Onket
Je suis [CONTENT REMOVED]
He's saying that your club nights could be called gigs, using your own argument.
It's quite clear.
Angel pub on Coldharbour Lane becomes arty community space run by Brick Box
- Thread starter editor
- Start date
He's saying that your club nights could be called gigs, using your own argument.
It's quite clear.
Mrs Magpie
On a bit of break...
Loads. Even primary schools.
Winot
I wholeheartedley agree with your viewpoint
In a way, Brixton was undervalued before in market terms. You could see this as a correction to the prejudice that people have had against the area. Of course, this means that people who previously had this prejudice come to live/socialise here, and it's unsurprising that their arrival isn't welcomed by those they previously snubbed. And it's more serious if you're actually priced out by their arrival.
It's also tempting to rail against the symptoms when you feel powerless to change the cause. Tempting, but not very constructive - I'd be more interested in a thread about positive ideas/action from those who don't like the changes to reinforce the culture (for want of a better word) that they want to see in Brixton.
Minnie_the_Minx
someinenhhanding menbag and me ah bollox
teuchter
je suis teuchter
You've no idea what I'm on about? Seriously?
You dismissed the notion that the events I listed were club nights on the basis that they were GIGS and NOT CLUB NIGHTS.
Even though, in my book and just about everyone else's, they are indeed club nights.
So I wondered what your definition of a club night is. And it turns out that you define your Offline night as a "club night", which also features a mixture of gigs and DJs.
From what I can make out your once-again shifted goalposts are now defining anything with "well-known names" as not a club night.
Which is absolute nonsense.
Onket
Je suis [CONTENT REMOVED]
FridgeMagnet
Administrator
I have to say, if I was going to design an event that was meant to say "hello we are gentrifiers from Planet Shoreditch", a faux-Victorian-decadent launch party at £40 a head would be a really good starting point.
Kanda
Diving wanker
teuchter
je suis teuchter
I understand what you are saying. It's the editor's hysterical reaction to one single event there, (and ensuing insane logic in responding to my points) that I'm taking issue with.
If all they ever do is commercially driven nights then of course they are mis-selling themselves as a "community arts space". Maybe judge them on more than just this first night?
FridgeMagnet
Administrator
Well it's a bit late now yesI'd say you're a bit late with the idea...
You wait until my shop selling only organic Holgas starts though.
teuchter
je suis teuchter
What about go-go girls jumping out of a giant gateau and dancing the can-can?
editor
hiraethified
Is there any point to your increasingly weird off topic ramblings?
And please: no more of your deceitful gig listings.
editor
hiraethified
Yes they do. In a pub. Which is free to all in an event put on by locals. Have you got a point here because I'll be fucked if I know where this utterly bizarre argument is going.
They're putting on something a bit different, a live show for a fiver. It's not members only - anyone can go as far as I can see. There's no obligation to eat there. It's in a space which it seems would otherwise be unused.
The 'free' events mentioned are obviously paid for out of the bar takings. I can't imagine they'd last long if people didn't buy pricey drinks. I wonder how many people manage to get away with spending less then a fiver? That's not even two pints.
Give they guys a chance FFS.
The 'free' events mentioned are obviously paid for out of the bar takings. I can't imagine they'd last long if people didn't buy pricey drinks. I wonder how many people manage to get away with spending less then a fiver? That's not even two pints.
Give they guys a chance FFS.
Ms T
Honey-coloured ramparts
I don't think he's being deceitful. It's a good point well made - you just don't happen to agree with it.
And the £40 is for a four-course meal with entertainment, which is not an unreasonable amount. And they're taking over a space which is currently disused - it's not like they're pushing anyone else out. There's room enough in Brixton for all these things, imho.
teuchter
je suis teuchter
Brilliant.
editor
hiraethified
You don't actually understand the point.
He claimed that Brixton clubs were 'regularly charging' £15-£20 admission, and named the Electric Brixton and the Academy as examples. Except they're live venues putting on big name acts, not clubs.
None of the actual clubs he listed regularly charge £15-£20 admission. That is a simple fact, easily checked by looking at this week's Brixton Buzz listings. In fact, why don't you try and find some regular examples yourself if you think he has a 'good point''? http://www.brixtonbuzz.com/
Ms T
Honey-coloured ramparts
They charge admission when putting on acts/performances, which is exactly what Brick Box is doing, to cover costs. And they're charging £35 for a four-course meal, which is a pretty average price these days for a restaurant meal.
And last time I looked, DJs play clubs, no?
And last time I looked, DJs play clubs, no?
editor
hiraethified
Perhaps to you it is, but I very much doubt many people around here think a £40 meal to be averagely priced. I certainly don't.
There is no £35 option, btw.
Monkeygrinder's Organ
Dodgy geezer swilling vapid lager
The point is clear IMO, and basically true. If they maybe only charge a tenner 'regularly' and a bit more when they have a big name DJ, or whether it's a 'gig' or a 'clubnight' it's really not relevant. It's still true that a lot of Brixton venues already rely on a relatively wealthy young crowd. I can't see that's at all controversial tbh.
