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CONTENTS • 4/ Ear Waxxx

DJ MrPaul guides you through his favourite flavours of the month, this issue he talks Tusk Wax, Ejeca and Last Waltz, all of whom are playing our next event. How convenient, hey?

• 8-9/ Bad Pubs Guide Vol. 2

If you’re new to the city and want to get to know some nice Liverpool locals, visit these pubs, you’ll be welcomed with the warmest of receptions. Promise.

• 10/ 50 Cups of Sexy Black Coffee

When we asked Stephen Baxendale to write us a fake sex novel, we had no idea that his mind was this corrupt. Proceed with extreme caution.

• 11/ Wanking the Dead

We got in touch with Princess Diana through an online psychic, she even appeared on Skype, we couldn’t believe it.

• 12/ Garden Festival / Electric Elephant Review This is where we say good things about a festival we went to, in order to get free tickets again next year. Fortunately for you, the camera never lies…we’ve backed up this review with cold, hard, evidence.

• 14/ Waxxx 2.0 Birthday Party Pictures

It may have been a good few weeks ago, but here are some pictures of people dancing in the Cabin Club. The pictures are probably not that much fun if you’re not in them. Sorry.

• 15/ Blocked. Why Do Some Festivals Fail?

Dan Owen takes a look at the Bloc Festival fiasco and asks just how did they manage to fuck it up so badly?

• 16/ The Intellectual Ghetto

Owen Rogers believes the children are the future. We need to stop them now.

• 17/ Art Attack: Liverpool Biennial 2012

If you’ve spotted some weird and unusual shit around town, don’t be alarmed, it’s probably part of the Liverpool Biennial, but then again, seeing as this is Liverpool, you can never really be sure.

• 18-19/ Single / Album Reviews

Downloading music for free is apparently a crime, it even funds world terrorism. Unfortunately for prospective terrorists, D/R/ U/G/S/ latest EP is a free download. If you want to help the terrorists out during this tough time, we suggest www.justgiving. com/terrorism2012

Editorial And so our baby is officially two years old, and what a rollercoaster of a year it has been. There’s been some amazing highs, and some gut-wrenching killer lows; from cancelled warehouse parties (shut down for “safety reasons”) to Space, Safari and Jubilee themed adventures in Binary Cell. On a boat we partied until the rain came down and for a couple of nights we returned to Camp & Furnace. However, after endlessly roaming around this city like a band of party gypsies, we have finally found a little place we can call home. Infact, we say little, it’s actually a huge warehouse on Greenland Street . Come see it on the 12th October for Waxxx in public. At risk of sounding like Kate Winslet during an acceptance speech, I would like to take this opportunity to say thank you to all of the contributors that make this magazine exactly what it is… rarely printed on time, often factually incorrect and forever pissing people off. We may have the most dyslexic team of writers to have ever graced a printed publication, but that doesn’t bother us. We like it when the odd word has a funny look to it… It’s endearing. God bless you all, you beautiful bastards. Waxxx xxx Publisher Joshua Burke – Editor Joe Murphy - Assistant Editor Owen Rogers - Music Editor: Paul Hutchinson – Designer Rogelio Narito – Advertising Cover Photography by Rogelio Narito - Contributors Stephen Baxendale, George McCallum, Corey-BartleSanderson, Dan Owen, Lizzy Short, Kraig T Heymanns, Louis Bransgrove, Charles McIntyre, Hannah Thomas and anyone we’ve missed off. Sorry!

• 20 / Waxxx On Film

Wonderfully witty and consistently cynical, what Charles McIntyre doesn’t know about film, isn’t worth knowing. In Charles we trust, you should too.

Waxxx Magazine contains explicit content and material throughout. It is intended for a readership of 18+. Sorry we had to get serious here but we’ve watched The Wire and prison isn’t for us.

/ P. 4 - 5 /




Where would one obtain “ink made from the ground up tusks of unicorns and sperm whales”? Don’t know? Well, the illusive Mr Tusk does. And like his where-about’s, he’s keeping it a much guarded secret. Now renowned for knocking out some of the finest electronic and most hyped about music to date, it is incredible to think that the Tusk label hasn’t even celebrated its first birthday yet. With all Tusk releases limited to a press of just 300, getting your hands on this wax can often prove near impossible. Fortunately for you and me, the folks at Tusk are nice people and have uploaded their creations onto SoundCloud, go find them now, you certainly won’t regret it.


Belfast based Ejeca has been creating waves this year. From the moment I first heard ‘Tetra’, I shit my pants and was like, “who the fuck has made this 24 carrot gem?” Fresh on the scene with Tusk, Ejeca has also had releases on AUS Music, Future Classics and Saint & Sonnets. Rooted in 90’s house garage, Ejeca dips his toes into disco, house, deep house and techno. It’s a cliché, but you really don’t know what to expect when graced with a new Ejeca release. With a Boiler Room session with Bicep now under his belt, a lot of people are starting to sit up and take note of Ejeca. Check out his SoundCloud page for some more free gems


Last Waltz are Geoff Leopard, Mick Wolfe and El Dee, 3 DJ’s / musicians / producers from the north of England. They recently had a single released on Dave Harvos Bristol imprint Futureboogie, which has housed releases from the likes of Julio Bashmore, Coat of Arms and Waifs and Strays. The trio’s first release on Tusk sees a remix of “Obsession” by Jose Manual. Sounding like something John Carpenter would make, the track takes you on a journey of eerie ghostlike guitar riffs, pulsing waves of synthesisers and timely echoed snares. An emotional builder of a track, it slides nicely into any slomo / house / disco type set. Go listen.


