems to carry off the same vibe - it’s good stuff. Their mix of Turn the Page by the Streets really packs a punch, and I wonder briefly whether I should cut Mike Skinner some slack. This enjoyment is halted, however, when some guy gets up on the stage and starts talking drivel during one of their tunes. An Irish man? Talking to a crowd? How original. No one wants to hear words at a rave, even in an Irish accent. Simple as.

After Overmono’s masculine marathon, Benjamin Netenyahoo and I briefly check what’s going on in the other rooms, not before sneaking off to snort ket off each other in the portaloos. We really do feel immensely connected at this point, both physically and in terms of each other's fashion choices/hair. To my absolute delight and hilarity, French house-pillock Folamour is playing disco music in the Concourse. I quite literally howl with laughter at this for a good 2 and a half minutes, and only after getting some strange looks from those around me do I decide to contain myself a bit. Imagine liking this stuff. What is one supposed to do when this is playing, dance? Hilarious. The closest thing I can compare being in this crowd to is watching a particularly good episode of You’ve Been Framed, and we agree to dance ironically for a few minutes more. 

However, the main event is soon approaching, so we stop pretending to like this nonsense and head to the main depot to see the B2B between the aforementioned jedi and padawan of Four Tet and Floating Points. For some background: Kieran Hebden (born September 1977), known as Four Tet, is an English electronic musician. He came to prominence as a member of the post-rock band Fridge before establishing himself as a solo artist with charting UK albums such as Rounds (2003) and Everything Ecstatic (2005). We’ve mentioned mad scientists before, well this guy truly is one, and I can’t wait to hear him play Looking at Your Pager, despite having already heard it twice tonight. Eat Your Own Ears is actually a record label owned by the big KH, and despite my earlier cynicism for this event we have him to thank for all of us being here. Sam Shepherd, known professionally as Floating Points, is a British electronic music producer, DJ, and musician. He is the founder of Pluto Records,^[1] co-founder of Eglo Records and leader of a 16-piece group called Floating Points Ensemble. I hear Sam is a local lad, and when I say that he looks boring and forgettable, I mean that in the best possible way. These two understand that being a DJ isn’t about being big, brash, or the centre of attention, it’s about accompanying the crowd with their sounds at the communal event of the rave. It is for this reason that they should be up on this big stage, worshiped and applauded as the high priests that they are of the religious ceremony we are about to behold. The early last entry, the cues, the ket up my arse, the overpriced Asahi, the idiots around me, Flowers by Sweet Female Attitude, the Irish guy talking, it’s all been worth it for this. Benjamin Netenyahoo and I worm our way to the very front, turn to each other, and kiss. The cynicism that has defined my outlook on this whole evening starts to ebb away, and I feel genuinely happy for the first time in quite a while. As the aforementioned Kieran and Sam take to the stage, we decide to do some more ket. The perfect moment… 

This is until I feel the unmistakably sausage-fingered hand on my shoulder of a big old gammon. I turn around and see this sweaty thick cut of Morrisons ham scowling at me. For clarity, I should add that this isn’t an actual piece of pork, but a security guard - one of the knuckle-dragging, joyless, compensating-for-his-micropenis twats that I mentioned earlier. He looks like the sort of man who would literally demonstrate to you, through the methods of shadow boxing, enthusiastic storytelling and a lack of social awareness, how he would specifically deal with various combat situations.

“You’re coming with me, pal,” he grunts.

I don’t exactly recall what happened after this moment. Benjamin Netenyahoo tells me that I wiped the ketamine crystals from my nose and denied any wrongdoing. After this didn’t work, apparently I placed my bag in his hand and accused him of doing ket. After this didn’t work, apparently I offered to kindly explain to him the psychedelic glories and neural transgressions that these illicit substances can achieve, and their essential role in appreciating high quality techno music, asking him if he’s heard of Jon Hopkins. After this didn’t work, apparently I called the security guard a knuckle-dragging, joyless, compensating-for-his-micropenis twat. Apparently this definitely didn’t work, and I was forcibly removed from the building. Benjamin Netenyahoo came not long after me, her lipstick a little more smudged than when I left her. 

Kieran Hebden (born September 1977), known as Four Tet, is an English electronic musician.

As I ruminate on this wild night the next day with a clearer head, events take shape with greater clarity. The injustice I’ve suffered at the hands of Sacha Lord, Andy Burnham and their army of security guards with micropenises has empowered me to start a ketamine legalisation movement, as well as to vow never to return to the absolute concentration camp that is the Warehouse Project. I’ve contacted lawyers to go about ensuring a full refund of my ticket, as well as financial compensation from the denial of seeing Four Tet and Floating Points do a Jedi/Padawan B2B, something they said they will have to “take a look at”. Fear not, reader - I will not be going quietly. I will get my justice. Watch this space. Sacha Lord - I’m coming for you.