Photos and videos from last night are here.
Photos and videos from last night are here.
My photos and videos from last night’s U2 gig at the O2 are here.
Photos and videos from last night’s excellent Smashing Pumpkins gig are here.
I’ll tell you the reason you couldn’t get home,
Cause there’s nowhere you’ve been and it’s nowhere you’re going,
Home is only a feeling you get in your mind,
From the people you love and you travel beside
Today marks exactly 10 years since I climbed into a white van with three friends and embarked on the long drive to London. One of my most vivid memories of that morning is of my final moments in the flat I shared with my brother in Bridgeton. Looking into the rooms for what felt like one final time (I would of course return for visits) and closing the doors behind me, it felt like the final episode of an American sitcom. “Sorry, we’re closed.”
It was definitely the end of something. I had no idea what was about to begin.
Today lends itself to reflection and taking stock. I’ve already written about my move in the context of one of its primary soundtracks, Confessions on a Dance Floor. As I describe there, my first year or so in London was tough. From the vantage point of a decade later I can look back with some affection at the loneliness which threatened to devour me yet I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Still, things got better. The terror went away and some great people came into my life to steal me from loneliness. Life happened, as it always must. One of the (many) things I had yet to learn back then was that I wasn’t losing a home in Glasgow but rather gaining one in London. A week ago I visited Glasgow for my 36th birthday and I remarked to my boyfriend that it never felt jarring going back; there is never a moment of ‘ok, I’m in Glasgow now’. It just feels like I’m in another part of my home, as effortless as if I’ve just walked from my living room into my bedroom. I know enough about the world to know that I’m very fortunate to be able to say that.
I am getting older now. 36 obviously isn’t old but it’s not an age you can ever imagine being when you’re 14, 20, even 25. When you’re younger there’s always a sense that you’re at the beginning of something; now I understand that life doesn’t work like that. There isn’t some point where you suddenly feel, “ah, this is it! Life is beginning!” Instead you just realise that life has been happening all along – this is what you have, for better or worse. Who you are right now is who you are, not some prototype version of something better. You better make the most of it.
If I’d never imagined being 36, I may have had some vague notion that when I was older I’d be a rock star or a famous writer or the Prime Minister. While there is nothing wrong with these aspirations, I am instead aware of far more mundane achievements which all seemed unimaginable at some point. I am gay, out to my family, friends, work and living with my boyfriend. In Glasgow I had a ‘family lunch’ which included my partner, his brother and his brother’s boyfriend and it didn’t feel in the slightest bit strange or awkward.
To the teenager who used to lie awake in bed and pray to God to make me ‘normal’, that feels like being a rock star.
There have been times in life when I couldn’t imagine having a circle of friends whom I loved, a job which didn’t fill me with dread every day or any money to do things which I enjoy. Things which seem quite small, really, yet are so, so big. I made what felt like an earth-shattering move to London and ten years later I find myself living a pretty average life, finding happiness in lying beside my boyfriend in bed and reading a book. The little things… there’s nothing bigger, is there?
Life is never movie perfect. Sadness, dissatisfaction, boredom and yearning are all things you will always feel to some degree. I think part of adulthood is accepting that and not trying to fight it; not trying to ward off the compromises which inevitably come but facing them head on. I understand that even living a mundane life is a privilege many don’t have and often that’s because of circumstances which are well beyond individual choices. Perhaps I am being trite but while we should never settle for misery, we should also never fail to appreciate what we may have while we still might have it.
Life moves on and I have no idea where I’ll be in ten years’ time. I always find myself morbidly fascinated by stories of people who tragically die relatively young: I think that, surely, they weren’t so different from anyone else? They were just ordinary people taking each day and then suddenly they were gone. The vast majority won’t be remembered by anyone other than those around them whom they loved and were loved by, if they had anyone at all. So I return again to the little things and the prosaic joy of a rainy Sunday.
Today is my boyfriend’s birthday and I’m off work. We’re going to walk up Primrose Hill and then meet some friends in a pub. Tomorrow, fittingly, there is an all-day Madonna party in Soho. I’ll get drunk, dance and come home to slump on the sofa. I couldn’t think of a better way to mark my decade in London.