We know, we know, no-one like’s people that plug their own shit, but if you excuse us just this once, we promise not to make a habit of it. Honest. On the 12th October 2012, Waxxx will be taking over a disused warehouse and hosting an event called, ‘Waxxx in Public’. There’ll be fully interactive art installations, live projected CCTV streams, TV walls, and all other kinds of weird digital shit. Oh yeah, and I nearly forgot to mention, we got drugs too. Well, D/R/U/ G/S/ as in the electronic outfit, not the other kind. Sorry. With two rooms of music in a big old secret warehouse, this truly is our biggest and most ambitious party yet. Come and say hello, yeah? Tickets: £10 (ADV) / £12 (OTD) // Available at Bold Street Coffee and 3B Records. Participate:

Words: Paul Hutchinson


Words: Waxxx



Hustle is a weekly House & Disco night based in Liverpool. Merging the very best of the old school with the new, it’s rapidly becoming a favourite weekly night of ours. Launched in July 2012 by Moonlight Music’s James Morgan and Waxxx and Discoteca Poca Resident, Jimmy Allen, the night pays homage to the original stateside sounds while drawing on modern day influences spawning from UK, European and Worldwide producers of the here and now. Whether it’s Berlin beats or New York, Chicago or Detroit classics, one eye is always firmly fixed on that underlying groove that makes you move! Currently held at the intimate Forty-Three bar on Seel Street, the Hustle boys have made this small 70-something capacity venue their own. Friendly faces meet, greet and get down to some of the best underground music your likely to hear in Liverpool. Weekly guests DJ’s also add to the diversity of the sound and bring a distinctively unique vibe to the space! Forthcoming guests include Pamorama Bar Berlin’s Andre Lodemann (Best Work/Freerange), Chicago’s dj Rahann (Kat Records) and a massive gig at Liverpool’s new club Hi-Fi (Formerly Binary Cell) on Saturday 8th December. We’ll be there. Will you?


IndIE DISCO THURSDAYS @ Forty Three 9pm - 4 am

Liverpool’s best Indie dj’s on rotation 2-4-1 on selected Cocktails & Weekly Drinks Promo’s 43 Seel Street [Above Zanzibar]


Forty-Three, a new bar on Seel Street, upstairs from The Zanzibar, subscribes to the old adage that all you need for a kicking party is good people, good music and some damn good drinks. Despite the array of options on Seel Street, Forty Three will no doubt be the pick for those with a desire to get down to something a little bit less commercial. Currently open from Thursday to Sunday until 4am and with some seriously good nights now in full flow, this is definitely one of the places you’ll want to get yourself to.

/ P. 8 - 9 /


Words: Stephen Baxendale


If you like visiting ‘nice’ pubs and you’re considering reading this article, don’t bother. You’ll find nothing of interest here. You’re not going to find our review of a trendy cocktail bar that has specialist rums imported from... wherever. You definitely will not read about establishments where you’ll see a ‘med’ student drinking apple sours. Nor are you going to find a gastro-pub that serves premium beers in a relaxing atmosphere. The pubs in this guide are bleak, volatile and often genuinely unpleasant. These are bad pubs for bad people. These are pubs for people who have been barred from everywhere else. Luckily for you our resident lowlife specialist, Stephen Baxendale, has been barred from everywhere else. Twice over. We sent him to visit three of Liverpool’s seediest boozers so that you don’t have to. Aren’t we kind? Be grateful.







I walked up the hill towards Smokie Mo’s. Liverpool’s altitude increases rapidly the further inland you get. Smokie Mo’s is at the base of Mount Pleasant, a street which runs straight up the steep climb of Liverpool’s geography. I’ve always found the journey up this street to be a perfect analogy of Liverpool’s culture… At the top of Mount Pleasant are Liverpool’s highest aspirations; universities, cathedrals and hospitals, whilst at the bottom are Liverpool’s most base instincts. Bazooka chicken, the city’s shadiest fast food venue, the ruins of the infamous 051 club, closed due to there being too many stabbings, an insanely small Sayers… and of course, Smokie Mo’s. I felt like getting wankered as soon as I walked in. The place is oppressively grim. They have clearly gone out of their way to make it as depressing and ugly as possible. A lot of money has been spent turning this shithole into a western themed bar. The corners and windows are full of life size plastic cowboys, which are covered in years of grime and shame, they leer down at you as you stand at the bar. The walls are covered in wood and arbitrary western memorabilia. Black and white photos of trains and shit, guns which are probably fake, the occasional bulls head. A sign above the bar claims that this is not a bar, and that it is in fact a saloon. I don’t feel completely immersed in the illusion as they seem to have stopped short in their efforts. There are no western style drinks, no mechanical bull, no wide selection of whisky’s. There are, however, several 52’ inch plasma screen televisions all showing Sky Sports News. Fairy lights hang from everywhere and school-disco style lights are beamed from the DJ booth. There’s nothing like a disco ball and Nick Powell to make you feel like you are back in the old west. Everyone seemed unhappy there. I stood there sipping a warm Guinness and exchanging glares with everyone. They probably hated me because I wasn’t wearing the bar’s official uniform, football t-shit with blue jeans and black shoes. I was a little tense because Smokie Mo’s is a renowned epicentre of binge drinking induced violence and the last time I was here a man threatened to gut me for practically no reason at all. The western theme is pointless too. Nobody is here for western related reasons, nobody. People are just here to get obliterated. Most of the patrons probably haven’t even noticed the plastic stereotypes staring down at them. Nobody has ever said, ‘Hey mate, do you know where I can get a drink but in a mildly wild-west infused atmosphere?’ Even if someone did ask me that, I would probably point them in the opposite direction, unless of course I was feeling particularly sadistic. In between playing S Club Seven, Johnny Cash and Rihanna the DJ began to mumble like a bad Peter Kay sketch. He started asking if anyone wants to get up and do karaoke. He’s met by blank and angry stares. Undettered, he picks up his own microphone and begins to scream a rendition of Wonderwall in a thick Wirral accent. I started to wonder if you can cringe so much that you’re driven irreversibly insane.

