We asked the Reddit community to recount the weirdest and most interesting things they have overheard at the smoking area. As ever with the Internet, the answers do not cease to amaze.
Step outside any club, and you’re hit by a barrage of sounds and smells: the thumping bass of the music, the stench of Marlboro Gold mixed with watermelon vape, and the random snippets of conversation from the people gathered around you.
In this socially-beguiling setting, if you listen closely, you might hear some of the weirdest, most interesting, and Kafka-esque words exchanged between those you find yourself stood out there with.
From cancel-worthy confessions to absurd arguments, it is a goldmine for the nosiest of us that love the gab. Reddit users revealed the craziest things they have overheard: get ready for a glimpse into the weird and wonderful world of the nightclub smoker’s area.
1. "We've had sex twice and he forgot my name the second time. But I swear he is a nice person... and he is really peng..." - From a girl trying so hard to justify her relations with a dick-head to her group of friends.
2. "I get to go to the bar on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays; you can take Tuesdays, Fridays and Sundays, and then we'll alternate on Wednesdays." - A guy having a custody battle over the phone.
3. "It started off as pussy but now it's love." - A contemporary retelling of Jane Austen’s Lady Susan.
4. “Yeah, I’m depressed. Everybody is depressed-” *starts pointing like Oprah* “- you’re depressed, and you’re depressed, and you’re depressed, and…” - The best mental health campaign I have heard.
5. "I only rent my apartments to couples having extra-marital affairs because they never use the kitchen. And it's less overall wear and tear. There’s usually not anything above a size four of women's clothes in the wardrobe when I check." - Maybe Mao was right...
6. (In the thickest Bristolian accent they have ever heard): "No, she got fingered by Gomper 'coz she wanted a fag."
7. “Oi. Tits first. I ain't a slag!” - Apparently overheard while walking home, loudly declared by a pair of smokers down an alleyway.
8. "I don't know if this is the cocaine talking but aren't penguins just magical!" - Followed by 20 minutes of showing people pictures of penguins on their phone.
There it is, a compiled selection of the strangest and most hilarious things that Reddit users have overheard at a club smoking area.
Whether it is the vodka, the sounds, or the atmosphere, something about that space seems to bring out the innermost thoughts and confessions of club goers. It’s a reminder that even in the chaos, there’s always a chance for a moment of absurdity or to overhear the true business of the people around you.
So, the next time you are smoking outside the club, take a moment to eavesdrop – who knows what gems of conversation you might discover?
Have a burning overheard confession you'd like to share? Head on over to our Instagram (@pwdrzine) to spill. Anon pls.
"Pill popping is as far as I've come to absolute perfect bliss."
What does it feel like to be in the throes of MDMA? One man’s rise and fall from a trip on Mandy. As told to Zandi Mlotshwa by an anonymous raver boy.
1. The Come Up
“
The best and worst substance that I’ve ever taken is MDMA.
People obviously talk about heroin and crack, and I have considered modest doses of meth and GHB just to kind of dip my toes in the chem session scene – if you don’t know what that is, it’s a naughty gay sex thing. But as a cheeky-chappy raver boy, I think pill popping is as far as I’ve come so far to feeling absolute unadulterated bliss.
MDMA is both a hallucinogenic and a stimulant, and it comes in two forms: pills (or pingerz) and crystals, which are generally called ‘Mandy’. You can get creative with the Mandy (MDMA crystals): you can grind them up under the weight of your fist or a debit card and snort them, or wrap the powder in a Rizla rolling paper, twist it and swallow with water like a Hay fever tablet. That’s what we call a bomb. Or you can just paste the powder around your gums. You’ll be sorted for a night if you’re taking Mandy ‘cause MDMA crystals are generally purer.
Mandy is disgusting. The last time I did this business, I mashed up the Mandy, about half a gram which is a good amount, and put the powder in a bottle of lemon-flavoured Volva water, and I remember that because it tasted spicy and chemical-like, as if I was chowing down on one of those air-freshener pills you see in urinals, like the ones Melman the giraffe from the animated film Madagascar eats.
Anyway, however you choose to ingest this sublime sexy substance, you have to earn the unequivocal bliss that we mates promise you’ll be feeling when you take it. What I’m talking about now is a sensation called a come up.
However you choose to ingest this sexy substance, you have to earn the unequivocal bliss that we mates promise you’ll be feeling when you take it.
