Calvin Harris
FAKE Club, Kings Cross
Saturday, 7 January 2012
Something strange is happening to Kings Cross. An area that had been abandoned by most sensible Sydney-siders for the better part of five years is starting to get its mojo back. Leading the charge are a trio of venues which dot the fringe of the notorious precinct; FBi Social, The Passage and FAKE, all of which eschew the typical idea of paying to be in a club/meat-market and instead, lining up top talent and promoting it to kids sick of being turned away for not wearing nice shoes or having enough females amongst them.
FAKE, which floats somewhere in the endless, ambiguous three-storey void between Empire and Back Room, has arguably led the charge when it comes to letting one’s hair down. Which is precisely why promoters Fuzzy have made it their club of choice for their choice club gigs. To be able to net Calvin Harris, undeniably one of the biggest names in dance and pop music in the worlds at the moment, a man who could just as easily play underage haven The Greenwood Hotel or Chinese Laundry for quadruple the amount of cash, is a big deal. What’s even more impressive is that all around FAKE tonight, the usual bullshit of Kings Cross is in full swing; ‘roided-up boys harassing girls in short skirts, lads spilling out onto the street to social-smoke, skinny teenagers vomiting into the gutter, everyone eating Oportos. It could well be a bogan companion to the video clip for Harris’ latest smash with Rihanna, ‘We Found Love’.
Anybody who used to frequent underground electro institution Club 77 back in its heyday will have a good idea what FAKE is all about. A hothouse with no air conditioning, jammed full of excitable kids who just want to dance. It also boasts a sound system that would probably be illegal in most postcodes. When Calvin hits the decks at half-past midnight, the extra juice kicks in and these subsonic bass amps start sending colossal waves into the flesh of the sweaty room. I only know this because I’m standing right next to one.
At this point in his career — which seems to an outsider to have taken a sharp upward curve but is actually the result of years of hard work behind the scenes — Harris doesn’t need to prove anything. There’s no Steve Aoki histrionics and Dave Guetta Jesus-Christ_poses here, just a quick wave and an early bomb drop in the form of a devastating re-work of ‘I’m Not Alone.’ Within seconds, you can’t move anywhere inside FAKE except way up the back near the bar. And while it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, that’s what ‘clubbing’ in the conventional sense of the word is supposed to be about. There was never anything comfortable about going out to a room full of people and overpriced drinks on a Saturday night, so the fact that we can do all that and have international talent in the room breathes new life into a tired (or at least, high-jacked) concept, that has seen many just go for dinner and head home rather than deal with the details.
Let it be known that as much as he is a producer, Harris is at heart a DJ, and an enviably good one at that. He maintains the energy with carefully selected tunes from his back catalogue and remix portfolio, creating a set that flows with maximum energy; feeding off a crowd who already walked in half-clothed and sexy, but now look like they’re in a Calvin Klein perfume ad. Choosing choice cuts from his contemporaries, including Benny Benassi and Swedish House Mafia, Harris betrays little emotion; which, to be honest, actually makes him more likeable -- you can tell he’s actually doing his job. And all it takes is three notes from one of his own, like ‘Flashback’ which morphs into this pulsing dub banger after one chorus, to set the whole chain of crazy off again.
Seeing a world-class DJ at a festival is all well and good, but having him up close and personal in a room where it’s patently obvious that everyone is a fan, is a different kettle of fish entirely. After dancing in that room for an hour, aside from losing one's body weight in fluids, Calvin has somehow managed to turn the clock back five years. As he hits the opening strains of ‘Feels So Close’ and some completely random stranger starts hugging me, I realise I haven’t had this much fun on a regular Saturday night since I was nineteen.
When we stagger out for five minutes to breathe some oxygen, there are well-coiffed bankers lining up patiently across the road to get into whatever venue is considered exclusive this month. They stare at us, dripping with sweat, exhilarated, happy. Call it the Kings Cross paradox. Or perhaps better, The Calvin Harris effect.
Jonno Seidler