Mrs Laz Writes...
In her inaugural column, Mrs Laz muses on the days of rave.
Mr L spent the week sorting rave photos for the website and asked me whether I wanted to write something to pair with his nostalgic look at those heady, ecstatic days.
It’s appropriate that we’re looking at these pictures as all I’ve got right now, in our third UK lockdown, is nostalgia – perverse thoughts about walking into shops, sans face mask; eating dinner, god forbid, in another person’s house; of going to parks and letting my children actually touch the play equipment. No wonder looking at pictures of people dancing and Jesus, my eyes, hugging strangers, is making me feel all dreamy – this is next-level nostalgia.
I remember the times, walking down a thin, unlit path in single file, into the blackness of the marshes of Suffolk, following the sounds of a bass beat that reverberated through my chest. Half-way you’d meet a guy with a plastic bucket sitting on a stye collecting a 'pound for sound' and it was from there that you could see a glow of light rising up from a pit in the middle of the ground, throbbing with bodies making this their home for the next two days. This is my church; these are my people. Simpler times: calling a number to try and find the location of your rave. No flyers, no Facebook posts, no TV advertising..come to think of it, no mobile phones.
Maybe I’m connected to nostalgia so closely right now because it feels like we’ve gone back in time. We’re isolated, just like life before the internet or social media (and in part, it does feel rather agreeable). We’re waiting for releases again – whether that’s music, TV, the new Bond film – and the sparsity of all media production does make it feel like the olden days. When we all talked about the same tv show, or learned about what’s hot from a single source magazine.
But let’s face it, it’s not a bed of roses. My world is so small, that it’s just my house. And the same for you. It feels like we have more in common with then than now, and that’s pretty displacing. Because it’s not then. And we’re all yearning for communion. No wonder the sigh of devastation was heard across the country when Glastonbury was cancelled yet again. I actually found myself in the posh deli yesterday singing along to the Abba track playing in the background (Gimme, Gimme, Gimme if you have to know) whilst buying over-priced hummus, feeling genuinely euphoric as the man on the cheese counter made eye contact with me above his mask. How we danced, nearly.
And then I walked home and thought of all the times I’d taken for granted the encounters I’ve had in pubs, in clubs, at raves in the woods, at festivals where I held people tight or grabbed their hands trying to make it to the bar without falling over. It feels good to remember it all, and it helps me get through the hours of home schooling, and fucking Teams and Zoom. Just bring me a glow stick and I’ll dance in the kitchen with the cats.
Mrs L Loves:
Baby Bjorn’s leopard print Baby Bouncer
It’s leopard print AND it’s a baby bouncer. Worth having a baby for? Hell yes.
Baileys Original Irish Cream
Not exactly the drink you'd order in front of your mates, doesn’t scream sophistication and cool does it?! Ha, it’s lockdown… plus, it makes creeping alcoholism look just that bit more jaunty.
Forget The Dig – who needs a stylishly directed, intelligently crafted, beautiful film when you have Chef Ben and the brilliantly acerbic Chief Stewardess, Kate to navigate you through these choppy Covid waters. Kick back with a Baileys and enjoy.
You’re Wrong About
Pop culture’s podcast answer to Malcolm Gladwell’s Revisionist History. Redressing the balance for many a famous, over simplified public figure or story. Brilliant stuff and surely a big reason why Mr Timberlake had to make a long overdue public apology recently.
Mrs L loathes:
Mr L thought this was about vaginas – shame we have to wait another ten months before we get my bush out again.
Dear God I wish I didn’t know how to operate this programme. Lockdown has never felt more shit than when trying to up-load your kids' schoolwork on this bastard app.
The Masked Singer
What was this? What is this? What does it mean? Were all questions my seven year old asked me as I turned over the channel immediately.
Enough already. Unless you can make it fun then just stop tormenting us.