Words: Vita FitzSimons, Left Lion
Photos: Matt Smith, Alan Tash Lodge, Gary Pfeiffer, Nick Clague @kush1969, Henry Ratcliffe
Tuesday 19 November 2024
Being home to two of the UK’s greatest underground house soundsystems, DiY and Smokescreen, Nottingham has been spoilt for quality deep house music – but what were the origins of these now legendary gatherings, and how did they fit into the politics of the time? We asked the individuals who lived out those joyful days firsthand about the history of sound-systems in Nottinghamshire and beyond.
Castlemorton Common, May 1992. (Credit: Alan Tash Lodge)
“You can’t choose your family, but you can with a soundsystem,” says Smokescreen Soundsystem founding member Laurence Ritchie. “Some would liken it to spirituality. We’ve become like a phonic family, a sonic commune that grows stronger over the years. It’s so much more than the sum of the parties.”
Two years after DiY Soundsytem was formed in 1989, another collective of like-minded friends was beginning to form in Sheffield, all outsiders to the city, looking for a welcoming space where they could enjoy their music peacefully. Influenced by the spirit of 1991, they decided to ‘do it themselves’ and started holding parties on a hill above the city. At first they struggled to find DJs and equipment, but it eventually came together with ease. It was when they saw DiY’s Simon DK heading up the hill towards them with his records that they decided to buy their own PA.
Sept 1992: Smokescreen club night (credit: Alan Tash Lodge)
A huge collective of people helped, flowing in a steady organic stream. An incomer always appeared as if by magic to fill any skill gap left by an outgoer. ‘Smokies’, as they’re affectionately known, put on kicking solo and link up parties all over, moving their base to Nottingham in 1997. Gav, former Giddy Fruit DJ, explains unassumingly how he came to join the collective: “I hung around with my record bag for long enough, and eventually they let me play.”
The crew went on to be one of the UK’s busiest, putting on a near-weekly party from 1993-4. “We had an inclusive, non-cliquey vibe and welcomed anyone who wasn’t an arsehole,” said Max. Fran, Rob, Andy, Tubby, Steve, Max and Gav gradually joined founding members Vicki, Laurence, Jon, Martin and their huge collective of helpers.
Like pioneering old-skool sound-systems like Spiral Tribe, Circus Warp, Bedlam, Lazyhouse, Exodus, DiY, Tonka, Pulse, Sweat, Techno Travellers and the Free Party People, Smokescreen wanted a better world, and for a moment they glimpsed one. Embracing a completely different way of life, they provided a joyful counter to the bleak existence of Thatcher’s 1980s and Major’s 90s. The early days seemed utopian, revolutionary almost. Inevitably, they weren’t allowed to continue unhindered.
When the Tory government announced its intention to make their culture illegal, Smokescreen joined All Systems No, a non-hierarchical collective of soundsystems envisioned by Alan (Tash) Lodge to raise funds to protest against the Criminal Justice and Public Order Bill (CJB), Clause 63 of which intended to criminalise gatherings of more than six people with “sounds wholly or predominantly characterised by the emission of a succession of repetitive beats.”
The collective funded coach loads of Nottingham’s protestors to attend the mass demonstrations against the CJB in London, as well as a van and a flatbed lorry with a side curtain loaded with DiY’s PA Black Box, ready for them to play with Smokescreen. Around 50,000 people protested, including The Shamen’s Mr C, who jumped onto their lorry, took the mic and in a surreal moment started rapping to the crowd of thousands.
All of a sudden dancing in a field felt political. When you have the long arm of the law encroaching on your life just because you want to go to a party, you become politicised by default
July 1994: the anti-CJB march in London, featuring the Smokescreen lorry flanked by police (credit: Matt Smith)
October 1994: ‘Battle of Hyde Park’ Anti CJB Protest with the Smokescreen and DiY sideloader lorry (credit: Matt Smith)
At the first two protests there was a festive feel at Trafalgar Square and on the march towards Hyde Park. The last one took a much darker turn.
“It went off big time in Hyde Park,” says Steve.
“There was a running battle with the police on Hyde Park Corner with charging mounted police and riot vans,” continued Andy. “The media had a field day with it.”
