Shoreditch bars are awash with the eighties, nostalgia

Shoreditch bars are awash with the eighties, nostalgia. Dreams of the thirty to forty year generations, dreams, broken dreams, broken promises, real emotion, longing, loving, never getting, confusion. Shoreditch DJs mash up old eighties classics, Prince, She wore a red spirical dress – bla blab la blab la bla bal aba – Gnarls Barkley – Crazy – seems to be  a signature tune for the late noughties in Shoreditch – for the second half – oh shit – it makes me so nostalgic. Electric Showroom the multicoloured every changing lights on the dance floor – 333 Old Blue Last Horse and Groom – often free – some of the greatest music you’ll ever hear – and you wonder where the fuck music like that comes from and where it goes – you can never remember what the hell it went like – you can only remember that it sounded phenomenal – as if from another age – MSTRKRFT- D.A.N.C.E. bringing back to life Sesame Street – we are all seventies kids – walking up and down Brick Lane – its like the remastering and the remixing of the eighties – bringing back to life the essence of the age – only we’re not – see Sesame Street came and went and no-one felt anything – but once it began to disappear – once we began to remember we started to feel its absence – D.A.N.C.E. is an example of a song which concentrates the quintessence of nostalgia for a bygone era – and then puts the most awesome sounds around it – so that we can feel and recreate a hardcore crack memory – a crack feeling of the past – so much more concentrated – that makes us think of broken dreams, of youth, of potential spurned, and I guess, on a more optimistic note, for the fortunate steps and choices and serendipity that found us in this bar tonight, reminiscing, glorying in the come back of the eighties, in fabulous remixes, that some would forego a place in heaven for, if heaven meant never hearing them, that we are here, feeling deep and emotional introspective and comfortable, and we are not in a Weatherspoon’s in Rochdale or Peterborough, looking down the bottom of a pint of Carling, as the pubs empty, with meat heads, and Miss Evening Telegraph, and cheap drinks, and shit music, violence, curry, fascism, and vomit on the menu. We escaped that small town, we escaped the hatred, the conformism, the bullying and the envy, the viciousness, we escaped it, and here we are now, in a place, where no-one gives a fuck about anyone, they just love listening to great music, stories about someone else and imaginary living.

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