My final weeks living in Glasgow in the run up to April 2006 are a haze of nervous excitement and ‘oh my God what am I doing?’ fear. Being a working-class guy who lived at home during university and then moved in with my brother, moving hundreds of miles away to London for no particular reason was a Very Big Deal and I had no idea how (or if) I would cope. I can’t even remember what I did on my final evening in Glasgow – in my mind climbing into the rented white van, which my friend drove down to London on April 1st, is almost a Year Zero. My memories from before then feel different because life was different. I was different.
One of the evenings I most vividly remember involved going to a gig at the University of Glasgow student union with my brother and then rushing home to see Madonna’s new video, Sorry. The song’s parent album, Confessions on a Dance Floor, had come out the previous November and quickly proved to be ubiquitous. I had been sitting in Delmonica’s, the main gay bar, the evening after Hung Up had first been played when the DJ said that he had a treat for everyone: “Time goes by, so slowly…” Back then, to hear a song played in a bar immediately after its release felt shocking and exciting. It also made me anxious as the same DJ had played American Life on its release and rubbished it. I wanted Madonna to do well and felt a rush of relief when he said, “well that’s a lot better than her last rubbish, isn’t it?”
In November I attended a Confessions on a Dance Floor launch party at a short-lived gay bar named Icon (which I later reviewed for a local listings paper). It was a joyous event for what is widely viewed as one of Madonna’s most celebratory albums and I danced all night. Hung Up became a staple of my nights out, a song that (like Crazy In Love, Can’t Get You Out Of Me Head or Toxic before it) was such an undeniable example of pop music at its most thrilling that it elicited gleeful reactions whenever that ticking clock intro was heard.
Given the failure of the ‘difficult’ American Life album it was no surprise that the marketing for Confessions on a Dance Floor emphasised its fun, floor-filling qualities. The album itself was something of a different beast, its lyrical content far more thoughtful and introspective than you would have expected from the advance word (or indeed from Hung Up). One of its main themes has been central to Madonna’s work ever since she introduced herself with a purred “I know you’ve been waiting” and implored listeners to “Come on, take a chance/Get up and start the dance” in 1982: the shortness of life and the need to make it worthwhile. Hung Up finds her telling us there is “no time to hesitate” and that “those who run seem to have all the fun”; the hook of Sorry is the endlessly repeated disdain of “I’ve heard it all before”, suggesting that the crime of her addressee is not so much lying and/or cheating but wasting Madonna’s time by being so boring about it. The counterpoint is found in Push where she celebrates a friend/lover who makes her “go the extra mile” and be “a better version of myself”. In Confessions (as in Madonna’s entire discography) the dance floor is a place of transformation and transcendence where you are, for an all-too-brief moment, the best that you can be. It’s where you glimpse something better, away from the mundane cruelties of quotidian life; it’s a microcosm of a life spent making your own “place I belong” and staying endlessly curious. You can dance…for inspiration.
This all obviously resonated with me as I struggled with the decision of whether to move to London. I had a good life in Glasgow: a decent job in social work, a strong network of friends whom I loved, little debt. Yet from the moment a friend (living in Oxford at the time) got in touch to say he was moving to London and suggesting I join him, I felt the nagging pull of something more. As is my melodramatic wont I raised the already high stakes of the decision: I would either move to London or I would move out of my brother’s flat and buy somewhere in Glasgow, putting down more permanent roots.
I toed and froed endlessly. I took days off work to just walk around Glasgow and think about what I wanted to do. The thought of moving absolutely terrified me – I am not someone who copes with dramatic change well. If my instinct was to remain, however, that nagging feeling kept me listening to one song from Confessions over and over.
There’s only so much you can learn in one place. The more that I wait, the more time that I waste.
Jump spoke directly to me – to my terror over leaving and to my fear that if I stayed, I would always wonder what might have been. “Are you ready to jump?” almost seemed to mock my insecurities and scream at me, ‘just bloody do it you silly fucker!’ I knew and loved Glasgow – I felt I had conquered it, in a sense. Now London stretched out before me, a new mountain to climb. I felt that I had to prove something to myself: “I can make it alone” looped within me again and again. The day I told my friend that I would come with him even now makes my legs weak – I was going to jump and I didn’t know where or how I would land. The last time I saw my mum before I moved she told me that London would make me a ‘better person’. I was secretly hoping the same.