Anonymous
To access the high, you have to physiologically rise to the occasion. You have to see your way through the sickness to get to the part that feels good. For me, it slowly rises from my chest, in my cheeks, and it just sits there, throbbing. It’s like a weight slowly sneaking its way around your body, and you’re trapped between wanting to stand up and move around and wanting to sit down. You feel anxious so you wanna dance, but fucking depressed so you stay seated. You feel angry, you feel really ratty, you feel sad, but you also feel anticipatory, and your breathing gets a bit deeper.
When you’re in the proper throes of this shit, you feel so depressed, you hate everyone and, if you bang Mandy out as much as I did when I was doing it, no matter how many times you’ve been through the come up, you never know if you will break out of that sensation for the night.
It feels like you’re teetering on a ledge – either you come up or you don’t – and you’re trapped feeling like shit for the whole night until it wears off.
2. The High
So, you’ve taken Mandy. There’s you and there’s the rest of the world. You can’t talk and you can’t really focus on anything happening around you at this rave you’re at but trying to get through this feeling.
Suddenly, your mate spills his drink down the back of someone in front of him and this person calls him a stupid cunt and you think it’s funny, really funny, and you come to the realisation that your mate is cute and he’s really silly and he couldn’t hurt a fly and the man in front of him is calling him names but it’s the most hilarious thing you’ve ever come across. You look around and everyone is having the best fucking time on earth, everyone is meant to be there in that exact moment, and your breathing gets shallow but deep at the same time.
With every inhale, this buzzing feeling emanates from behind your eyes and the beat from the DJ infects you. Whoa, you get this mad, incredible rush and this excitement and this euphoria and you just feel so much love for everyone. That’s ecstasy, innit?
If this is a dream, don’t wake me up.
You’re just consumed by this feeling like peace, but it’s not peace at all, you’re relaxed but wide awake. You start chewing, your jaw swings and you’re breathing funny. The music sounds so good and it’s fucking wicked. You are UP, baby.
You spend the rest of the night proclaiming your undying love for everyone, unprovoked, and nothing feels like it can go wrong in that moment. The air tastes and feels so fresh in your lungs. Your eyes are so wide – it’s the most fantastic feeling – and you cannot stop dancing to those house tunes being played in front of the gaff.
I really miss that feeling, the pure energy and happiness. Especially when there’s a beat and you feel community with those around you who are on the same shit. There’s nothing like it. But the funny thing about that is, obviously, all good things must come to an end.
Normally, when you start taking Mandy, you can enjoy the first few gos without neurochemical consequence. The first time is really good and the second time’s really good, but not quite as good, but really good still. The third time’s not as good as the second and so on it goes. You still get some beautiful peaks and highs but it’s never the same, and the drug’s effects usually last up to six hours. That rush of blood to your head feels so good until it doesn’t, and you get depressed.
That’s what happened to me.
3. The Come Down
Once the party’s over, you return to normal.
For example, it’s like when you go outside to the smoker’s area and realise that you’ve run out of cigarettes. Earlier in the night, that wouldn’t have been a problem because you would adoringly ask the stranger next to you for one and they’d oblige. This time, though, that realisation just leaves an empty feeling in your chest instead. It’s a small and sudden dip in the vibe, a little shift from a default positive response to a negative one, that brings you down from the high. The music becomes repulsive, and your skin feels like sandpaper. Your mate who is banging on about some shite is now insufferable.
It might sound as though you’re lucid during this come down but you’re not; you’re a zombie.
If coming up feels as though you’re emerging from the sea towards the sky, the come down is you sinking from your position way up there, down, down, down, until you crash into the sea, into the murky depths of depression.
Anonymous
It should take a few days to feel like yourself again but that wasn’t my experience after abusing Mandy for so long. When you use MDMA, your muscles can dangerously overheat and eventually break down, it can damage vital organs and it can lead to death.
I would wake up sober, sure, but feeling empty. Sullen, stuck behind a wall with the whole world cracking on on the other side.
If coming up feels as though you’re emerging from the sea towards the sky, the come down is you sinking from your position way up there, down, down, down, until you crash into the sea, into the murky depths of depression. And when the high equalises, you’re back in your boat on the surface of the sea. The bigger the rise, the bigger the fall, and it took me a while to feel solid ground the last time I took the drug. I sobered up, but any positive thoughts I had were no longer convincing and my life lost all its lustre. I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I felt this way for years.