Somewhere (it’s so dilapidated it’s difficult to accurately determine), London road, L3 5PX If you’re not familiar with the area, it’s worth a trip to London Road because it’s a perfect example of how life will be after the nuclear apocalypse; People shuffling about in rags, clawing at supplies and crying. London road is hellish at the best of times. It’s a bit like Liverpool One, only designed by people with severe neurological damage. Sprawling and shit, it houses shops that nobody likes and shops that don’t like its customers. And of course, the needle exchange, which keeps a steady supply of ‘local characters’ coming to the street. Worst of all, no matter where you drink you’re under the gaze of the demonic TJ HUGHES. The street is lined with filthy take-away shops and grimy boozers. The Royal George is the worst of all these boozers and is rumoured to be the smelliest pub in Europe. The Royal George is exactly the sort of place that could have thrived before the smoking ban because the stench of tobacco smoke covered up the smell of the patrons. I walked through the door and the odour gripped me immediately. It’s not a simple smell, it’s like a fine wine in that the smell is layered and complex. The first note you get is piss. Old stale piss. The thick dark urine of drinkers. The smell you get in subways and piss alleys. Then sweat. Not the hot sweat of a gym goer. This is a dry sweat which has festered under the armpits of men too lazy to take their coats off as they drink. Then there’s something sweet and strange like rotting meat. If you take a deep breath you begin to get the subtle tones of human shite which permeate the air. Horrible. The strangest thing is everyone acts like this smell isn’t going on. The patrons are mostly mutants who have crawled in from the local area so they’re probably incapable of perceiving it. Upon entering, all their eyes fixed upon me, watching my reaction to the smell. I tried to act like a regular and walk to the bar. But something went wrong. I was too conscious of people watching me and I began to over think every movement. My walk became long and exaggerated and I practically ended up lunging to the bar. I was trying to smile as I ordered my drink, but the smell was too much and the smile began to falter and somewhere along the line I lost control of half of my face and could only manage a crooked smile on one side. I sipped my pint, which was fairly decent but my tongue was beginning to pick up the smells of the bar. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would put up with the smell. It can’t be because there is nowhere else to drink, this is London Road for god’s sake. The place is practically made of pubs. There’s another pub so close that I could reach out the window and punch it if I wanted to. The owners clearly knew of the situation because on every table, every window ledge, every surface, was a cheap plastic air freshener. But even in their numbers they were overwhelmed. A bit like that film 300. There was no time to decipher the mysteries of this peculiar odour because I couldn’t finish my pint. The piss and shit particles had settled on my tongue and every sip was painfully disgusting. I calmly turned around, put on a lob sided smile and lunged out of pub.




Words: Stephen Baxendale


40 GREAT CHARLOTTE STREET, LIVERPOOL, MERSEYSIDE, L1 1HU This isn’t just an old man’s pub. This is an old bastard’s pub. The pub was populated almost entirely by indestructible hardmen. Their ages were difficult to determine. They all had that impoverished look were they could be anywhere between thirty and eighty. Everyone had an obligatory addiction to gambling. Hands like sandpaper. Smiles mostly devoid of teeth. Deep lines carved into their faces from hard lives of manual labour or crime. Everyone looked unhealthy enough to warrant calling an ambulance. They seemed so used to self-abuse that I imagine none of them get hangovers, I imagine they could drink a pint of arsenic and they wouldn’t even need an aspirin the next day. I got no aggression from these people though. In fact I quite liked them. Everyone seemed to be there by themselves but everyone still seemed to know everyone else. There was no pretension about real ales or paranoia about chemicals in their beer. They come to The Blob Shop for drinking, not posturing. The patrons were quite happy to order a round of Stella with no-name brand whisky chasers.


The men clung to dignity. Suits were worn that held up faces that looked like they were weighed down by lead. They took frequent breaks from boozing to nip to the betting shop next door or outside for a cigarette. When anyone looked at each other for long enough they would ask ‘Where are you from? Lad’. Which is a very Liverpool way of sizing people up, to these people you’re considered a ‘wool’ if you weren’t conceived and birthed within a mile of central station. The women there are dreadful. They look like bits of meat that have been left out in the sun for too long. Even to a heterosexual male the men here are more sexually attractive. The females wore functional, elasticated clothing decorated with thick and ugly gold jewellery. Their hair is almost always cut off, presumably to save time getting ready and leave more time for drinking. The women there consume nothing but Aussie Whites. A dark and surgery fortified wine which is dispensed from a giant barrel at the back of the bar and sold for one pounds fifty a glass. The Blob Shop itself is an oddity. It is a time capsule to the pubs of fifty years ago. The lighting is warm and comfortable. The setup is simple. Wooden chairs and bare wood floors. The décor is pleasantly unpleasant. The pub isn’t so much as next to a bookmakers, but more as if it’s in a symbiotic relationship with it. Like a barnacle clinging to a whales stomach. Some men seem to be there only to see the outcome of gambles they have made. They vent extreme anger at the televisions that hang from the ceiling every time their bets don’t pay off. Then they have a pint and nip next door to place another loosing gamble. I decided to see what all the fuss was about and fought my way to the bar. I ordered an Aussie White. When it came it moved in slow viscous waves. It tasted of tea, dark sugar and white wine. The sugar high is immediate. But drops off quickly. There’s a strong kick of alcohol too. You feel compelled to take another slug. It’s addictive, you almost feel depressed when you are not downing it. I felt horrible and sexy. It was brilliant. I wondered… is this how Australians feel all the time? I ordered another Aussie White. Then four more. Then another two. I sat in the corner nursing my sugar and alcohol high and watching the drunks hobbling up and down the road outside. Heading off to concert square or A&E. I stayed there for the rest of the night because for a bad pub it’s pretty good.



/ P. 10 - 11 /


I can’t remember the first time I had sex with Mrs Black. Literally. I came into her office and she offered me what I thought was a cough sweet. I was just a shy and sexually inexperienced office intern at the time, so, like an idiot, I took it. I woke up naked, three days later. Mrs Black was sat in the corner wearing nothing but a grin and smoking a fat Cuban cigar. ‘Was that good for you too?’ she asked. The hospital would later tell me that the pill I had swallowed contained a double dose of Viagra, a dose of MDMA and three doses of Rohypnol. I had been humped into a critical condition. My pennie was raw and blistered. My shaft was black and blue. The bell-end was a mess. The scrotum in tatters. Mrs Black had non-consensually christened my virgin cock and balls. That bitch. That sexy bitch. Things in the office were awkward for me after Mrs Black had brutally raped me. Mainly because Mrs Black brutally raped me every time she saw me around the office. I would be picking up some photocopying and I’d feel a hypodermic in my neck, I’d wake up in a motel dressed as school girl, my face covered in peanut butter, my hands tied to a bedpost and my penis chemically erect. I’d go into the stationary cupboard and she’d be waiting for me in there wearing a corset, holding a leather whip and ready for some degrading surprise bondage. But there were other things that made my job awkward for me. In her presence everything became ultra-sexy to me. Her desk became a sex desk. Her carpet became a sex carpet. Windows, sex windows. Sex iPhone. Sex landline telephone. Sex lamp. Damn… that was a sexy motherfucker of a lamp. About two months after the rapes began I was called into Mrs Black’s office. I was shaking with fear and excitement as I stood before her. I could feel my cheeks becoming hot and red. In my trousers a potent semi-on was appearing. ‘Do you want me to get you some coffee Mrs Black?’ I asked.