Anyone interested in learning more about the three CJB protests should check out the new fanzine: Tories are the Real Criminals by Sunnyside Soundsystem’s Matt Smith, activist and photo-historian author of Exist to Resist and Full On. Non Stop. All Over.
Crich Quarry, Amber Valley, Peak District. (Credit: Gary Pfeiffer)
Thirty years ago in 1994 the Bill became an Act, but it didn’t stop the free party movement, it just made it riskier. The fundraising collective defiantly changed its name to All Systems Go.
The meeting of dance and Traveller culture had led to a wild few years of non-stop partying for thousands every weekend, but ultimately the infamous, titanic 1992 Castlemorton party ushered in the end of a traditional free festival circuit and the start of a long struggle for Travellers, currently at an impasse. The passing of The Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Act of 2022 has made a nomadic way of life, even a ‘single encampment’, illegal, punishable by prohibitive fines, vehicle seizure and even imprisonment.
The whole radical subculture came under attack. Masses of ordinary people united by their passion for music and dancing suddenly found themselves potentially criminalised.
“I think there was definitely a transition from naïve idealism to a more political stance post-Castlemorton,” says Andy. “All of a sudden going to a party felt political. When you have the long arm of the law encroaching on your life just because you want to go to a party, you become politicised by default. To be honest, we didn’t get into too much trouble post-CJA because our parties were relatively small and we took time to choose locations that wouldn’t piss people off.”
They’ve adapted to survive. So now when you go to their night at the Hidden Warehouse, whether you know it or not, you’re joining the tail end of three decades of defiant rebellion.
Smokescreen put on a now-legendary campout to celebrate their thirtieth birthday in 2022 (a year late due to Covid restrictions). “We recreated our natural habitat: friends and vehicles in a field with house music. Only this time we had a licence!” grins Steve.
Ringinglow 1996: Rob on the decks, Cle (Dallas), Tubby, Max and Jon (Credit: Gary Pfeiffer)
Laurence on the decks back in the day and Jon looking through records beside him (Credit: Henry Ratcliffe)
The events Smokescreen and DiY put on create what Hakim Bey terms ‘temporary autonomous zones’, pop-up moments and spaces that defy the normalising authority of social conditioning. Self-organising collective efforts like Smokescreen’s parties create utopian ruptures in the fabric of day-to-day reality
In the early days, technology such as mobiles and the internet had yet to become commonplace, so getting the details for a party was done through flyers, listening to pirate radio stations or asking friends for details of meeting points, directions or party line numbers. “You’d get hold of a number and the time to call it,” recalls one partygoer. “When you did, a recorded voice on an answer machine would give you directions to the party. Convoys of vehicles would congregate at random meeting points trying to figure out the next part of their journey.”
The culture’s peaceful, caring vibe was the opposite of the drunken violence that plagued the city centres.
“People changed,” said Laurence, “they realised they didn’t have to be like that, they could just be sound. I remember seeing this guy one sunny morning looking out onto a scene of happy people. He’d been clubbing before but out there in nature the walls had been removed and I think it was removing some walls around his mind, too. He kept smiling and nodding his head, saying: ‘Sound, sound.’ I asked him if he was alright, and he turned to me and said: ‘It’s just sound isn’t it?’ And it was. Sound.”
“Instead of being tribal suddenly everyone was being inclusive,” explains Rob.
“It happened to a lot of people,” continued Laurence. “It was actually a form of therapy because they could all just be themselves.”
Smokescreen’s influence has travelled across the UK and beyond. It’s inspired soundsystems such as the South West’s Deep Cartel, Bristol’s Duvet Vous?, and Lincoln’s Ultrasound, all of which were drawn to the more soulful sounds of deep house in a sea of harder music.
Reclaim the Streets was fun. Derby Road ended up getting blocked off for the whole of Saturday afternoon, decks on the ground, PA pumping, with people dancing and chalk-drawing on the streets
Smokescreen was the first soundsystem to provide an oasis of house at the Czech Teknival in 1997, leading to lifelong friendships. Gav created an offshoot of the scene in New Zealand when he moved there in 2015, having met his future wife in a club there while on tour with Steve as one half of production and DJ duo The Littlemen.