I can’t imagine any night out worth going through that again.
A young man moves from middle England to London to exact his queer identity, as before unexplored and left unexpressed. From his job behind the bar of an underground gay sex club in Soho, he observes the unrelenting promiscuity of the circuit, and a dissolution of the conventions of propriety upheld by the world above. As told to Tom Sale by an honest, anonymous source.
“I come from a town a two-hour drive to the north-east of the London metropolis. The two places are wildly different.
My hometown, in my view as a 24-year-old gay man with a wealth of intimate experience with those of the same persuasion, is incredibly straight. It’s the same no matter where you go; bland sports bars are ubiquitous and uninventive clubs are complacent with their playlists of soulless chart-toppers. Men in tight jeans with sleeve tattoos and skin-fade haircuts brandish white-wine spritzers at the nearest women with filler in their lips and a nice top. I could go tonight and it’d be the exact same experience I had there when I started clubbing six or seven years ago. The queer community was non-existent in my homestead in middle England, so I escaped to the capital when I was 22. I wanted to be somewhere where my differences did not make me a conspicuous target for ridicule, which was often the case for those in the queer community back home.
Forgive me, lord.
It always felt weird to me that a place so close to my home could be so different. London is not like the rest of the country. All it took for me was a two-hour train ride to land in its vibrant cultural epicentre, its party landscape of illegal raves in dangerous disused buildings, artists questioning their understanding of the world and expressing their disdain for it through their work, and a population made of those from every country and culture in the world.
I had two years of settling in and finding myself before getting the job at that bar in Soho. By then, I had become confident and established in my queerness, strong in stomach and well-acquainted with a thirst for adventure. Every day, I clock in and brace myself, donned in a uniform of skimpy, strappy black leather, with my flesh dripping in enough chunky piercings to pick up a radio signal. This job is not for everyone.
The bar, and the club space it’s nestled in, is drenched in sleazy hot-pink-coloured light. Low ceilings and backlit upholstery tucks everyone in. There is not much room to spread out, so the patrons turn to each other and exchange prolonged, wet kisses and invasive grapplings of their partners’ bodies, hours before any mention of a name. Publicly displayed penetrative intercourse always follows. The bar I am grateful for as a barrier from the mess of writhing intimacies I see before me is smaller than you would think, and not really an essential part of the club. I see myself less as a bartender and more as a mediator, a keeper of peace and caretaker of the space to safeguard the visitors against themselves should their energetic, sticky fumbles get out of hand (as they often do).
There is nothing more honest than nicknaming yourself ‘toilet’.
As you can imagine, the smell is a potent cocktail mix of old leather, alcohol, sperm and other bodily fluids. The club is always hot, the jungle-drum soundtrack of repetitive beats against a camp and flamboyant melody intoxicating. These men have no inhibitions; they are not at home, yet they are allowed to engage in the most private of acts in front of a crowd of enthusiastic, voyeuristic perverts. They are enraptured, liberated, penetrated and abused by strangers, all by their own request. The only strict rule governing the patrons of the club is that consent comes before anything they do; the rest of the decision-making is up to them.
Delicious.
For me, this rich tapestry reveals a human addiction to hedonism and its pursuit. Queer sex, although thankfully legal for decades, still exists and is only practised in its fullest extent underground, away from the eyes of the world. On the face of it (and judging by what I see in this club as I cower behind the bar), that seems like a good thing. Anal fisting and scat play are shocking and graphic, but there’s a whole culture hidden from the world above – a world that keeps this one on the fringe, incompatible in its deviance and marginalised in philosophy. While queer visibility is on the rise, the radicalism of what it means to be queer becomes white-washed. Gay marriage and adoption, in my opinion, don’t represent equality but assimilation. The nuclear family structure as a neat unit of social organisation appropriated by many gay couples as rite does not reflect the senseless polygamy, sexual anonymity and flagrant disregard for conventions of the male/female binary I see in front of me. I want to see more space and the comfort of normality afforded to these individuals, rather than watching them adapt to tradition in a bid for acceptance.