Mrs Black was sitting at her desk. She was in her seventies but the excellent quality of her dentures took ten years off of her. She stood up and walked towards me. ‘I think I’d like something a little STRONGER than coffee. If you know what I mean?’ she said while winking and elbowing me in the ribs. I didn’t know what she meant at all at the time. Then she took off her clothes and attached a large strap on dildo to her pelvis and I began to hazard a guess at what she really meant. She reached over to her desk were she kept a crusty tub of Vaseline and slathered the menacing artificial todger that was pointing at me like a crazed finger. She gripped the back of my neck and began kissing me violently. Her mouth tasted of potent tobacco and Dentafix. Mrs Black shoved me roughly to the ground. I lay there face down on her sexy carpet. She grabbed my trousers and ripped them off with the strength of a horny pensioner. She grabbed a handful of both of my ass cheeks in her hands and spread my buttocks. I let out a gasp of pure excitement as she packed the greasy dildo into my rectum. ‘Are you sure you don’t just want some coffee?’ I asked while the dildo was stretching my sphincter like a foot going into a new sock. She didn’t answer me, she simply began pounding me relentlessly. ‘Do you like it?’ she asked me over the wet sound of her flabby belly thumping into my upturned ass. ‘I, I…’ I stammered while the dildo penetrated me deeply. ‘Speak up you disgusting weasel!’ She shouted while punching my ass cheek with a right hook. ‘I think I like it! I think I like it in my ass!’ I screamed. ‘Yes,’ she whispered into my ear while leaning over my back, the dildo reaching inside me deeply ‘that’s because you’re a homosexual now. I’ve given you homosexuality. In the ass.’

Words: Stephen Baxendale Illustration: George McCallum

When I was young I longed to discover the unknown, the mysteries of the universe, the secrets of the dead. I decided to pursue the latter to see what I could uncover. I browsed through dusty books in Toxteth library detailing the ancient arts of summoning the spirit via spells and Ouija boards, but it was all a bit ‘14 year old girl who’d just seen The Craft for the first time’, so I strolled across the library and logged onto a vacant computer. The internet is a beautiful thing. It allows people from every corner of the earth to connect, sharing their skills, views and knowledge. This is where I encountered Dr Kwame Mbakke. A renowned Nigerian witch doctor with a heritage steeped in unorthodox religious practices. I’d struck gold. It was simple really, all he asked for was a Western Union transfer to my Mum’s bank account as proof that I was not trying to scam him. Once the payment cleared, we could begin. My head spun on its axis dreaming of the historical and political secrets I was about to uncover. Who should I summon? What should I ask them? How much could I potentially sell my findings to OK magazine for? A lot I bet. I just needed to find the right person, someone who really hit the mark; someone who’s passing had affected the lives of the nation. Then it hit me (no pun intended)… The people’s Princess, Princess Diana… Dirty Diana! I proceeded to email back Dr Mbakke with my request. 37 hours later I received a response stating how “very, very happy he would be to meet his favourite white lady hero”, he went on to inform me it was going to cost £2,185 return from Nigeria. Being ever so slightly over Waxxx’s budget, we decided to conduct the séance via Skype. After logging in, I was apprehensive that I could actually communicate with a dead person via the Internet. However when Dr Mbakke added “PrincessDiana0234” into our Skype conversation, my apprehension quickly turned to delight. I couldn’t believe it. There was Princess Diana right before my very eyes, dressed in traditional Nigerian costume too! Interestingly, she’d decided to do an “oppo Jacko” in the afterlife and also looked very much like Dr Mbakke but female. After a moment’s hesitation, I asked Di my first question…

So Di, how did you die? Young man, I think it is rude for you to ask the deceased such a question.

OK Di, how did Dodi die? I don’t like this questions.

Right-o Di, well what are your views on your daughter in law, Kate Middleton? She is a handsome princess but has long boobs like tribes woman.

I see, so Di are you working on any new projects in heaven? There’s not many needs for my charity work now as full board catering is availability here, however I am currently working on a scented fragrance which will be availability before Christmas.

Lovely Di and what’s that called? Sudden Impa…

And with that our conversation disconnected. According to Dr Mbakke, “the spirit energies had affected the connection”… seemed logical, I suppose.


