- Any flyer for Don't Techno Shit contains a cheeky pop-culture pic—a double-gunned Chuck Norris, Karate Kid and Mr. Miyagi or Evel Knievel in his stars and stripes—that, with a firm tongue-in-cheek and inward snigger, pre-empts the night's desire to twist things out of context with an instinctive sense of playfulness and fun. That said, it doesn't surprise that such a night would throw a 12-hour technofest at the end of a miserable and cold January because...well...why the hell not?
The line-up was such that every DJ brought something different to the table, keeping from the possible monotony of a half-day techno marathon: The irrepressible smiley-faced bounce of Chrissy Maranello (who also celebrated his Wonky Disco 2nd Birthday that same night), the dark, subliminal grooves of Criminal Record's Rebekah and the full-on, gadget-happy, tech-meets-trance of young headliner Maxime Dangles. In the red- and UV-glowing underground cocoon of Bar54, even on arrival, the dance floor was eyebrow-raisingly packed. Phil Jones was set to get the place going with his deep-bass, minimal set, but it was already going, searing with an insatiable intent I would equate to an evening's mid-point.
It was dark, rattling, rhythmic minimal for much of the night. A plodding, seamless mix by Rebekah could have been stepped up a bit (her session shied away from the kick her productions boast), but it was one of the usual suspects from Noisy Neighbour, Tred Benedict, who took to the Pioneer decks with much more emphatic purpose. Benedict dropped increasingly tough and tasty Format: B-esque bass-heavy hooks (I think he even actually slipped a Format: B number in there somewhere) and exemplified the aforementioned carefree "just for fun" ideals when he unveiled an antique air raid siren (purchased on eBay he later told me).
Those sirens helped soundtrack his and Maxime Dangles' aggressively dipping and diving session that departed from the minimal trend and slammed into his own kick-heavy, swirling, idiosyncratic brand of progressive techno. And each air raid alarm was met by equally as ear-ringing wolf whistles and primal shrieks.
Some forecasted super-clubs dying and long-running nights thusly going 'kaput!' would open the door for fresher, more unique nights to home themselves in smaller, more makeshift locations. No truer is that than here. Don't Techno Shit is showing us all again how a night can be as just as intimate as a house party, how comical a WWE wrestler is on the front of a flyer and how shitting brilliantly sirens and techno go together.