This perspective is most impressive for someone who, while working, came face to face with a man getting fucked doggy-style while mopping up someone else’s sperm. Yet I’ve learned to tell the difference between what is real about human desire and what is taught to us: there is nothing more honest than nicknaming yourself ‘toilet’, walking naked around a public place and letting someone shit on you in front of an audience, that’s for sure.”
The Street Talks is a regular series asking feral partygoers from a city somewhere in the UK their opinions on big clubland topics.
This week we asked some anonymous jungle skank-heads in Bristol whether banned substances should become legal. Rumoured to be the ‘cocaine capital of Europe’ by the city’s proudest nostril warriors, they offer some well-informed perspectives.
NEXT WEEK we delve into queer London to ask whether the commercialisation of gay spaces has white-washed its original culture.
Drinking on the dance floor is akin to a ritualistic experience where we can shed our old selves and become someone new. Mariam and Kate took that journey one boozy night in Peckham and this is how it went.
There’s no doubt that as soon as you step into the club you’re going to experience something, a beautiful moment where everything comes together.
Moves flow, you ride the vibe of your fellow clubgoers, and you don’t want it to stop. Usually, that moment is facilitated by alcohol – tequila, rum, childish cocktails or, for the demons that walk among us, vodka.
We moan about queues, not bringing a jacket and the state of the gender-neutral bathroom, but alcohol and the club atmosphere can make all of these bearable…dare we say, even enjoyable. As the drinks drop, we subconsciously become different versions of ourselves, so we took this as a catalyst to document the booze-soaked psychological shifts on a night out to see how reality changes at the club.
Mariam’s account
Shot number one: Tequila
I arrived very early so I’m currently cowering at the corner of the club drinking the tequila I smuggled in a rainbow flask hidden in my jacket. Even though I have student finance and I live at home, I’ll have to be inebriated to pay £9 for a single shot.
There are only three positions to take so far: standing by the wall, prepping in the bathroom or at the bar seeking some Dutch courage. The scene is best described by the guys' style: straight leg jeans, either a branded fleece or a plain coloured shirt and trainers, the kind you would see on a self-proclaimed “creative director.” We are in Peckham, might I add.
At this point, I’m feeling very self-aware and I’m not ready to go with the flow. The DJ is playing music that is actually danceable and I could see myself going nuts once the façade of confidence sets in. So, the goal is to get tipsy-cute and not properly pissed. We aren’t eighteen anymore so pissed and yaking is not the move.
Shot number two: Tequila again.
I’ve moved to the bathroom again where I met some nice girls. I look into the mirror to see if I feel the buzz. I do. Why do I find myself in the bathroom? It almost acts like a purgatory between real life and whatever the hell this is.
That said, I feel the love in Peckham tonight. Slowly, the stress of young life is dissipating, the scene starts to feel friendly, and you are ready to buy your new-found friend a shot. At this moment, inflation doesn’t seem so bad.
Getting ready to go back out there again, finally the tequila confidence is creeping its way through.
Shot number three and four: Fuck-yeah tequila.
I’m on the dance floor trying to type into my Notes app, whilst being ping-ponged between sweaty bodies.
By now everybody is feeling it. Bodies, bodies, bodies backdrop the DJ’s hypnotic mixes and euphoric songs. I see people truly lose themselves in the music. COVID is a thing of the past as bodies grind on each other - they will soon be praying that they are attractive outside of the club lighting.
I could try to struggle towards the front of the stage to feel the full effect of the sounds but no one would hear my excuse-mes. So I make the most of where I’m at, unsure of whether the liquid I feel on my back is sweat or someone’s vodka and Coke. Saturday nights are back.
This is it, I have discovered the sweat spot of a spiritual experience before self-deprecation. Nothing says ecstasy like buying three shots of tequila for yourself and your friend. I am well and truly a different person right now. Eventually, I succumb to the gaze of a man dressed like all the other Peckham bros. Hopefully he’ll ask for my Instagram handle instead of my number.
‘Maybe I am not as socially inept as I thought,’ as I find myself engaging in
conversations with strangers.
Shot number five (drink safely): No more tequila. Time for
McDonald’s.
With the effects of the night wearing off, it's time for another bathroom trip - a sacred space where I break away from the clubland to collect myself and check in on how I’m really feeling. Where everything outside of clubland is moving a mile a minute and there is no opportunity for a pause, the zen I feel in this messy powder room is not known anywhere else.
Kate’s account
Shot number one: Two shots of silver tequila – shock to the system, but lowkey refreshing.