I moved to London in April with no job and £1000 which had been left to me by my grandfather who had died the previous year. In that first year life rushed past: excitement, yes, but also loneliness like I had never known. My friend and new flatmate quickly found a girlfriend whom he spent most of his time with; I worked intermittent temp jobs, got more and more in debt and spent most of my time in a cramped flat with a single-bed and no internet access. Sometimes I sat at a table in the living room and cried, wondering what on earth I was doing there and why. Still, constantly in the background, its songs playing in every gay bar and club, its videos always on the wall at G-A-Y, was Confessions on a Dance Floor and its urge to push through that loneliness, that fear, to something better. Because that is life and some day the music will stop.
Madonna’s Confessions tour came to London in August that year. She had never played Scotland and going to London to see her had previously seemed impossible but, as tantalisingly close as I was, I couldn’t possibly afford to go. The first night she played I was sitting on the sofa feeling a bit miserable when the phone rang. It was an American friend I had recently made, a gregarious explosion of a person who had a love heart tattooed on his neck. He was back in America at the time and had decided to call just for a chat. Afterwards I had the widest grin, elated that this person who had so recently been a stranger cared about me. I allowed myself to think, “maybe this is going to be okay.”
And it is okay. Now I am fortunate enough to be able to afford seeing Madonna. Twice, in fact – I am seeing her in London and then, for the first time, in Glasgow. Seeing her there, 10 years after she helped me take the jump which led to this point, I’ll allow myself a moment of pride. Because things aren’t ‘okay’ in the way these stories are supposed to be in fiction; I didn’t one day reach this plateau of contentment after which everything was fine. The exact opposite, in fact: I came to understand that the nagging which had spurred me to London was part of being alive and would only vanish when it was over. I made some friends, found a job and eventually came to consider London my home. The place I belong, no matter how difficult it can sometimes be. “You know it won’t last long and all those lights they will turn down.” In the meantime, you can dance.
Album is here
Any gay person will recognise, on a visceral level, the dynamic around the ‘little things’ which Panti Bliss describes in this video. We will also recognise what she says later about it becoming so commonplace that you almost become inured to it. You almost forget that it happens and how ugly it is.
When the awful Glasgow lorry crash happened one of the big responses to it was a wave of sentiment and self-love over Glasgow and its people. ‘People Make Glasgow’ goes the slogan and it’s something which has more and more become part of the city’s view of its own character, especially over the past year when its status as ‘Yes City’ led many to be convinced that its people simply ‘care more’ about the weakest in society. This made me very uncomfortable. It made me uncomfortable not in some detached rational sense but in a visceral way. When I thought about why this was, I found myself returning to when I lived in Glasgow and could not go a single day without at least one person shouting homophobic abuse at me. Literally every single morning as I walked to work, the local school children would shout ‘poof’ and ‘bender’ at me. Literally every time I went out wearing colourful headphones or dressed ‘alternatively’ (I used to do a fine Jarvis Cocker impression) people would shout ‘poof’ and ‘bender’ at me. And I did become inured to it. I realised I had become inured to it when I moved to London and, on my first morning there, found myself passing a group of teenagers just hanging around on the street. Instinctively I shrunk within myself, staring at the pavement and focusing just on getting past them. Then what I dreaded happened: one of the kids said ‘Hey mate!’ to get my attention. I knew what came next – the mocking, the slurs and the laughing – so I kept walking in silence. Then he shouted again, more loudly. Ok, I thought, I might as well just get this over with. I looked up at him. He said ‘I love your outfit!’ and that was that. I stood there for a second, stunned. I mumbled ‘thanks’ and then hurried off.
I swear every word of that is true and I will never forget it because it made me realise just how numb I had become to it. I of course know that what I experienced in Glasgow was perpetrated by a minority of people and happens all over the UK (and beyond) – including in London. I of course know that the racist abuse which followed my Korean friend around the streets, including one horribly memorable day when a couple of kids ran alongside us in the park shouting racial slurs and I felt disgustingly impotent, is an example of the racism which is deeply embedded in our society. These issues are not Glasgow’s alone. Yet when I see people in Glasgow congratulating themselves on how special, tolerant and kind they are I can’t help but return to those daily slights which still make me shrink into myself in certain situations and be disgusted at the conceitedness. Because when we view ourselves in the most idealised light possible we not only lose the capacity to recognise, understand and change the worst in ourselves, we also lose the ability to listen to criticism which contradicts us. This is true of Glasgow, which has no particularly monopoly on human kindness and has a panoply of problems. This is true of London, which fancies itself as a cut above ‘the provinces’. And it’s true of Paris and wider ‘Western democracy’, which right now is indulging in delusional and dangerous masturbatory fantasies of our own superior ‘civilisation’ and ‘values’ (go here for the best response to this I’ve seen).
