Imagine this: it’s 1999, you’re living in central London, and a new club has just opened its doors under the name Fabric. Known for its cutting-edge music, electric culture, and yes, unfortunately, its association with drugs, the club earned a reputation that led to its closure in 2016 after the tragic death of two teenagers from overdoses. But by late 2017, Fabric re-emerged after a hard-fought campaign, complete with stricter entry requirements and security measures.
Fast forward to now, and I, not a big club-goer by any means, found myself invited to see SASASAS at Fabric, a drum and bass night. While indie rock is more my scene, the idea of experiencing such an iconic underground venue was too tempting to turn down. I’d heard so many gripping tales about nights (and early mornings) spent at Fabric, and I was curious to see it for myself.
Standing in line to get in was not the most glamorous start, especially as it was December and freezing cold. I found myself outside for what felt like forever, holding a bowl full of personal items for the security guards to comb through. I didn’t expect that level of thoroughness—I felt ridiculous—but I understood why it was necessary, especially given the club’s history. The lady searching me didn’t miss a thing, checking every nook and cranny, right down to my shoes and phone case. It was the most invasive entry process I’d experienced, but I appreciated the reason behind it.
Once inside, however, my mood shifted. Fabric’s interior was a pleasant surprise: brick walls, high ceilings, and a network of balconies offering escape from the crowd if needed. There were also unexpected touches, like booths and even full-on beds for those looking to rest. It was a quirky contrast to the intense drum and bass beats shaking the main room.
At first, I felt completely out of place. As an indie lover surrounded by die-hard D’n’B fans, I knew I didn’t fit the stereotypical “Fabric raver” image. But I pushed myself to blend into the crowd, awkwardly swaying to the rhythm with my go-to two-step. I soon found that the crowd’s energy was infectious—people were fully going for it, dancing without a care in the world. A young woman, likely barely old enough to be there, noticed my hesitation and danced alongside me, breaking the ice. The sense of camaraderie in the room was palpable.
What surprised me most was the friendliness of the people. Whenever I momentarily lost sight of my group, someone would pull me into their circle to keep me company. It wasn’t what I expected from a scene so different from my usual one.
The DJs also kept things interesting, blending unexpected tracks like London Grammar and The White Stripes into their sets. It didn’t always work, but the attempt to mix things up was appreciated by many, myself included.
By the time 6 a.m. rolled around, and we finally left, I couldn’t quite pinpoint why the night had been so memorable, but one thing was clear: Fabric had left its mark on me. Lesson learned—don’t be afraid of the bass.