Words: Hannah Thomas Illustration: Corey Bartle Sanderson

/ P. 12 - 13 /



There’s only one way to describe my experience of the Garden Festival and Electric Elephant this year, and that is quite simply MAGIC. With both festivals taking place concurrently and sharing the same brand-new site in Tisno, Croatia; doing the full two weeks and both festivals is an absolute must for those who like the party to last. After leaving last year’s beautiful home in Petrcane, this year’s festival started out with an air of trepidation and worry. No-one was quite sure how the new site in Tisno was going to match up against last year’s stunning home. Fortunately for everyone involved, the magic had travelled along the coastline and found its way to the new site; and oh boy, what a site it was… The Garden Tisno is much bigger by all counts. The beach and main stage have taken on an extensive new look, with a huge pier leading to parties afloat the glittering Adriatic Sea. Upon arrival at the box office I was given a brown envelope containing my tickets to all of the festival’s surplus events. Like a child in wonderland, I set off in search of magic … I knew it wasn’t far away. On The Future Disco dingy my first, crystal-water voyage took place. The atmosphere on board was electric. Full of hot, anticipating bodies, we eagerly awaited for the crew to haul anchor and send us on our merry way. Tunes were dropped, but none more poignant than the selection of Todd Terje’s Ragysh by Patrick Perring of Sloth boogie. The sunburnt souls erupted like a chip pan fire. Next up was Garden Festival’s new late night target, Barbarellas. This 1000 capacity, open-air, starspeckled nightclub was a welcome change from last years’ after-hours inferno, where scantily clad revellers danced, and lost serious weight into the small hours. In Barbarellas, we were treated to Solomun and David August playing 5 hours of deep bass-lines back to back. There really is only one word to describe this, okay maybe two… “Fucking unreal”. On the Thursday evening, I journeyed to the Beach Stage to check out the eclectic sounds of Ben UFO and pumping house of Prosumer. Neither disappointed. With a dance floor that has clear waters rippling around it, this area really is nothing short of idyllic. Friday night heralded my finest couple of hours with friends old and new, as Greg Wilson tore the main stage a new asshole. With his entire set up on SoundCloud now, you really should go and have a listen. As our troop ecstatically departed from the Beach Stage, we marched on to catch the last hour of SDC. Before long, our slow pace had turned into a jog, then a sprint. From disco-funk we found ourselves immersed midway through a 90’s techno set surrounded by a more serious, double fist-pumping crowd. More momentous occasions were to be had at the Beach Stage with thunderous sets particularly by Eats Everything, Midland, PBR Street Gang, Laura Jones and Tiger & Woods. On the Saturday night I discovered Axel Bowman’s showmanship, smile and amazing catalogue of tripped-out house, his set proved to be the perfect soundtrack to witness an astonishing Adriatic sunrise. Surrounded by over 500 people at 6:00am, with characters from all over Europe and the U.S. our mood was one of pure joy. There was no pretence or attitude here, no try-hards or egomaniacs. Everyone was there for the music and the music alone. For me, that’s what sums up these two festivals best. No-one is jumping on the big-name bandwagon, nor is anyone there just because Mixmag says it’s cool. Instead, attendance is for the music and artists alone. Never before have I felt so safe and so connected to the person next to me. In all, the performances, places and people were remarkable across both festivals. Electric Elephant was slightly smaller with an older in crowd, but no magic was lost. Every day and night there were still brilliant DJs to be found, pumping out sets to suit the Balearic mood. With the likes of ALFOS (Andrew Weatherall and Sean Johnston), Ewan Pearson, Ivan Smagghe, Michael Mayer, Bicep and Optimo on hand to deliver the goods, Electric Elephant offered something very special in its own right. But please, please! Don’t take my word for it. Go experience both these festivals for yourself next year, you’ll soon realise, Tisno is the only place where real magic exists. The Garden Festival takes place 3rd - 10th July 2013 Electric Elephant takes places 11th - 15th July 2013 Both at The Garden Tisno, Croatia.

Words & Photography: Paul Hutchinson


Words & Photography: Paul Hutchinson

/ P. 14 - 15 /



Photography: Rogelio Narito


Words: Dan Owen

MU SIC If the sheer volume of festivals, springing up in various fields and cities around the UK tells us anything, it’s that there’s something about a music festival we just can’t get enough of. Another thing us British can’t get enough of, if stereotypes are anything to go by, is queing – a phenomenon we have become known for taking quite seriously. The two combined however, led to disaster on Friday 6 July as Bloc Weekend was shut down amid chaotic scenes at the festival’s first time London home, London Pleasure Gardens. The event was cancelled on the opening night due to fears of overcrowding, forcing festival organisers Baselogic to later declare administration. Looking back at Bloc, a festival which provided an eclectic line-up of artists across the field of electronic music - including Flying Lotus and Four Tet, alongside appearances from rap elders Doom and Snoop Dogg – it’s sad to see where things went wrong. Many who attended the festival rightly blamed the incomplete or not-yet-started construction at London Pleasure gardens*, whilst others speculated that the festival had been grossly oversold. Eitherway, Bloc’s downfall was not the common cancer of current festivals, in fact, weekend Bloc tickets had sold out prior to the event, in a market where many, such as Knebworth’s Sonisphere, had failed to attract the attention of previous years. Sonisphere wasn’t alone in it’s failure. Newly emerging festivals vow to offer a unique experience which can rival the more traditional format, and with rising ticket prices and rocketing costs for food and drink, is it really any surprise that festivals which offer, well just that, are suffering? It’s a decline that has been noted by Glastonbury’s Michael Eavis who feared even the demise (not likely!) of his festival in the next “three or four years”, asserting his belief that “people have seen it all with festivals. They want something else.” In a time when people are afforded the luxury of choice, it’s the likes of Bestival and Lattitude, which offer a thorough bill of entertainment on their roster as well as a wide range of music, which are seeing a rise in their ticket sales year after year.

The competition from abroad also factors in the decline of our homegrown festivals. Croatia’s Hideout and Outlook, or Spain’s Innovation in the Sun don’t have to contend with the great British weather - the severity of which brought an untimely end to this year’s Creamfields in Cheshire. Music festivals have become summer holidays to many, and the appeal of music in the sun, in a different country! has inspired many to hang up their wellies. But Bloc, poor Bloc had defied this trend, simply by offering an unflinching bill of music. Instead what failed them was their own poor organisation and London Pleasure Gardens’ inability to deliver what was agreed. A harrowing lesson to anyone who turns their back on Butlins holiday park. Perhaps the poigniant point to take from all this, is that in a climate where many smaller festivals are struggling to keep up, it is important for those which do receive interest to get it right. After all, interest in the British music festival certainly isn’t a lost cause. With such a large amount on offer, price-drops are to be expected as competition rises, and more importantly, variety increases. The latter, of course, is something that the British festival scene can be proud of. Events that offer an array of talent stand up well alongside more specialised festivals, foreign or otherwise, ensuring that with careful planning, any festivalgoer can have a unique experience in the UK. Even after tickets sold out for this year’s Bestival, which coincidentally was lucky enough to be drenched in sunshine, Rob da Bank made the decision to stream live sets from artists such as The xx, New Order and Stevie Wonder on Youtube, making Bestival the first British festival to provide a global service. Good moves like this expose our love of music to the world, helping to keep the great British festival far from deaths door. *Following the Bloc fiasco, London Pleasure Gardens’ largest investor pulled out, subsequently leaving them in a state of administration, parallel to Bloc’s.

