Garage music doesn’t need souping up with an orchestra, argues Pea Priestly.
When I originally heard that DJ Spoony was curating a night of UK garage backed by a 36-piece orchestra at the Barbican, I was in Thailand surrounded by hostile monkeys. The news provoked such intense feelings of joy and nostalgia that I immediately sought out a rum and pineapple, downloaded whatever half-baked compilation that Twice as Nice had wheeled out and had an impromptu rave outside my hut. For those of us who came of age with this music, years spent manically twirling and bouncing like hyperactive string puppets, this event felt monumental: the Barbican endorsement was validating a genre that had long suffered from serious PR issues and gunshot headlines; the orchestra was, some might argue, providing a kind of legitimacy that had always escaped garage (and is only now gracing her little cousin grime) and we could dance, unfettered by the usual sticky floors, while taking regular breaks for ice cream and Côte de Provence Rose. My belief, as I weaved and dodged Thailand’s obese flies and pizza-sized spiders, was that this concert would trump all garage nights that had come before it. My discovery, however, was that 90s UK garage was already perfect....Keep reading on The Spectator.
When I originally heard that DJ Spoony was curating a night of UK garage backed by a 36-piece orchestra at the Barbican, I was in Thailand surrounded by hostile monkeys. The news provoked such intense feelings of joy and nostalgia that I immediately sought out a rum and pineapple, downloaded whatever half-baked compilation that Twice as Nice had wheeled out and had an impromptu rave outside my hut. For those of us who came of age with this music, years spent manically twirling and bouncing like hyperactive string puppets, this event felt monumental: the Barbican endorsement was validating a genre that had long suffered from serious PR issues and gunshot headlines; the orchestra was, some might argue, providing a kind of legitimacy that had always escaped garage (and is only now gracing her little cousin grime) and we could dance, unfettered by the usual sticky floors, while taking regular breaks for ice cream and Côte de Provence Rose. My belief, as I weaved and dodged Thailand’s obese flies and pizza-sized spiders, was that this concert would trump all garage nights that had come before it. My discovery, however, was that 90s UK garage was already perfect....Keep reading on The Spectator.