Elite Force for President

01.03am. Saturday night. Sevilla.

My ride to the club arrives. I sling my bag in the back & leap in. We grin at each other & I attempt to engage in some basic language-transcending chat. 'Party. Good?" (thumb raised). The response is a nervous laugh & the sad shake of a head. 'No entiende'. Long ride to club.

The streets around Ypodromo have been hard-wired into excess. Bottles roll, hoodies lurk, voices are raised, gangs gather around car stereos, dancing in the streets. At the door a hundred people are scrumming to steamroller their way in - I'm pushed through the centre and then we're inside. The music's tough, angular, driving. Crowd are biding their time through the drop, and as I make my way to the front to reach the stage, the beats kick back in & the whole place erupts as one, leaping like lemmings, arms akimbo, touching the sky. I'm swept along & squeeze through the gate to an enclave behind the booth.

As I take over from Krafty Kuts, signs are raised aloft saying 'Elite Force for President'. With that, a dozen people jump on the front of the booth and for a minute it looks like the whole structure is going to crash & burn. 

This night is hotfire.