The night begins with pre-drinks at my friend's house – two shots of Captain Morgan and a swig of vodka mixed with iced tea. As an improving lightweight, I am already the slightest bit buzzed. Fast forward to the queue outside the club, shivering with excitement and anticipating strutting into the club for tonight’s motive. My coat safely stowed away in the cloak room, the next stop is the bar.
We arrive just in time as the party starts to get lit. My group of five take turns to pay for drinks as the alcohol gradually wears off. After our shots, we head to the middle of the packed and dance floor. My guard is up, my vision slightly blurring, but I am giggling and my body feels looser and ready to dance. After a few minutes, we decide to head to the bathroom in the stereotypical fashion of moving in a girl pack. But we backtrack as soon as Ice Spice’s In Ha Mood plays - to the dancefloor, quickly!
Shot number 2: Obviously, another tequila shot (and an accidental shot ofWray & His Nephews).
Forget the toilet right now. Back to the bar we go. Those shots were cool but I am too sober for this place. Another shot of tequila down, I start to feel blushed and buzzed, as a typical lightweight should be. I am then handed what I think is another tequila shot by my friend – it’s in fact a shot of Wray and His Nephews. I’m so gone that don’t notice that it doesn’t come with any salt or lime.
Shot number 3: One last tequila shot – I promise!
I tell myself one more shot for the night. At this point, it’s two in the morning, the current vibe is trap music and entranced boys congregate in a body-odour-infused mosh pit. Nauseated, my friends and I decide to find a booth to chill out, which turns into a power nap for three-fifths of us. I wake up to the music still blaring in my ears and my friend filming me, then we sing along to Banking on Me by Gunna.
Once we’re all awake, it’s time for a cup of water and a loo break before we head back to Lewisham for much-needed recovery sleep. My friend’s couch, a refrigerated sandwich and more water await me in ends.
Toilet attendants are an integral part of a night out in the UK who provide a splash of perfume and aspirin to clubgoers in a pinch, and, importantly, foster a safe space for anyone seeking refuge in the club bathroom.
It took me a few seconds to notice the penis paraphernalia, standing upright in a clear plastic cup, an assortment of pinks, nudes, oranges, and whites.
I would not say that they featured prominently on the toilet attendant’s table of goods, but they were not hidden either. Fitting, really, seeing as I was in the toilet of a nightclub where, frankly, everything goes.
Holding back a few giggles, I asked the toilet attendant: “What are those, Aunty?”
“Drinking straws,” she answered. Retailing for one quid each, I would say they were a steal. And they are fun and kitschy. Aunt Blessing is a hoot.
Welcome to the world of club bathroom workers, a regular fixture in clubs around the UK that sell a splash of deodorant and aftershave, refreshments and even flip-flops to clubgoers, and may clean as part of their job. In my experience, they may also perform emotional labour, providing a safe space for anyone seeking refuge in the club bathroom. Toilet attendants often work independently or as part of a venue’s staff. Considering that, as of April 2022, the national minimum wage is £9.50 and the living wage in London is set at £11.95, many of these workers subsist primarily on tips.
Aunt Blessing’s table of wares.
Aunt Blessing is a middle-aged Nigerian-born woman who now resides in London and works as a toilet attendant on the weekend at a buzzy nightclub in Brixton. I met her on a Friday night out in the city and we got to talk about her work, the means of taking care of her family and a taxing job. Statistics show that the cleaning industry in the UK employs more non-British workers than average, so I often encounter fellow Africans working in club bathrooms on my nights out.
“It’s very cold tonight but you people tried your best to come out,” she admonished with a laugh. “I know that I am looking for money, otherwise I would be in my duvet.” Inquiring about her hours, Aunt Blessing let on that her job is manageable “for now. I make enough money just to get by. Some days are better than others. Today was very quiet,” she said, gesturing to a collection plate with a few quid.
Aunt Blessing’s presence was warm and inviting, although I was under no illusions about the nature of our interaction as potentially disrupting her doing her job. Our conversation was interrupted several times by punters purchasing sweets and penis straws, punctuated with drunken politeness, before heading back to the dance floor. Nonetheless, Aunt Blessing let in that toilet attendants often go unseen or unacknowledged, and like many service workers, are treated like trash.
I make enough money just to get by. Some days are better than others.