Vibrant-Hubb
Active Member
Hubert Vibrant-Hubb here. Well if it's anything like this it should be wonderful. A lovely "supper club" in a formely working-class West-Indian pub. How could anyone object? I expect I will adore it. I may rattle off a cheeky little review of my experience there, which I am sure will be, well, er, lovely. Just like the other lovely experience I had at "Right up My Back Stairs" in Acre Lane. Lovely things for lovely people, georgeousness everywhere. How could anyone object....
Right Up My Back Stairs, Brixton
My lovely lady and myself recently dined at the “Right Up My Back Stairs” eaterie in Brixton.
Gritty ghetto-chic? Tres bon. What an incongruous delight it is, sandwiched between such
proletarian banalities as a “laundromat” (whatever that is) and a Pakistani purveyor of news.
Who uses these quaint little mercantiles I've no conception. You certainly feel special, and we
are special aren't we, as you are ushered in through the discreet side door, unsignposted as it
is, cleverly deterring passing trade, local coloureds, ne'er-do-wells and the London poor.
“I'm surprised they bothered really”, I confided to my partner, “putting a restaurant for our
class of people here”, as we entered the bijou Victorian attic, a room artfully accessorised to
look like a salon of the French Renaissance (or something, we don't really know, but we love
feeling like we're in an exclusive clique where only people like us know to what we refer.
Apparently it used to be a cupboard).
I surmised the intended ambience is ultimately that of what some might call Fin de Siecle
Neoclassique, but... “does it pass the acid test of our refined sensibilities” my English Rose was
want to enquire. Well, we shall see.
Ensconced at a window table we were able to observe omnibuses and passing ethnics in the
street below, certainly a diverting pre-prandial human zoo, I mused, while quaffing my
somewhat recidivist champagne. Our waitress was an apotheosis of sneered disdain as she
took our order. Her indulgence of our guilt a titilating frisson. The menu? Extensive, if a little
derelict – a nod to the inner city locale mayhap?
We alighted on an eighteen course repast – a snip at £3095 (excluding fawning, which
customers are required by the owners to do themselves). Our starters were a liver and lager
consommé (a tad aggressive) and a pate of lemur heart (authentically Madasgascan but rather
perfunctory; Mrs Posh was quite upset). For main, I had guinea-pig tongue in a rhubarb
hollandaise sauce (exotic, erotic, sumptuous), and my partner in culinary and topographical
posturing optioned for the warm mousseline of mallard imprisoned in a marzipan sarcophagus
and drizzled in sputum, pavement-matured in the environs. (They don't tell everyone about
this for fear of overwhelming demand, it is organically harvested). She says it didn't deliver in
the flavour department. “How was it in the haberdashery department darling”, I quipped. I am
so funny and erudite.
To follow; a simple peasant sausage each (an homage to the native population), garnished
with a bounteous arabesque of crème fraîche and Pickled Onion Monster Munch. Impressive,
especially when one is distracted by attempting to appear familiar with the vacuous etiquette
of the aspirant classes, isn't one. The other sixteen dishes, suffice to say they were insouciant,
adequate, perchance to dream, even a little insolent. Cheeky chappies all – rather like the
adorable piccaninies begging for scraps outside. Mrs Posh says that something else she had
was also “very nice thanks” which adds much to this review I feel. What a cherubic little
poppet she is. I do love her so.
Our fellow diners were a teasing compote of hee-hawing nonentity, racism and wasted
education. “This is absolutely what Brixton needs” we chirruped (for we never disagree), now
stuffed like gluttonous dictators in our eerie perched high above Chav Street. Somehow it was
all so deliciously reminiscent of the sacking of the Jewish ghettos during the 1939 to 45 war, I
ruminate retrospectively as I pen this now, at this moment, myself, here.
“Right Up My Back Stairs” must be the best kept cliché, er, secret, in south London. A soupçon
of the Third Reich on our doorstep! We are such lucky, lucky people. “Chacun a son gout” I
conclude. Whatever the fuck that means.
By Hubert Vibrant-Hubb
Right Up My Back Stairs, Brixton
My lovely lady and myself recently dined at the “Right Up My Back Stairs” eaterie in Brixton.
Gritty ghetto-chic? Tres bon. What an incongruous delight it is, sandwiched between such
proletarian banalities as a “laundromat” (whatever that is) and a Pakistani purveyor of news.
Who uses these quaint little mercantiles I've no conception. You certainly feel special, and we
are special aren't we, as you are ushered in through the discreet side door, unsignposted as it
is, cleverly deterring passing trade, local coloureds, ne'er-do-wells and the London poor.
“I'm surprised they bothered really”, I confided to my partner, “putting a restaurant for our
class of people here”, as we entered the bijou Victorian attic, a room artfully accessorised to
look like a salon of the French Renaissance (or something, we don't really know, but we love
feeling like we're in an exclusive clique where only people like us know to what we refer.
Apparently it used to be a cupboard).
I surmised the intended ambience is ultimately that of what some might call Fin de Siecle
Neoclassique, but... “does it pass the acid test of our refined sensibilities” my English Rose was
want to enquire. Well, we shall see.