/ P. 16 - 17 /



In higher education we indulge ourselves in an outrageous luxury. It’s a delicate lynchpin in any enviable society; the final mind-blowing episode in a process aiming to enlighten. So why, when evaluating my time at university do I feel somewhat unsatisfied? I recently learned that the word education derives from the verb ‘educe’, meaning ‘to draw from within’. What a beautiful notion. A process that exposes something you didn’t know you had. A process where the ideas you explore and subsequently create, become you. Do you feel me getting further away from the student experience with every word? At first blurt I had said to a friend that perhaps this vast difference was a downfall of the individual, that university is what you make of it, and that you can achieve such things if you want. But my skepticism was misplaced. Why would you or I achieve such things at this point; after all, university is not advertised as a place of mind expansion, but instead as a means to more gainful employment. Where is the signpost that indicates the best way to absorb, experience and use your education? …It’s not there. It’s not there because that signpost would generate a plethora of young adults who challenged ideas, and unfortunately, such an educational outcome is wrongly perceived as economically damaging. Instead, what is preferred is a well-trained individual, twenty-five grand in the hole, because no one works more compliantly than they who cannot afford to lose their job. It is here educationalists have lost a political battle, and the leaders of our country have succeeded in creating a miserable intellectual ghetto.

To say that education is the sole cause of this mental state is of course false. It’s a cog to an age-old method of social control, where fear and perceived targets – most of which are bullshit - trickle down into every orifice of existence. This incubates an unpleasant status quo in the educational system, where fear motivates you towards an A* - so your life doesn’t fall into disrepair - while teachers and lecturers meet class targets, to keep their jobs. No longer is the emphasis placed on the development of a conscious being. Instead, education is bastardised into a process where everything seems okay if students just keep answering questions. For the individual, this is a subtle damager of our freedoms, helping to create an anesthetised population, taught only to know, but not think. Sadly, proof of the connection issue between what you know and think lies in your numb reaction. For example, you know inequality is bad, yet you feel no anger when the monarchy is celebrated. You know murder is wrong, but the death of ninety thousand innocent Iraqi’s doesn’t really bother you. Quite bluntly, this is the ghetto’s victory: a widespread indifference to inhumanity and a broken-horse population. But don’t worry; the next generation of independent, free-thinkers is here right now, complete with traffic cones on their heads… they’ll save us.

Words: Owen Rogers


Words: Lizzy Short

A RT Strolling through Liverpool One recently, you may have noticed a lift erupting from the pedestrianized pavement, or the freestanding VIP door accompanied by a rather menacing looking bouncer outside the local Hilton. These aren’t regular fixtures, but a signal that the Liverpool Biennial is back for its seventh year running. Yet this is the first, in our age of austerity. It may be hard to fathom that 242 artists would be let loose amongst the city considering the creative world is scraping the barrel concerning government funding. However despite the 40% cut in budget, this year’s exhibitions have proved to be more accessible, relevant and diverse than any of the years previous. The country’s largest contemporary arts fair kicked off in the ecclesiastical surrounds of the Anglican church, which played host to an orchestra of 100 guitars and 8 bassists. Conducted by pioneer of experimental music, Rhys Chatham, the orchestra played ‘A Crimson Grail’, which wasn’t a homage to the plastic cups of red wine we were clutching, but an intensely meditative, reverberating and even delusional piece. With eyes closed one could be forgiven for thinking that we were listening to an amalgamation of violins and cellos, rather than an army of electric guitars. Whilst past themes have included ‘Urbanism’ and ‘Made Up’, this year, Director of the festival Sally Tallant has chosen to focus on ‘Hospitality’, with specific regards to ‘The Unexpected Guest’. Contextually, many of the Biennial’s main exhibits have approached the theme in a playful manner, through their interactive nature and easy accessibility, obstructing the discouraging perception that art fairs are pretentious and limited in terms of audience. Just a stone’s throw away from Primark, lies Dan Graham’s 2-Way Mirror Cylinder. The structure explores the psychological effects of architecture on the spectator, examining quite literally the viewer’s perception of inner and outer space through self-reflection, and more figuratively, the place of the individual within the public sphere. This abstract concept also applies to Elmgreen and Dragset’s destitute VIP door. Whilst the piece acts as a light hearted critical commentary on Liverpool’s infamous WAG culture, it could be construed that we, the spectators, are ‘unexpected guests’ in the high-brow world of contemporary art. Relevant not only to today’s trivialised celebrity culture, the theme acknowledges that society has reached an increasingly globalised and transcendent state. Jose Vincench’s work, which is currently on show outside St Georges Hall, takes the form of five mobile home trailers, which spell out ‘EXILE’, symbolising the transient life of fugitives, forced to leave their homes for political reasons. It is quite befitting that the idea of what we call home is explored in a city so proud of its heritage. One of the, dare I say it, ‘must see’ tours, surprisingly takes place in one of Anfield’s two up two downs. The ‘Homebaked’ project draws attention to regeneration in what is sometimes considered perhaps a more ‘run-down’ part of town. In recent years, homes in the area were targeted for demolition by the government. In resilience to this, architects are working to restore the buildings, embracing Liverpool’s past, whilst providing a solution to affordable residential and commercial space, open to view for the fair’s duration. Although economic crisis is far from ideal, this year’s biennial has so far proved that there is massive potential for things to change in the art world, courtesy of the cuts. It has forced the ‘contemporary’ into becoming ‘practical’, proving that art is imperative in our society, helping not only regenerate Liverpool itself, but revive an appreciation of art which is open for all. Liverpool Biennial is currently running until 25th November, with events and exhibition tours being hosted around the city. See for more details.


/ P. 18 - 19 /

Words: Kraig T. Heymans, Louis Bransgrove





Take Note: This is how to write a pop song. Out now on Racquet Records, From Nowhere is the premiere release from Liverpool-local Dan Croll. Having closely followed and supported Mr Croll’s musical endeavors for the past few years; the sheer quality and maturity of this track came as no surprise to us. The rich blend of ambient guitar hooks and the warm, fuzzy bass line, layered with bright keys and pulsating drums forms a clever, catchy, cock-tingling backdrop to Dan’s dulcet vocals. The perpetual, steadfast pace of the song twinned with the delicious melodies and harmonies formulated by Dan & Co, draw comparisons to the likes of Metronomy and Tom Vek whilst maintaining a clear, unique sound. Having already been playlisted by Radio 1 and plugged by the likes of Annie Mac and Huw Stephens (which in this instance IS a good thing), Dan Croll is certainly one to watch.