Aunt Blessing
What’s more, extended working hours in a loud environment such as a nightclub come with significant health risks. A study published in the International Journal of Noise and Health found that the average daily noise exposure of participants working 20 hours a week in a club was 92 decibels. Over time, any exposure greater than 85 decibels for eight hours can lead to permanent hearing loss.
At the end of our chat, I asked Aunt Blessing what a night out for her looks like and I was regaled with tales of a youth well lived. “Make sure that you have fun, but you should always take care of yourself,” she shared. “There is a time for everything. Use your wisdom and keep your eyes open so that you will not fall victim.”
A young woman walked into the bathroom, making a beeline for the table of goods. “How much for this hair tie, Aunty?” The conversation begins again.
The Chronicles of a Loo LadyInspired by my chat with Aunt Blessing, I spent just under an hour as a toilet attendant in a Manchester club. Here’s how it went…
What do you wear to go and stand in a club bathroom? Your croppiest cropped top, of course. And a comfy pair of jeans, and sneakers.
One Saturday night in Manchester, I decided to don my best dress and fill the shoes of a toilet attendant for 45 minutes. I took my bathroom attendant duties very seriously, down to a pretty pink purse stocked with mini bottle of perfume, hand lotion, baby wipes, Halls Soothers and Ibuprofen.
I wasn’t sure what to expect - after all, I was going to be standing awkwardly in a private space trying to solicit conversation from strangers. But, as ever, the camaraderie in the women’s club bathroom is unparalleled. I set up shop next to the hand dryer adjacent to the bathroom door and this is what I witnessed.
A cacophony of voices, two besties belting U Remind Me by Usher with harmonies included. “The vocals are coming out tonight,” someone shouts. A mum in front of the mirror fixing her makeup, talking over the phone about a frozen chicken in the fridge: “I’ll be home in a few hours,” she assures the babysitter/partner.
“I spilt my drink all over my jeans,” I hear, and offer my baby wipes. A smile of appreciation. “Your bag is so cute by the way.”
A conference about a cool top from Primark and a glance of approval at a cute outfit. The laughter of familiarity shared by strangers at the sink and the screeching of the hand dryer. I offer the two ladies drying their hands some lotion, knowingly.
“Thank you so much!” one of the ladies says. “I always forget to bring my own, then I have to walk around with ashy hands.”
A smile, a nod, a glance of approval from across the room.
The 2000s babies are coming of age, hitting the clubs and reviving the shiny futurism of Y2K fashion. Get into it.
Ah, the 2000s.
The golden age of Disney Channel, reality television and out-there (read: extra-terrestrial) fashion with style marked by metallic fabrics, lush velvet Juicy Couture tracksuits and chunky shoes. Okay, maybe not of another world but informed by the future-forward sensibility of the new millennium.
Y2K, which stands for ‘the year 2000’, refers to a widespread computer glitch that was expected to occur in the minutes between 1999 to 2000. It didn’t happen, and now the term is shorthand for a playful fashion sensibility that characterised the era. Think apple bottom jeans and boots with the fuuuuurrrrr, a whole lewk.
Y2K style was all about maximalist experimentation, the blending of disparate aesthetics like the trashy-chic Von Dutch trucker caps and über miniskirts, which were the comeback kids of Miu Miu’s spring/summer 2022 collection. And, lest we forget, the extremes of baggy FUBU trousers and baby tees, bright colours and futuristic accessories, baby.
Two decades later, nostalgia for the early aughts has reached a fever pitch thanks in part to hit US TV show Euphoria’s ode to the decade in its wardrobe choices and a sentimental Gen Z who are at the forefront of the Y2K style revival on TikTok.
Fashion is cyclical and trends worn by older (sorry!) generations inform the self-expression of those who journey after them.
So, what exactly is the Y2K aesthetic? Scroll through the article for outfit inspiration from Gen Z-ers around the world.
Meet Freddie Bale, AKA DJ Freddie XODOS, founder of Moody HiFi in Peckham. He tells POWDER how he went about creating one of the vibiest nights around.
At 23, Freddie Bale is fast becoming one of the most sought-after event organisers and DJs in South London.
Having played Milan Fashion Week, the Oxford-born DJ has an impressive CV that includes musician, producer, graphic designer, and promoter. Now living in East London and immersing himself in the creative scene with events such as Shifting Culture and Fortem International, we caught up with him to talk about his biggest event to date: the trail-blazing clubbing event, Moody HiFi.