Ensconced at a window table we were able to observe omnibuses and passing ethnics in the
street below, certainly a diverting pre-prandial human zoo, I mused, while quaffing my
somewhat recidivist champagne. Our waitress was an apotheosis of sneered disdain as she
took our order. Her indulgence of our guilt a titilating frisson. The menu? Extensive, if a little
derelict – a nod to the inner city locale mayhap?
We alighted on an eighteen course repast – a snip at £3095 (excluding fawning, which
customers are required by the owners to do themselves). Our starters were a liver and lager
consommé (a tad aggressive) and a pate of lemur heart (authentically Madasgascan but rather
perfunctory; Mrs Posh was quite upset). For main, I had guinea-pig tongue in a rhubarb
hollandaise sauce (exotic, erotic, sumptuous), and my partner in culinary and topographical
posturing optioned for the warm mousseline of mallard imprisoned in a marzipan sarcophagus
and drizzled in sputum, pavement-matured in the environs. (They don't tell everyone about
this for fear of overwhelming demand, it is organically harvested). She says it didn't deliver in
the flavour department. “How was it in the haberdashery department darling”, I quipped. I am
so funny and erudite.
To follow; a simple peasant sausage each (an homage to the native population), garnished
with a bounteous arabesque of crème fraîche and Pickled Onion Monster Munch. Impressive,
especially when one is distracted by attempting to appear familiar with the vacuous etiquette
of the aspirant classes, isn't one. The other sixteen dishes, suffice to say they were insouciant,
adequate, perchance to dream, even a little insolent. Cheeky chappies all – rather like the
adorable piccaninies begging for scraps outside. Mrs Posh says that something else she had
was also “very nice thanks” which adds much to this review I feel. What a cherubic little
poppet she is. I do love her so.
Our fellow diners were a teasing compote of hee-hawing nonentity, racism and wasted
education. “This is absolutely what Brixton needs” we chirruped (for we never disagree), now
stuffed like gluttonous dictators in our eerie perched high above Chav Street. Somehow it was
all so deliciously reminiscent of the sacking of the Jewish ghettos during the 1939 to 45 war, I
ruminate retrospectively as I pen this now, at this moment, myself, here.
“Right Up My Back Stairs” must be the best kept cliché, er, secret, in south London. A soupçon
of the Third Reich on our doorstep! We are such lucky, lucky people. “Chacun a son gout” I
conclude. Whatever the fuck that means.
By Hubert Vibrant-Hubb
editor
hiraethified
Of course the real point isn't about these rather bizarre diversions into pay structures of actors or the difference between a venue and a club: it's about whether the Brick Box offering a private £40 themed foodie night in this particular part of Brixton in this particular pub is the best way to introduce themselves to the local community.
As a member of that local community, I think it's a terrible idea.
As a member of that local community, I think it's a terrible idea.
quimcunx
imprimeo, lamino, distribuo
The £15-20 admission was what you came up with when moving some goalposts. It's not unusual to spend £40 and more on going to a club night or gig night. It's not unusual to spend £40 on a meal and drinks for those who can afford either. It's not unusual to spend £40 going to the pub on sunday and buying drinks and sunday lunch. You'd prefer to spend your money on gigs/clubbing and booze. Personally I'd rather spend mine on a meal. Whatever your or my preference the supper club launch is just as valid a thing to spend money on as clubbing or gigging.
What is a more salient point is that it's looking like there isn't enough room for both social provision for the relatively well off and social provision for those less well off.
Ms T
Honey-coloured ramparts
£35 for the meal, £5 for the entertainment.
I eat out a lot more than you do. You are not a food person, tbh. As quimmy says, you'd rather spend your money on other things, which is fair enough. I like spending my money on food because that is my passion and £40 is certainly not an outrageous price for four courses and a cocktail in London.
editor
hiraethified
If you're rich enough to have that kind of cash to blow every time you go out, sure. But not everyone is.
Take a look around at my estate. How many people who live there do you think are able to spend such sums of money several times a week? No-one on my resident's group, for starters.
Oh, and teucher came up with that stupid, irrelevant £15-£20 diversion. Right here:
Ms T
Honey-coloured ramparts
Well you could argue that they have already introduced themselves to the local community, as they run a very popular cafe in Brixton Village and have run several free events already, including some kids' art events. Equally, Saltoun Supper Club is a well-established Brixton business.
editor
hiraethified
The cheapest you can get that meal is £40.
Can you really not comprehend that for a lot of people living where we live, £40 per head - or even £35 per head - will never be an 'average' kind of price for a meal?
If people want to spend that kind of money on meals, that's up to them. No problem there.
But do I think it's a great idea for a self-styled "‘ground up’ arts organisation and community movement" to introduce themselves to this particular area with such an expensive and exclusive venture? No, I don't.
Monkeygrinder's Organ
Dodgy geezer swilling vapid lager
Who said anything about doing every time you go out, or several times a week? If someone spends forty quid on a night out once or twice a month that isn't unusual is it? That sort of leap, and attempt to get people to defend things they never said, is exactly where the diversions you're complaining about start from.
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