The worse in humanity which we experience and, crucially, which we perpetrate is nothing but endless cruelties if we do not always strive for an honest, brutal self-awareness. The playwright John Steppling here describes fascism as “deposits of cruelty sedimented in the psyche”. This resonated with me because it perfectly captures why the tendency to always think the best of ourselves/our cities/our cultures is so dangerous – it leaves the cruelty festering, unexamined and untouched. That’s why responses to the Paris atrocity which seek to understand, to lend context, are not ‘apologism’ – they are absolutely essential if we truly aspire to be better than we are. My Twitter bio is a quote from Hannah Arendt, an intellectual who experienced her own accusations of ‘apologism’ when she attempted to understand Eichmann and the Nazis. I will end here with it as I think it sums up that, whether it’s applied to homophobia, wider social justice or great questions of ‘civilisation’, the only way we can ‘progress’ is by seeking to recognise and understand ourselves at our worst, however uncomfortable that may be. We must not allow ourselves to be inured:
And to think always means to think critically. And to think critically is always to be hostile. Every thought actually undermines whatever there is of rigid rules, general convictions, et cetera. Everything which happens in thinking is subject to a critical examination of whatever there is. That is, there are no dangerous thoughts for the simple reason that thinking itself is such a dangerous enterprise. . . . nonthinking is even more dangerous. I don’t deny that thinking is dangerous, but I would say not thinking is even more dangerous.
One of the things which previously inspired me to write on why I thought ‘gay art’ was at a dead end was seeing a ‘film’ by someone called Antonio Da Silva. This consisted of 14 minutes of naked men speaking about themselves and wanking. The thoughts I articulated in that blog struck me again today when an article about Da Silva’s latest popped up on my Facebook. I must confess I haven’t watched the full 13 minutes but it seems to consist of naked men speaking about themselves and wanking. This may have passed me by without further comment but something caused me to pause:
“All my films have been self-funded, your donation will help me to continue producing films that aim to be artistic as well as sexually explicit. People who donate will be contacted to watch unreleased footage once it is ready. I am grateful for your contribution.”
This quote from Da Silva appears above a plea for donations and a series of gifs depicting the men in the film masturbating. The ‘appeal’ is pretty obvious (and it’s not the art) but the assertion that his films ‘aim to be artistic as well as sexually explicit’ reminded me of a series of adverts I’ve seen for this increasingly popular night in East London which describes itself as “a literary salon featuring unclothed men”. I was also reminded of the ‘Red Hot’ photography series which has been a perennial feature in the press, both queer and beyond, since it debuted. The statement on the Red Hot website that the series has raised thousands for anti-bullying charities then reminded me of the Warwick Rowers and Ben Cohen, both of whom have also monetised ‘classy’ sexual images with an added charity sheen.
There is clearly big money to be made in facilitating respectable wanks. I remain of the opinion that that vast majority of this stuff is terrible (and deeply cynical) yet with the very recent arrival of gay marriage in Scotland and today’s images of gay marriages in Florida, I started thinking about a wider context for this ‘art’ which I hadn’t previously considered. Gay marriage is the culmination of the rise and subsequent dominance of ‘respectability politics’ in the queer community, something I’ve written about many times before – it’s easy, then, to draw clear links between this and the rise of LGBT art as ‘porn-with-meaning’. I don’t use the word ‘porn’ pejoratively here but rather to muse that many of the above examples are risible attempts to intellectualise the very basic and very human urge to be aroused and to get laid, comparable to how respectability politics tries to downplay the ‘deviant’ aspects of queer identity (both sexual and political) and make it more ‘acceptable’ to a wider audience. In this way the decline of radicalism which has characterised queer politics over the past 30 years can be seen to have fed into our mainstream LGBT media, obsessed with facile bullshit and castrated schoolboy giggling over celebrity nudity, and aforementioned queer art. I wrote in my blog on newsworthy microaggressions that they “flatter the self-expression of those who control or have easy access to the media” – something which I think is of key importance here. The desire is not only to appear a certain way to others but to have that reflected back and so feel that way too – the drive to respectability is about self-love as much as anything else. Of course as a basic principle this is fine but when projected through the prism of an LGBT world which overwhelmingly reflects the interests of those of a certain class and certain colour (and certain gender to an extent) it becomes detached from any reflective political power and ends up as a brutal narcissism. As James Baldwin described the ‘gay world’ in the quote which ended that piece: “It’s a very hermetically sealed world with very unattractive features, including racism.”