Tell us about XODOS. What does that mean?
My DJ name is Freddie XODOS. That name came from when I was DJing at 16 and my DJ name was Exodus – like in the Bible. The joke was, ‘When I come on, everyone leaves,’ until I started releasing music on SoundCloud and it got a nice following.
What influenced your love of music?
My biggest influence was my granddad. He was always talking about blues and jazz. That was my first introduction to music, and as I got older, I started learning the guitar, drums, and piano. That’s when I got heavy into music. All my friends had their football, but I had my instruments. I mainly play jazz and funk jazz. Then I got into producing. I feel like a lot of my inspiration comes from this weird genre on SoundCloud of jazz infused with electronic stuff. Kind of like early Mura Masa, that type of vibe.
My first ever project was K-FUNKZ STUDIOS when I was 17, a garage-jungle night that I started with my two best friends. When I first started DJing, I realised the promoters were making all the money, so I said to my boys, ‘Let’s start an event.’ It went really well but it died after [the first COVID-19] lockdown. I have also worked on a few other events but Moody HiFi was my first solo project.
How did Moody HiFi come about and the vibe you were going for?
I moved to London the day we went into the second lockdown, so that was a bit of a kick in the teeth. During the first lockdown, everyone was shook and abiding by the rules by staying at home. The second lockdown, I feel, was more relaxed though there were obviously still people who lived with people at risk and had to stay at home. I was always DJing during that lockdown, so I built my network when I was meeting people at people’s houses. By the time the lockdown was eased, I had a circle of people who all liked the same music as me, liked to party and had good vibes.
The original idea of Moody HiFi was a radio show, for when you wake up after a heavy weekend or long week to a nice, chilled R&B and rap moment, SoundCloud edits, alternative Afrobeats and so on. I made up little logos and an album cover for this first idea but I never released it. After lockdown, I decided I wanted to start a new event, and I still liked the name and the branding and thought, ‘Let me use that.’ So, I have been growing it since then.
DJing lies in being able to read your crowd and catering to them.
DJ Freddie XODOS
How do you decide on the setlist?
The actual act of DJing is not that hard, mixing one song with another. I feel like the skill lies in being able to read your crowd and catering to them. I will never go into a set with a predetermined set to play, but with crates of music that are a similar vibe. I like mixing different vibes in the same crate to experiment with different things. I always start my set with a banger that everyone knows, so they can sing along and get everyone locked in. Once you have the crowd there, you can push in a certain direction and see if it’s working. If that works, keep following it and see where it goes.
How would you say you inspire loyalty with your audience?
One thing that I always do with events is make sure that I am on good terms with all the staff because one member of staff can ruin the whole night. There are a lot of events now that treat you as if you should be honoured to be there, the bouncers ‘G-checking’ everyone that comes through the door. The whole idea of Moody is to have a space where it’s not like a typical club, but like a party where everyone is there for enjoyment, to make friends and fuck around and get loose for the weekend without being judged. I feel like in London especially, there is a lot of that with a lot of clubs, where people show off and get drunk, but if anyone acts too crazy, everyone judges. I say: just be yourself, man, we’re all trying to have some fun.
Keeping it personal, I think, is a good thing. We hit capacity at one event and there were a lot of people who bought tickets and could not get in. I think the guest list QR code got leaked meaning that people who paid for tickets could not get in. At another event, the bouncer was not letting people in claiming that the venue was at full capacity, but he was straight up lying because it was empty inside. I pushed my set back to make sure that I was there, chatting with everyone that was outside. The least that I could do in both scenarios was go up to them and say, ‘Hey, this is my event. I’m sorry, and obviously, you’ll get a refund for not getting in’ and explain the situation. I have spoken to a few angry people but as soon as I have explained it, they are all bless about it.
Are you happy with how Moody HiFi has worked out?
Yeah, definitely. I never expected it to grow so quickly. In the first year, we did Milan Fashion Week twice – both of those shows sold out. One street party we had in Paris was so lit, within twenty minutes of starting, the whole road was locked off and people were climbing on cars and shit. That was lit. I have been getting recognition in the right places and speaking to certain people in the industry. It’s a nice feeling when I introduce myself to someone and they’re like, ‘Yeah, yeah, Moody HiFi, I see you.’
