ABSTRACT
London, November 2006: The club night is supposed to happen somewhere in London’s East End. After leaving my cellphone number on an online dubstep forum, I will be informed that very evening where the party is supposed to take place. Around 9 p.m., the coordinates of the location surface on my display. I have been following the community radio station Rinse FM over the last couple of weeks and learned of the importance of cellphones in this music scene. I meet up with two of my colleagues from school; we have some drinks, and finally slip into the night, wandering through dark alleyways somewhere between Shored-itch and Whitechapel. We enter the place through a huge cast-iron gate fastened by a chain, making the entrance as minimal as possible. A young, friendly woman asks us for the contribution of £5 and lets us pass. The building is an abandoned office block, ready to be turned into expensive condos to conform with the pressures of gentrification in the area. Once I stand in the courtyard, I notice the heavy beat of a bass coming from somewhere below, the asphalt seems to shake and crack.