We can see this even in some self-conscious attempts to remember and/or reclaim the radicalism of the past. Depictions of the struggle against HIV are enormously whitewashed and even much modern activism fails to reflect or even acknowledge that worldwide incidences of the disease are overwhelmingly and disproportionately found in Sub-Saharan Africa (almost 70% of cases vs less than 7% in Western Europe/North America). Even the film Pride, which movingly depicts the solidarity displayed between LGSM and the striking miners in 1984/5, contains pretty much zero people of colour and while it depicts gay men in fetish gear (for example) it manages to completely desexualise them.
The depiction of class in Pride is also interesting. The miners’ strike is only ostensibly the heart of the film – really it’s a liberal message of tolerance and mutual respect. The collapse of the strike may have destroyed communities for decades to come but the film’s emotional climax is the arrival and support of the miners at Gay Pride in London. The closing captions tell us that the National Union of Miners were then instrumental in making the Labour Party adopt a gay rights platform – the film concludes with the working-class defeated but having helped to bestow respectability upon the queers.
It’s easy, then, to see how the current LGBT media, as brain-dead as it is, could applaud the film and bypass any issues it raises about critical thinking and wider solidarity: in the end it can be a film about the path to respectability and, read that way, it pushes the same buttons as the dominant LGBT politics and art. Indeed, I saw the film praised by quite a few gay viewers whom I’d not long before witnessed viciously slating the RMT for their latest tube strike. Irony is not dead.
In this sense the film offers an unthreatening flirtation with radical politics, just as the examples of ‘art’ I mentioned at the beginning offer an unthreatening flirtation with the aggressive potential lurking in sexual ‘deviance’. We can draw further links from this, with the furores around the threatened closures of Madame JoJos and the Joiners Arms speaking to a contained and commodified radicalism which is about little beyond its own reflection. The rise of club nights which offer ‘crucial edginess’ as mentioned in the Joiners piece also clearly fit into this: they offer caricatures of rebellion which can be left behind at the door as you return to respectability. The latest advert for Sink the Pink is a pretty perfect illustration of this:
Classist, condescending and sexist, this betrays the reactionary vacuum which lies behind the respectability politics so dominant in the LGBT world. It is from this vacuum that racist and orientalist ideas about the world beyond white Western Europe/North America flow and it is into it that true solidarity vanishes.
While I obviously had issues with Pride I don’t wish to condemn it out of hand: it was far better than I could ever have expected it to be and it had small but important touches which disrupted the dominant narrative as described above. One of these came to fruition at the emotional climax I wrote about. Prior to the mining community arriving in their droves, we are shown a Gay Pride organiser telling the members of LGSM that they can’t join the main parade with their ‘political’ banners because people just want a ‘celebration’. It’s only the force of numbers of the miners and LGSM that forces the organiser, due to sheer practical concerns, to back down. To me, that organiser can represent the current LGBT movement, apolitical and obsessed with respectability, and the film’s most truly radical message of solidarity for a current LGBT audience is not to say that we should seek to ape the politics of 1984 or ‘all get along’ but to remind us that even now we can join with others in a common cause and effect change not only out there but in our own reactionary and ‘respectable’ community.
In areas like Shoreditch and its peers around the globe, the cosmetic renewal of a portion of the crumbling urban core coincides with continued – or intensified – infrastructural decline. The reactivation of dormant (or low profit sweatshop-occupied) industrial properties first as artist’s spaces and later as bars, boutiques, apartments etc has made many landlords even richer, but the area’s large tracts of public housing, services and transport facilities remain in a deteriorating condition and/or are sold off to the private sector. Gentrification takes from the poor and gives to the rich. Anything residually ‘public’ will either be reclaimed for the middle class or left to rot. Each wave of colonisers plays out the contradictions of their particular claim to space, taking sides against the next phase of gentrification in which they nevertheless conspire…The creation and rapid extinction of cultural ‘incubators’ – clubs, art spaces, etc. – by more lucrative investments in areas like Shoreditch at the same time intensifies bohemian settler’s efforts to maintain that crucial ‘edginess’ which is the USP of the area’s marketing.
