Manchester is famous for many things, not least terraced houses on cobbles streets and curtain-haired blokes in baggy trousers.
But more specifically, there was the Hacienda: a seminal component of British dance culture. It was a club that not only scribed Manchester into dance music's history books but projected the bug-eyed, smiley face of youthful rebellion 20 miles into space. Manchester became to Acid House what Las Vegas is to gambling. When the doors were locked for the very last time in 1997, Manchester soon found itself in the clubbing wilderness, lost in a material world of trend bars and glamour clubs. But there was hope.
Way back in 1994 a group of friends in their early twenties began putting on one-off parties for all their mates. "We were sick of being told to wear shoes to get in," explains Tangled promoter Phil Morse. "We soon realised we could do it better." And so they did. After various stints at the Dominion Hotel, the Boardwalk, The Attic and UMIST Club Underground, Tangled has now settled with a weekly residency at the Phoenix on Oxford Road.
The Phoenix is a sweatbox stripped to its bare essentials, pure and simple. It doesn't rely on flash decor or contemporary furnishings. It's somewhere to get royally spangled. With a sound system that's as aggressive as a raging pitbull, and atmosphere that's as friendly as a virgin pill popper and a well-defined music policy that states: "If a record ain't worth driving from Nottingham to hear, it ain't worth playing", you know you can't go wrong.
Tonight is the residents' party and it's as sure to pack the crowds as much as a host of big-name DJs would. You see Tangled isn't about putting on the biggest line-ups or attracting customers with corporate incentives, it's about putting on a party. Most punters here are regulars, faces that are as predominant as those of the residents themselves. It's that kind of family-orientated vibe that helps create Tangled's house party-esque atmosphere.
Downstairs Phil Morse is embarking on a six-hour mission of twisted house, ranging from dirty prog through vocal trance, always aware of the fine line between arm-raising upliftance and youth club cheese. Amidst the dancefloor medley is DJmag's very own club soldier, Simon Morrison, who is seen stumbling around making strange cooing noises before letting rip an almighty Mexican-style "Yarrriiiiibaaaaaa!" and promptly falling over. Exactly the kind of behaviour one would expect from music journalism's answer to Raoul Duke.
Take a wander upstairs and it's even more chaotic. Herbie Saccani and Steve Thorpe are the residents in the Beats Bar and they're making sure everyone knows about it, dropping all manner of filth-ridden bassage to a packed room of Mancuian breaksters, all of whom are dancing as if their feet are ablaze. In fact, Barry 'Evolution' Jamieson's are. Morrison, in an act of quite juvenile hilarity, secretly sets fire to his laces and consequently ignites his jeans. Adventures from the Wrong Side indeed.
If you think clubbing has been squeezed of all its fun by multi-branded corporate ventures and that parties are groups of suited old men who constantly argue about in-house sleaze, then Tangled is clearly for you. All the fun of Highgrove, just far less royal
BEN EDWARDS