What do you get when you cross infamous glam-rocker Gary Glitter on acid and Spyro the Dragon? If hitherto you’d ever pondered this potentially dangerous question, consider revisiting your childhood. Funnily enough though, what you get is the latest single from notoriously elusive indie-electro band Black Moth Super Rainbow. It’s called Windshield Smasher and it’s truly brilliant. A thumping fully-formed bedroom-disco anthem that sits comfortably in a rock, electro, or just plain misc pigeonhole. It somehow feels as though you’ve heard this one before, but don’t let that put you off sticking it on infinite repeat, the track bursts out of the block with a camp glam beat, and is topped with a crunchy synth line and distant treated vocals. Truly excellent. BMSR’s 5th album is out this week as well, and it features this absolute banger. Excited much.

Win Win are a Vice magazine pet project, and it’s hard to deny that they sound like anything other than that. If you cleverly combine a memorable vocal hook with a driving house beat, throw in a bit of folk sensibilities and year 11 music production, you’re already halfway there. After the Wait is by no means a genre experiment though, it’s a smart and solid pop song, disguised and dressed up behind layers of conscious tinkering, and it works. Whether or not you like the cross of ‘Tallest Man on Earth’ vocals, with ‘Neon Indian’ production, it is undeniably a memorable and at least different kind of pop song. Albeit, one that you could imagine would probably sound better as an acoustic number.




Canadians Crystal Castles made a name for themselves on their last record for tracks with glacial synth stabs and gentle pulsating house beats, always sold with an undertone of antagonism and menace (a far cry from their early incarnation as loud, brash and amateur chiptune novelties). Wrath of God continues in this tradition, a gentle, assertive track that bubbles along at a popsavvy 3 minutes long. Grabbing from Warp IDM, 90s trance, chillwave, and the airport music of Brian Eno, it is a mini-journey into a rich history of electronic music. Although seen as hipster fodder by many, Crystal Castles are still making music that is genuinely evocative, memorable, and importantly, danceable. This new mature approach probably means that their gigs are no longer attended en masse by 13 year old girls, so you can feel happy about going to see them live too. Shove that up your spud-pipe, One Direction.



Public Image Ltd. are about as important a band as you could imagine. Rising from the ashes of John Lydon’s shit-punk mastery in Sex Pistols, they took hold of music by the crotch and dragged it in a direction few thought it could go, and indeed, few wanted to hear. They’re still around today, and John Lydon is absolutely as much of a genius, arsehole and twat as ever. On ‘Out of the Woods’ and ‘Reggie Song’ (Double A-Side) he rants with the passion of a man half his age. Legacy aside, the tracks are really quite incredible, much better than anything the band has done since ‘Album’ (from 1986, no less). With stabs of pulsing Chicago house synth here and there, these tracks really are refreshingly organic in their context. Go listen.


Words: Kraig T. Heymans, Louis Bransgrove



Amphibian EP is the third installment from the Manchester-based D/R/U/ G/S, whose dark, mystical, bass-heavy, synth-laden brand of dance music has got us all down at Waxxx HQ creaming in our proverbial panties. This is not your average four-to-the-floor, landfill house EP. Neither is it your run of the mill, over-hyped cluster of what’s ‘hot right now’. This is something else. Something potent. Whether you’re coming up or coming down, this threesome of bold, inventive tracks will prey on your current state of mind and melt your heart until you ooze euphoria. The Guardian once described D/R/U/G/S as a “softer Orbital”. We describe him as “fucking boss”.

It seems funny to think that 6 years ago, Flying Lotus released his debut record, 1983. Usually this would qualify him as an elder statesman of the electronica game, but not so. The key and beauty in Steven Ellison’s music is its constant reinvention of old musical ideas. He is well known for being the great nephew of pioneer Alice Coltrane, and it’s truly beautiful to hear him incorporating the rhythms and harmonic structure of the jazz that is so clearly in his blood. Where Cosmogramma seemed to be a trip inside the mind of an ADHD suffering be-bop fan, Until The Quiet Comes seems progressive but relaxed, not straining itself to show off, understated yet powerful, like all truly great jazz and electronic music. Flying Lotus continues to build unfathomably strong bridges between disparate genres, and long may he continue. If proof were needed that FlyLo is still the best beatmaker around, see ‘Heave(n)’.


D/R/U/G/S headlines our next event Waxxx in Public on October 12th, where his phenomenal live set will provide the soundtrack to our digital dystopia. Search ‘Waxxx in Public’ on Facebook and find out more.


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As fans of Kompakt Records will know, this is only the second album from head honcho and electronic music pioneer, Michael Mayer. He’s had us waiting for over eight years, but early signs show that the wait has certainly been worth it.

Elysium, the Pet Shop Boys 11th studio album, contains the odd moment of genius along with the occasional moment of teeth shattering cringe. Produced by Andrew Dawson - winner of three Grammy awards for his work with Kanye West - Elysium offers according to the band… “twelve new songs which display a warm, deep electronic sound” . While the occasional track hits the heights of previous Pet Shop Boys numbers, the album as a whole is a lukewarm affair.   Opening track Leaving has the typical Tennant and Lowe combination of semi-spoken vocals and elegant synthesizers, whilst the lyrics of love, lust and romance demonstrate the pop sensibilities present throughout their repertoire. A Face Like That brings a more up-tempo style, reminiscent of songs such as Flamboyant, but these moments are few and far between. It’s clear that the band have gone for a more mature sound, avoiding our beloved, big dance numbers.   Winner - the Olympic endorsed disaster – is a track so horribly steeped in cringe that I was unable to prevent myself from vomiting over my bedside pictures of Jessica Ennis. Another stand out track for the wrong reasons is Ego Music. A song that takes aim at pop’s newest recruits, but unfortunately any real message is lost in a rather irritating chorus.   Elysium is not going to change the face of pop music; it offers two outstanding tracks, two horrible tracks and a few fillers. Take away Winner and Ego Music and you have an ok album...but it’s just not quite their early stuff.


