Monday Night Rituals
June 11th, 2002 by freddie96
A paean to Chilli Dog from one of its regulars:
On the face of it there’s nothing special or different about the setting. A bar in a slightly edgy street in a culturally mixed part of London. The interior will never feature in Wallpaper*: all world-weary dark wood panels, long narrow tables with random chairs, some gently worn sofas and functional ceiling fittings with speaker, lights and projectors attached. Yet on just about every Monday night in 2002 to date a little bit of magic has been happening that has had people returning again and again. Welcome to the world of little rituals and gentle bumping together that is Chilli Dog.
It’s a quarter to eight on Monday evening and a Chilli Dog regular has come straight from work rather make the round trip home to North East London before taking his regular dose of South West 9 vibe at the Dogstar Bar in Brixton. As ever, just a few pockets of people are present at this hour: lads playing pool, friends meeting up before going on the Academy for a gig, and the last dredges of the daytime drinks that can be found in any pub. He looks to see if any familiar faces have arrived yet, orders a pint of Guinness and lays claim to the very long table that runs the length of the bar.
In a few minutes time, a slightly nervous figure clutching a record bag arrives, whose identity is different from week to week, but is generally grateful to see our early arriver who will provide encouragement to settle whatever nerves he or she might be feeling. That week’s guest newbie DJ exchanges greetings with the much-needed familiar face and as the clock hand slides towards eight, asks if they might be shown how the contents of the high DJ booth work and who to ask for deck needles. And what if our early arriver is not there? Then there will be others there instead, not by design, but more by some unconscious force of nature.
Those looking out the windows at this point will spot a fast-striding highsided baseball cup heading towards the venue. As this figure comes into the room, a broad smile is uncovered and hands and eyes are extended in greeting to and from half of those present. This is the ultra-high energy half of our hosts, a Brixton legend whose self-effacement and generosity belie his ability to fill a dancefloor into the early hours with people who really need to be bright and fresh at work by nine the next morning.
It’s time to start the music, so the barstaff are asked to turn on and up the PA. As the baseball cap finishes his greeting tour and picks up an orange juice to assume his usual post encouraging the DJs at the bottom of the booth’s short flight of stairs, our considered co-host arrives. He will signal greetings across the room and perhaps order a cider and sit and listen while people come up to him to exchange words, propose an idea, or hand over a tape or CD.
By now the long table is filled with people meeting and greeting, telling stories of the weekend they should really be at home recovering from and sending encouraging nods and hand signs to the newbie DJ who has by now totally relaxed and wishes they were playing for twice as long. Everyone is listening and contributing to two or more conversations at once and reserving an ear for the music too, often cutting off all other activity when their ear is caught by something unfamiliar or criminally underplayed.
All too soon the newbie hands over to the considered co-host, a DJ with no belief in genres at all. The long middle table is now full of happy and silly conversation, earnest discussion of the stupid and the profound, of tunes and visuals, slots and club nights. Faces are now spread across the room, at the bar, on the sofas and, increasingly, on the dancefloor – lead by a charming shirt, a tall dancer who likes her happy grooves, a shape-throwing soul lover and mother with a personality the size of a market town. Of course there are also other people filling the Dog who choose not to be part of this huge family of friends, but who soon are similarly smiling and jiving as they feed on the good-natured happiness that soaks the atmosphere filled with fine tuneage.
The DJ shifts change over amidst genuine applause, a regular occurrence in this most subtly different and generous of DJ bar nights. As the music starts from the special guest you would normally expect to pay to see, and who has been happily chatting to all, a mild panic sets in with some of those present. They plead with their friends to make sure they are gone by 10.30 for they have to be at work by 5 the next morning or by 11 because they have a heavy meeting at 9. Remember this is a Monday evening, not a ‘thank goodness it’s the weekend’ Friday night, though sometimes you would be hard-pressed to tell the difference.
Some people manage to leave when their head says they should, but it’s hard work, since it is estimated that it takes at least thirty minutes to say goodbye even without a favourite tune being dropped just as the door is reached or yet another friend arrives. The flow-in picks up at this time as joy seekers from pubs cinemas, gigs and restaurants in the area seek to extend their pleasure.
The couple who have moved from Brixton to Cambridge only to keep returning on Monday nights finally make it to the door to make the long drive home, but only just in time, for it will soon be midnight. From this hour the doors will still let people in and out yet it will be nigh on impossible to leave until the rising of the sun in summer months. And what is the source of this entrapment? Why, it is our highsided baseball cap co-host, who effortlessly weaves a net of happy groovy beats that locks all to the dancefloor. His whoops, cries and shouts make time blur, the coming morning at work may as well be next week, offers of local floors to crash onto make the madness seem entirely reasonable.
Finally it ends, but guess what? – it will all happen again next week and when the Chilli Dog takes a break over the summer, scenes not dissimilar will be taking place in other places be they fields, tents, beaches or bars. And once you’ve been, once you’ve been part of them, you will want to be back there with the rest of the bigchilldren again and again.
Gidon Z Cohen
