In a time when there is still a small amount of anxiety about dancing the night away (and sometimes morning!) in loud, crowded, sweaty clubs, Voodoo Daze is a collection of short stories and poetry by Jason Golaup and Stephen Watt , that is a welcome celebration of the heady days of clubbing in the ’90s. Enjoy these extracts with your hands in the air!

Extracts taken from Voodoo Daze
By Jason Golaup and Stephen Watt
Published by Speculative Books

St Vitus

People in Germany celebrated the feast of Vitus by dancing before the Saint’s statue. This dancing was named “Saint Vitus Dance” and was given to the neurological disorder ‘Sydenham Chorea’ which is characterized by rapid, irregular, and aimless involuntary movements of the arms and legs.

inside some lollygagging bubble
of light,

everything brakes right down
into slow motion film
for this crucial moment in history
when the room is a flashlight inside my mind.

Utopia. Arcadia. Nirvana.
Sawdust of the promised land
sprinkles from beams
and like a dream, our postman emanates,
throwing shapes in large, white baggy robes
like an archangel; or pasty as a ghost.

He wears a stethoscope
but our doctor and liberator
is aglow in lasers, juggling chemicals
like fireballs, shaking his raver’s
elongated tentacles to subwoofer decibels;
a wacky waving inflatable man
sky-dancing on this song’s invisible molecules.

We name him St Vitus:
Patron Saint of the dancers, the ravers
(as well as comedians and actors).
Upon the podium, our postman dances,
rushes, flushes, rages,
momentarily forgets his wages
to lose time and break on through.

I’m in love with you. Want you to love me too*.

All bodies, here, dancing before his statue.

*Lyrics taken from N-Joi “Anthem” (1990)

Number Ten’s Commandment: Thou Shalt Not Party

Ye hud high unemployment n picket lines. Boays Fae the Black Stuff showin families livin oan the breadline, survivin aff scraps like they feral Harpies in Jason n The Argonauts.

Oan the other side ae the coin, yuppies wur quaffin in snazzy wine bars. Harry Enfield wis actin pure gallus wae a wad a banknotes yellin, ‘LOADSAMONEY!’ at ye.

Nae wunner thur wis a reaction.

House music wis croassin ower fae Chicago n Detroit, infiltratin oor inner cities n housin schemes. Yur boay here wis a bona fide denizen ae Easterhoose, a notorious housin scheme in Glesga. So, I wis ideally positioned tae tune intae it.

Yon Roland TB-303 bass synthesiser wis the catalyst. Maaan… ah found its squelches so addictive. Acid house n smiley culture wur borne n the tabloids wurnae slow tae latch oantae it. They reported oan the acid house craze thit wis sweepin the country, but portrayed it as a passin fad thit wid blow ower like a house a kerds – jist kids in fluorescent apparel, flingin thur erms in the air n chantin, ‘ACIEEEEED!’

The innocence didnae last. They tabloids soon cheynged thur tune wae features like ‘10 Reasons tae Say Naw tae Evil LSD’. We wur labelled as disaffected youths gittin spaced oot oan drugs at illegal werrhoose parties n raves, which screamed right intae the heids a parents who’d thoat thit thur weans wur merely gaun oot in psychedelic colours n dancin like heidcases.

Celebration: The Sound ae the North hud the gen oan the Madchester buzz – music, fashion, art, so many creative personnel talkin aboot the city n that. Wan clip thit captivated me wis a berr chisted dude whose pupils wur that dilated ye coulda flown a jumbo jet through thum. He wis ravin his face aff tae Don’t Miss the Partyline till WHAM! – ye hear the sound ae a prison cell door gittin slammed.

Ye wur never gonnae miss Maggie Thatcher’s party line. Acid house? Pfff. They musta been steyin in wan – The Acid Houses a Parliament – cos they came up wae a Bill tae ban gatherins ae merr thin twinty people listenin tae repetitive beats.

Whit?! Bannin folk fae listenin tae repetitive noayses? Wur they aw sittin aboot werrin earmuffs in therr cos aw ye hear is sarcastic groans n, ‘Order, order,’ sarcastic groans n, ‘Order, order,’ sarcastic groans n…

Whit kina hallucinogenics wur they oan tae dream up a Bill like that? They shoulda been puntin that gear oot at the raves thumsels if it wis that powerful. N don’t kid me oan thur wurnae any peeved aff young renegade Tory ravers. Visualise it troops: wan a Maggie’s posse ravin and coinin it in oan the auld LSD (pounds, shillings, n pence) spreadin the flow a tablets, giein The Vicky tae Thatcher; thus, spreadin a drug problem thit The Iron Wumman wis tryin tae eradicate.

Did we kerry oan ravin jist tae challenge authority? Nahhh. We never saw oorsels as rebels. We wur young. Daein the hings thit ye dae whin yur young. It wis 1990. Our Summer a Love. Ah felt electrified tae be part a somethin thit wis thrivin within a free-spirited n vibrantly creative climate.

Ah wis as happy as a sandboay compilin mix tapes in ma bedroom. Acid house merged wae Madchester, techno, n rave, creatin wan monumental cauldron thit wis burnin in ma soul n makin me feel like ah hud an identity. Ah cut through Easterhoose wae ma ghettoblaster in tow, hypnotisin strangers tae the beats; n those strangers became friends. Huddled roon a ghetto thit’s pumpin euphoric chants, mechanical rhythms, n bleeps mighta satisfied many a teenager. But we craved merr. We became rave junkies n went ravin at Peggy’s nightclub, meetin other likeminded souls; ultimately discoverin thit yur no a solitary aficionado ae rave culture cos thur’s others oot therr fae aw ower Glesga n beyond.

Ferr do’s – a bit a rave anarchy did occur en route tae Peggy’s oan the fifty wan. The bus hudnae even goat ootae Queenslie yit whin Vinny Lambie went, ‘COME ON AH THOUGHT THERE WAS A PARTY IN HERE!’ aff Awesome 3’s rave anthem Hard Up n booted a windae in. The alarm went aff so we even goat the sounds ae oor ain rave horns. But everybody bolted in fear ae additional sirens wae flashin lights fae the Easterhoose polis.

Ah never did fathom Vinny’s reason fur daein that. Mibbe he thoat thit he wis wan ae they Harpies n wahnted tae fly oot the windae tae Peggy’s insteid ae takin public transport like the rest ae us.

Voodoo Daze by Jason Golaup and Stephen Watt is published by Speculative Books, priced £9.99.