The piece this quote was taken from (“Shoreditch and the creative destruction of the inner city“) was written over a decade ago yet remains the most insightful commentary on what’s happening in the East End of London (and beyond) that I’ve seen. I’ve referred to it in the past, not least when Dazed & Confused insultingly posed the question of whether East London was ‘dead’ because the ‘creatives’ were finding it a bit expensive. The writers at D&C were completely useless on gentrification, presenting it both as a new phenomenon and as something somehow removed from magazines like their own and its endless articles presenting the East End as a hub of cool, edgy creativity. Both were and are a nonsense. No brand better sums up the “bohemian settler’s efforts to maintain that crucial ‘edginess’” than Vice which, like Dazed & Confused, launched in the early 90s and bought Shoreditch’s Old Blue Last pub in the same year Benedict Seymour’s essay was written. It’s become a shorthand signifier for an edginess that is “one part actual intelligent, progressive, boundary-pushing journalism to nine parts nihilistic misogynist awfulness” and it’s not irrelevant here that one of its co-founders is a reactionary dickhead. Vice was and is aimed at a young, self-consciously ‘creative’ reader for whom it offers a titillating taste of transgression. Today Vice has posted an article on the impending closure of The Joiners Arms, a Hackney gay bar which it’s fair to say has been an institution in London’s LGBT scene. Entitled “The Joiners’ Arms is Closing and It’s a Travesty’, the piece is fascinating in its inadvertent revelation that these people still really, really don’t understand what’s happening in London. As with the previous D&S piece, gentrification is presented as some nebulous external force that is encroaching on ‘proper Hackney’ and “pushing out those that can no longer afford to stay”. Yet the article itself documents some of the logic and processes behind gentrification, even though it clearly doesn’t realise it. Seymour’s piece explains how the wave of ‘creative gentrification’ which saw Shoreditch “celebrated as the heart of London’s creative and artistic scene in the ’90s” led to it becoming “the apple of urban policy makers’ eyes in the late ’90s”. As he puts it:
Shoreditch was held up as an example of how the ‘inner core’ of the city, allegedly abandoned after the flight of working class inhabitants to the suburbs in the ’60s and ’70s, could ‘come back to life’ if the area’s ‘residual’ population of deadbeats were supplemented (that is, supplanted) by a lively group of dynamic and entrepreneurial cultural professionals. From the beginning this notion of new ‘life’ served to obfuscate whose life was being discussed – not that of the area’s economically challenged majority, it would seem.
This is a narrative which Vice follows precisely. The Joiners’, we’re told, opened in “proper Hackney territory” which apparently means it was “surrounded by empty shop fronts and council estates”. Notice that ‘council estates’ are clearly implied to be a bad thing here. It goes further – The Joiners’ was “a haven from a traditionally homophobic part of town” and it “flew the rainbow flag proud” despite aforementioned council estates. In the space of a few sentences we’re implicitly but clearly given the notion that Hackney was a declining working-class area and this is linked to homophobia. Was Hackney ‘traditionally’ viewed as homophobic, more so than any other area of London? Even this brief ‘gay history’ of the East End suggests otherwise, with this section concerning a pub literally minutes from The Joiners’:
Another vital meeting place for the East End gay community was the Royal Oak in Columbia Road, Hackney. While researching local history, Columbia Road resident Linda Wilkinson learned about Lil and Maisie, a transvestite couple, who lived in Hackney throughout World War II and performed at the Royal Oak while the bombs were falling. What’s remarkable about Lil and Maisie is that they were accepted by their neighbours. No stories have come to light of a similar working class gay couple anywhere else in London at this time. Lil and Maisie were still performing in drag at the Royal Oak in the 1960s.