“I realised I wasn’t going to get a set where I’d moved, so I used the Notts blueprint of funky, deep house’s laid-back, unpretentious vibe and inclusive attitude and started a little underground scene in a rural backwater,” he says. Smokescreen also heavily influenced scenes in the US, Prague and Australia, he expands.
In September 1996 the group travelled to war-torn Bosnia, coincidentally bumping into Desert Storm soundsystem, who were on the return leg of an aid and party expedition, at a famous punk squat in Slovenia’s capital Ljubljana. Altered State’s author Mathew Collin travelled with them to document the journey for ID magazine. Those who want to learn more about the history of the party scene could do worse than read his book.
1997: Steve at Reclaim The Streets on Derby Road (credit: Alan Tash Lodge)
“We teamed up with other soundsystems and pro-environment direct action movement Reclaim The Streets for Nottingham’s own protest in ‘97,” says Fran. “Reclaim the Streets was fun. A months-long plan was delivered with precision. Derby Road ended up getting blocked off for the whole of Saturday afternoon, decks on the ground, PA pumping, with people dancing and chalk-drawing on the streets.”
They were also involved in the last few anarchic Travellers’ field parties outside of Glastonbury festival gates in ‘98, ‘99 and 2000 – parties up there in the crew’s top memories.
Dancing to deep house, especially outside and barefoot, helps nudge people’s outlook away from the norm
“It was a better party than inside Glastonbury,” explains Steve. “Michael Eavis came down on a tractor and gave us all tickets, but hardly anyone used them.”
“They didn’t bother with the festival, they were happy with us!” said Andy. “It was just one of those special times when everything was perfect. Four days of unbroken sunshine helped.”
“I first encountered Smokescreen in the Travellers’ field at Glastonbury ’98 and DJ’d on their rig there in ’99 and then 2000, when they rocked it for nearly a week right in the middle of the proper free festival the Travellers’ field had become,” explains Deep Cartel’s Dan. “Our crew got to know them properly in 2002 at the Steart beach party. Then at an anti-Glastonbury free festival at Smeatharpe, Steve, Paul [Deep Cartel DJ] and I shared a magic moment DJing together one sunrise. I remember Steve saying: ‘Us three – let’s keep it going!’ Smokescreen definitely helped inspire our inception, giving us the final push we needed to start Deep Cartel at Glastonbury 2000. Since Paul sadly died in a car crash in 2020 those memories are especially treasured,” he sighs. Deep Cartel celebrates its thirtieth birthday in 2025.
2022: Smokies campout (Credit: Nick Clague @Kush1969)
2022: Max and Fran at the thirtieth birthday campout (Credit: Nick Clague @Kush1969)
Quite a few members of Smokescreen have had successful DJing and production careers. Andy Riley elaborates: “Laurence and I exported the Smokescreen sound around the world through our label Drop Music. We DJed a lot in the States, Europe, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Russia, India… all over. We don’t travel like back in those manic days anymore. Lately we’ve had a few tracks remastered through other labels. We plan to release a three-part vinyl compilation with some previously digital-only tunes, plus some brand-new tracks, so watch this space.”
Smokescreen offers peace, love and unity, bringing together people from all walks of life, connected by a fundamental love of music and dancing. “Dancing to deep house, especially outside and barefoot, helps nudge people’s outlook away from the norm,” according to Darren, activist and social sculptor who co-founded Deep Cartel soundsystem with Dan in 2000. “It knocks their consciousness out of its conditioning, showing them life from another perspective, one closer to ancient ways of gathering, such as around fires, and accompanied by a hypnotic rhythm, inducing a sense of connection to the ancientness of the land. Basically it’s humans getting raw on the earth,” he concludes. These spaces, which he calls ‘temporary temples’ – interrupt everyday patterns of stuck behaviour and enable people to make leaps of imagination and perception. They are transformative.
Not a bad culture to build and inspire.
“Loads of people got connected through it,” said Steve. “We’re all still together, people got together and had families, our kids grow up to be part of it, everyone feels safe and we’re still going. There must be something in that, mustn’t there?”
Smokescreen crew today (credit: Laurence Ritchie)