Firstly it should be noted that the production on this record is a considerable step-up from Mayer’s quickly-assembled debut album Touch. For these reasons, Mayer even insists that this ten-track LP should be considered “really the first”. Rooted in Mayers love for soundtracks and cinematic compositions, this album defies easy genre categorisation. More of a concept album than one for the dance floor, the album showcases some of the techno patrons best work yet. The first single to be released from Mantasy is oddly the last track on the record. Simply titled “Good Times” it is an ode to just that, good times and nightlife utopia. This euphoric ending to the album is testament to Mayer’s belief that “movies without a happy ending are dumb”, there’s no heartbreak storylines here, just a good old happily ever after. Now, fade to black.


/ P. 20 - 21 /


Words: Charles McIntyre




Suspension of disbelief is a vital component of cinema – from the wonderment of a child singing along with Mowgli and Baloo in The Jungle Book, to the captivation of a pubescent teenager watching the impossibly toned arse cheeks of Arnold Schwarzenegger ripple through time in The Terminator. Through the magic of cinema the imagined is made real and the impossible made possible. Deeply unsettling existential and moral predicaments are explored in parallel dream worlds rendered in glorious moving art. Well that was the idea, until some cunt thought a film script entitled Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters was worth uttering in a Hollywood studio as a fucking joke, let alone encouraging someone to actually make the frigging thing. You see, despite massive technological and medical advancements, people of the Western world are devolving into semi-literate pudding heads. Suspension of disbelief is quite simply no longer necessary. These bibbles would believe Ed Sheeran was Christ reincarnated if Susanna Reid announced it on ‘Breakfast’, you think they’re gonna have trouble believing Gemma Arteton can act? Fuck a narrative, fuck artistic merit, fuck talent. Just give the midget off Bourne Legacy a medieval shot gun and let the mind rape begin.

TAKEN 2 RELEASED: 4TH OCTOBER 2012 Liam leather...beating foreigners. Cinema in it’s purest form.

ON THE ROAD RELEASED: 12TH OCTOBER 2012 When the ‘indie’ market is ripe for plucking, you can trust Hollywood & co to pluck it silly. And so another American classic is pillaged, abbreviated and misconstrued to satisfy the converse wearing, Green Day humming morons of America. If you’re thinking of seeing this...I pity you.

THE MASTER RELEASED: 2ND NOVEMBER 2012 Having made a rare thing with There Will Be Blood – that being a film as close to perfect as is humanly possible – Paul Thomas Anderson has the credentials, in my eyes, to make a film that will likely piss off more scientologists than we previously thought existed. It’ll also be nice to see Joaquin Phoenix acting again instead of dicking about with a pedo beard on his face.


IN ASSOCIATION WITH PICTUREHOUSE AT FACT HOLY MOTORS DIRECTED BY: LEOS CARAX RELEASED: 28TH SEPTEMBER 2012 Watching Holy Motors at the cinema is the equivalent of having your hair cut at the a mime artist using a flame thrower; the experience being ultimately what you were promised by definition, with a shit load of weird thrown in. The film, Leos Carax’s first for 13 years, follows a day in the life of Mr Oscar – an indeterminable Frenchman played by Denis Lavant – as he is conveyed between ‘appointments’ in a white limo by his driver Céline. Aside from these concrete constants, the remainder of the film is largely up for interpretation. For each of his appointments Oscar must ‘change into’ a different persona in the back of the limo which doubles as his dressing room. Why and to what end Oscar must perform these parts remains unexplained, but each appointment takes place within the ‘real world’ landscape, where his persona(s) is accepted as genuine. From motion-capture sex performer to leprechaun-esque finger-biting model-fondler, the series of roles assumed by Oscar – and performed brilliantly by Lavant – are on the whole incredibly strange, disturbing and uncomfortably amusing. Each story within the film is captivating in its own right, despite their often nonsensical nature. Searching for meaning in these segments of strange will probably disorientate many cinema-goers for at least the first 30 minutes. Letting go of the need for a linear narrative is essential to enjoying the remainder of the film. Much has been said about the intended meaning of Holy Motors. The most likely interpretation is the simplest – that Oscar’s imposed enslavement to character performance relates to the nature of being in the modern world. Repeated emphasis on technology being detrimental to sense of self feeds into this dystopian view of life. Holy Motors is much more than a sci-fi, however, and even this vague interpretation is representative of only one aspect of a film that offers humour and elation as well as agony and sorrow. Oh and Kylie Minogue jumps off a roof. 9/10

Words: Hannah Thomas Illustration: George Newman


/ P. 22 - 23 /



The stars suspect that your new “youth project” is not strictly legal. Your bedroom is NOT a “changing room”, nor is your bathroom “a sauna”.


No-one likes to hear that they’re going to die this week so we’ll just pretend that’s not what the stars are saying.


You’re planets will align this week, resulting in their gravitational pull to fail, thus causing them to plummet to earth in a powerball of face melting molten lava.


After years of painstaking research and rigorous clinical trials, medical science still doesn’t have an answer for why you’re such a meff.


A mixture of dread, anxiety, and utter disgust will be yours this week when you come to realise you’re not supposed to have both lady and man parts.


This month, we can confirm, the grass is greener on the other side. Go there and harvest the crop before anyone else does.


You’ve spent years living in a fantasy world, which is rather unfortunate, as it’s one dreamed up by that cock nose JK Rowling.


You’ll be feeling low in self esteem this week as a disfiguring virus takes over your body transforming you into John Merrick’s doppelganger.


A lot can be learned by putting yourself in another person’s shoes. Go the extra mile and put yourself inside their spouse.


You’ll soon see yourself in a whole new light, which is too bad, as it’s the kind police investigators use to check for semen stains.


A wonderful romantic experience looms ahead for Virgo, which is unfortunate, as you’re a fucking Taurus.


You’ll soon bathe in the blood of your enemies when you OD on a legal high and storm the streets on a cannibalistic revenge driven rampage.







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Waxxx Magazine Issue 9  
Waxxx Magazine Issue 9  

Arts, Music, Culture