I always knew it would be a riot. Let’s be honest, there’s no room for good intentions when a public holiday is there to back you up the next day. Thursday night’s sequence of now-hazy incidents led to a fast-food ‘refuel, re-think and repress’ two days inside. But all was redeemed by Sunday morning; it was Easter after all. No egg hunts or tedious family lunches this year, just one pale pair of idle hands, shitty TV and even shittier weather. Only one certainty remained: a fucking good reason to get out the flat, now. It was time to get Turkeyed. It was time to cause a riot.

Cold Turkey is a fortnightly dubstep event at the District 6 Café – an awesome little spot that hides a rustic multi-level outdoor space that’s wonderfully dirty even before the bass begins. It was my second Cold Turkey – somehow I’d blanked my entire way through the summer parties – so no looking forward to lazy, warm afternoons to ease my way into Monday’s glory. Thing is, like Cold Turkey, with some parties you realise it’s not about the promise of clear blue skies and rising temperatures; it’s simply about the music. About the beats that bring smiles, over-priced hangovers and, if you’re lucky, an innocent, intoxicated youth-like kiss. Amongst a bunch of wide-eyed new faces all stoked to be out in the rain, here I was, just another wet turkey about to get fried.


The feeling of summer was still around and amplified by the wub-wub behind the decks, the taste of some sweet, sweet green, and the steady flow of sometimes-cold Black Label quarts. Yep, this was the type of party where even though I never drink beer I found myself wondering why the hell not. You half expect the vodka and tequila to run out by nine, so when it does you’re not worried… I mean, there’s always Suitcases, and more beer.



Before long, after-hour phonecalls and new friends are being made, time speeds up and suddenly no one has smokes. What a goddamn scene. One all-too familiar, one I can’t seem to get enough of. The energy feels different though. I have an unusual appreciation to be amongst the unfamiliar. No fronts or agendas and no lingering, hostile expectations here. And no reason to sit on the edge. Inside the concrete graffiti walls I have discovered a ‘cassette culture’ – no boomboxes but the authenticity and collected excitement was raw and rolling in all directions, and then past curfew.


Maybe it was more than simply the music, there was something building that night that felt bigger than the beats. A feeling for sure, a movement even? Shit, who knows, maybe it was just the drugs? Or Easter weepings from above? Whatever the reason that made this party a special one, ultimately Cold Turkey represented what dubstep is really all about – letting go of your bullshit, feeling alive, and yes, causing a bit of a riot on the dancefloor.


words: sarah claire picton

images: cold turkey