'Planet Euphorique' with CCL, Ciel and D. Tiffany @ The Pickle Factory, London, 15/02/20

Published on 2020-02-18 00:00:00 by Will Soer

The Joy (and Absurdity) of Club Toilets – And the Unhinged Magic of Planet Euphorique\

“Toilets represent a temporary escape from the noise of glaring eyes and invasive hands. With unimaginably dirty surfaces and queues longer than reasonable, all it usually takes is a small compliment to spark animated conversation with another woman and her friends.”

This^ is from an essential gal-dem article titled ‘The Joy and Escapism of Club Toilets’. The writer notes that men’s toilets, apparently, lack this vibe. I can confirm.

A neat example unfolds at The Pickle Factory, one of London’s most reliably positive clubs (which is saying something in a city where my girlfriend once got called a “pikey” and asked about her “pay bracket” simply for wearing a backpack on Corsica Studios’ dancefloor). The Pickle Factory has one major shortcoming: not only do its men’s toilets host the typical awkward silence, but the sole cubicle also has no lock.

Yet this flaw births an unexpected charm—a conversation starter: “Would you mind watching the door while I’m in there?” “Yeah, no worries, mate.”

Mate! I finally see what that writer meant. Having a chat in the toilets is lovely. He ducks in; I stand guard. His mate emerges, wearing a languid expression, a low-buttoned cream shirt, and an inverted crucifix necklace.

”What’s the necklace mean?” I ask. “Uhhhh, nothing?” He sighs. “I’m queer, so for someone like me to wear it, I guess it’s anti-establishment.”

Worried I’ve overstepped, I word-vomit: “I was just intrigued! I like the ambiguity—usually, you can guess someone’s vibe from their outfit” (a very questionable claim). “But I can’t read you at all.”

At which point his mate pipes up from the cubicle: “He’s an Australian twat.”

We laugh. The door swings open. I head in; he vanishes into the music below, now at peak intensity after hours of buildup.

The Indescribable Peak (Which I’ll Attempt to Describe Anyway)

Calling it “techno” or “drum’n’bass” or “glitched-out hybrid” doesn’t capture it. This was music that insulted and seduced, twirling you like a ballerina before kicking your chest like a horse. Planet Euphorique isn’t some glassy moon—it’s a rabid, evolving ball of lava barely contained by mud.

The Night Unfolds

It began conventionally: sold out online, early arrivals dotting the room’s edges. One guy sat cross-legged on a foot-high platform (a genius club feature—letting short people briefly feel tall).

The DJs (playing b2b2b all night) wasted no time ditching ambiance for squidgy, fidgety bops. A grey-hoodied dude tentatively scanned the room before surrendering to the skittering drums, scrambled vocals, and—at one point—a spooky Romanian organ. Percussion dominated, then synths slithered back in. But words fail. Listen below—it’s lean, percussive, and twisted.

Then came ‘BoDiEs’ from Bored Lord’s Nu Metal Toolz. Yes, nu-metal—Limp Bizkit/Linkin Park core—chopped into brutal techno. Casual fans of Ciel (who dropped this monstrosity) expecting her usual ornamental electro (or D.Tiffany’s smooth ‘AK’) must’ve been baffled. Yet the crowd? Ecstatic. Facebook ID groups later erupted: “Actually unreal vibes wtf”, “Insanely great night and beautiful crowd!”

The Final Crucible

It felt like a punk show where fallen moshers get hauled up grinning. No invasive hands (per my female companion). During Homemade Weapons’ ‘Retinae’, the music’s challenge welded the crowd into a single, writhing mass. The climax? The final track inspired a bouncer to stride onto the floor, arms raised, swaying till the last beat—grinning like a madman.

Not for the faint-hearted. Unforgettable.

Written by Will Soer

← Back to blog