No-one could possibly deny the certain existence of homophobia in Hackney when The Joiners’ opened, just as no-one could deny it now, but to suggest that it was a refuge from the homophobic working-class hordes around it is insulting. It is, however, an easy assertion because it appeals to familiar prejudices while claiming for The Joiners’ and its denizens that all-important edginess. Indeed, the article goes to pains to document The Joiners as “battling the encroaching diktat of political correctness” and offering “raucous mischief.” Yet rather than offering a radical disruption of the surrounding area it’s more likely that The Joiners’ opened as part of, and then furthered, the gentrification which was already occurring in Shoreditch. Although we must take note of the complexities and avoid generalising, research suggests a link between gentrification and a significant influx of LGBT people – in the Vice article we’re told of a writer who moved to Hackney in 2009 and “chose my flat partly because it was across the road [from The Joiners’]”. The flats directly opposite The Joiners’ were only build in the late 00s and most certainly weren’t social housing. To again return to the Seymour piece:
While Shoreditch’s magic circle was in the media spotlight the most massive and significant changes in the borough of Hackney, and indeed the city as a whole, were scarcely discussed. The social cleansing of working class communities across large swaths of London’s inner core, vicious cuts, privatisation, and Eastern European levels of poverty coincided with the highest number of housing privatisation ballots in the country. The latter, advanced in the name of ‘regeneration’ served to hasten the theft of the city from its true ‘creative class’, re-engineering former industrial areas as a playground for young middle-class consumers of surplus value. Although it is notoriously difficult to get precise figures, I would guess that as much as 40% of Hackney’s working class population have been pushed out of the area through the combined effect of rising rents, evictions, demolition and transfer of council housing into the hands of housing associations.
This is perhaps one of the central issues with gentrification – we never think that we are part of it until we feel victimised by it. For example, the Johann Hari-led attacks on Muslims in East London a few years ago owed much to the lazy prejudice which the Vice piece appeals to and owed much to gentrification. There’s no doubt that neither the owner of The Joiners’ nor most of the people who went there (including me) harboured any Machiavellian scheme to ‘claim’ the area but the process has been clear and ongoing for anyone who deigned to look. It was gentrification rather than ‘evolution’ which led to The Joiners’ becoming “basically…East London’s hottest new late night gay club”. It must be said that the article is utterly disingenuous in its failure to note that The Joiners’ did its best to capitalise on this – the notorious door charge is glossed over but it and drastically increased drink prices made the venue one of the most expensive in the area within a quite short period of time. This was combined with a door staff who were quite renowned for their aggressiveness – speak to anyone who went there with any regularity and they’ll at least know of a story. I found it amusing, then, that Vice repeats the familiar tropes about The Joiners’ (and the East End) presenting a:
…raucous, welcoming (unlike many Soho haunts, there had rarely been a “you’re not gay, you ain’t coming in” door policy), messy and character-rich up-yours to the stuff going on a few miles down the road in W1
Soho has long been the bete noire of East End LGBT venues, the great bogey man which they seek to define themselves against. Yet the complaints offered – that it’s too exclusive, too expensive, too homogenous – are ones which are repeated simply because they’re trite rather than because they are true. As the East End has continued its gentrification the venues and nights which have sprung up, such as East Bloc and Sink The Pink, have been as expensive and homogenous as any West End venue you could mention (if not more so). East Bloc on Saturday costs £7-10 while the next Sink The Pink costs £22. G-A-Y, in contrast, is typically free or up to £5 if you can’t be bothered picking up one of the many flyers. Yet the LGBT scene in the East End clings evermore to that ‘crucial edginess’ – despite its price Sink The Pink presents itself as a response to “recession with a Conservative government at the helm”. More disturbingly, these evenings delight in an aesthetic which is frequently racist and/or misogynistic – witness the gruesome yellowface at the top of this post – a trend which itself owes much to the colonial logic of gentrification. The Joiners’ Arms, then, finds itself victim of a rapacious gentrification which it once benefited from and which the East End LGBT scene has been/is complicit in. Yet we continues to ignore it beyond the most superficial level: Vice tritely complains of “an area that has been flat white-d and artisan burger-ed within an inch of its life” with zero comprehension of the processes and history behind it. The Benedict Seymour piece is an essential place to start in beginning to understand the ‘creative destruction’ at work here. When Pauline Pearce complained about the damage gentrification was doing to Hackney, pushing out the poor, driving up prices and eroding the area’s diversity, it was met with a furious response. Yet the closure of The Joiners’ is just the latest example of how this logic has no boundaries and, if left unchecked, the vast majority will suffer as the poorest in society are right now.