Pictured: handbag contents at Soul Lounge, Peckham.
It’s your girl T back again with another ‘What’s in her handbag?’ drop, and this time I hit up Soul Lounge in Clapham and Raffles in Chelsea to get you the goods.
Growing up, I was always told to never look in a lady’s handbag because it’s rude and you never know what you might find.
But that’s the point, no?
I wanted to see what random and unhinged things clubbers considered essentials for a Friday night out in London. So I hit the toilets of two different bars in south London, nosing my way into some lovely ladies’ bags, all for you guys.
Let’s take a trip, shall we?
Soul Lounge, Clapham High Street
Makeup Revolution Juicy Bomb Grapefruit X Revolution Satin Kiss Lipliner in Shade TGIF: “This combination is unmatched and should not be slept on. It makes your lips pop and it’s not sticky.”
Tobacco: “Spanish Marlboro Gold because the prices in the UK are not it!”
Baggy and Note: “Close cousins; one cannot exist in this world without the other.”
Apple AirPods: “To keep the vibes on the journey home.”
Vidal Zoom Strawberry Lollipop
Louis Vuitton X Takashi Murakami 2005 Cozy Coin Purse
Tampax Pearl Compax: “A tampon ‘cause knowing my luck I’ll be breaking my back on the dance floor and my period will decide to appear.”
Hash: “Skunk weed in London is full of chemicals.”
Marlboro Tobacco 30g: [Clearly cigarettes are going out of fashion, or we are just experiencing a cost-of-living crisis.]
Wrigley’s Extra Peppermint: “Because you’ll never know where your mouth might end up.”
House keys: “Even though I’m 99% sure I will not be going home tonight.”
Raffles, Chelsea
Trident: “Trident over Extra because I ain’t no a basic bitch.”
Oyster card
Nationwide card
Rizla Regular Green
ID
Elizabeth Arden 8-Hour Lip Treatment: “This lip balm is my f*g go-to, nothing keeps my lips moist like this. Though these days I can’t use it without thinking of Prince Harry’s todger.”
Too Faced Lip Injection Maximum Doll-Size Plumping Lip Gloss
Real Technique Mini Bronzer and Concealer Brush
Morphe Setting Powder: “To all the girls who need oil control, this is the one!”
John Frieda Frizz Ease: “To tame those fly-aways when things get untamed on the dancefloor.”
Nars Laguna Bronzer: “My go-to bronzer. I will always be loyal to this bronzer as long as she’s loyal to me.”
Bestie for the night, hairstylist, relationship guru and the love of your life.
Dear drunk girl I met in the club bathroom at Peckham Audio,
The sisterhood that we created whilst exchanging Instagrams is one so strong it could never be replaced. Even though we will only DM each other to share the pictures that we took that night, clearly our temporary friendship means so much to me.
Where are you now, I wonder?
Do you also think about how you fixing my makeup and giving me the ‘You’re a bad bitch, f*k that guy’ talk would make me believe in love again? Because I do.
Drunk girl I met in the club bathroom, the secrets that we shared I will carry to the grave, even if I don’t really remember them. Like a powder room version of Catholicism, all it took was a drunken ‘Sister, I have sinned’ for the weight to be lifted of my shoulders.
We met on Saturday night and we will never meet again, but I will always be here to aid you so that you don’t yak all over your Depop Keren Miller boots and Miss Sixty skirt. What kind of friend would I be to let you ruin an outfit as stylish and meticulously sourced as yours?
I watched as you braved the nausea, adjusted your mini skirt, and emptied your purse on the bathroom sink as if it was your personal vanity. Numerous beauty products flooding out, a reflection of modern day consumerism before my eyes. Whatever a person could possibly need you had it in your bountiful bag. Every aesthetic problem that I didn’t know I had, you so nicely pointed out was fixed before I could even ask, the big sister vibes you exuded that night were unforgettable.
I could thank you again for the unconditional love and sisterhood that you shared that Saturday night. That night, you had a PhD in psychology, a living example that girls really can do it all. The humanitarian acts that you delivered rival that of the UN, and when people question the kindness of other women, I will simply point to you and beg them to head to the club to experience true selfless humanity.
At 1 a.m., three shots and a pre-game in, I know that I will experience the magic of sisterhood from a drunk girl in the club bathroom.
