The music stops when everyone gets bored or tired’

Sometimes you need to get off the beaten track.  Claire van der Hall meets the one of the organisers of Lockdown, a bimonthly dubstep party that combines new music with challenging locations.

A low, thumping bass is the first sign that you’re approaching Lockdown. A chaotic heap of bikes at the entrance is the second. Inside, the barely lit dance floor is packed with people dressed in black, oversized clothes or colourful prints. The DJ booth is encircled with dancers pounding their fists in the air and nodding to the beat. Whenever a new track drops, the mosh pit at the centre of the raw, industrial warehouse gets jumping.

The bar sells cheap booze, but you won’t be bothered if you bring your own. Or smoke inside, for that matter. As booming dubstep blasts from the speakers, it’s clear that this crowd isn’t here for luxury; all it’s after is cutting edge tunes and freedom from usual clubbing rules.

Lockdown is a nightlife nomad, regularly changing location, shifting from warehouses, churches or parks, and dancing around the edges of legality. Dubstep has a drop down bass line that makes your tummy tremble. The scene, which has its roots in the East London underground, in Amsterdam includes local heroes like DJ Cinnaman, DJ+, DJ Juha and Aardvarck. The punters can be bohemian college students in skinny jeans or cool black guys who stand at the back and keep their jackets on. Women are far outnumbered. As soon as there’s a sound system and some rudimentary facilities in place, its organisers are as happy as pigs in poop.

‘Lockdown hasn’t always been travelling,’ says co-organiser Volc who, for obvious reasons, doesn’t want his full name or profession stated in print. He and a friend, both 25, both native Amsterdammers and sincere music lovers, started programming one of the first regular dubstep nights in the city, operating originally at Flex Bar in 2007. Later, they went looking for different venues. The first of these was a warehouse near Westerpark. It was used three times and turned out to be such a success, they had to start looking for a larger place.

Twenty-six year old Jos Ouwerkerk is one of the few women here and a regular attendee. ‘One difference between visiting a club like Melkweg, Paradiso or Sugar Factory and Lockdown is that you can get a beer for a fair price,’ she says. ‘It’s a half litre, too.’ But the main draw for her is the ‘no closing time’ aspect. ‘The music stops when everyone gets bored or tired and heads off,’ says the blonde nightlife animal. ‘I don’t do drugs or anything, but I seriously dislike it when someone hits the light switch at five.’

This year brought the night to a variety of sites, including a rented room of a student union, an industrial area in Amsterdam Noord and a park near the A10. Volc is vague about exactly which park, but he says that particular night demonstrated the disadvantages of an event that has no permanent home. Firstly, the equipment, normally rented from Amsterdam reggae outfit King Shiloh Sound System, wasn’t available. This was particularly serious because the reggae sounds system nails the drop down bass of dubstep. The problems got worse when it became clear that the plugs of the DJ gear didn’t fit in the back up equipment, ultimately rented from Rotterdam.

Eventually, there was nothing to do other than send the thousand or so visitors away before they’d heard a beat. No major incidents occurred, ‘but we do regret the mess that was made in the park,’ says Volc. For 2010 they plan to make amends, and will probably be forgiven by their loyal network of dubstep lovers.

Rival club nights, like Viral Radio (Trouw) or Sonic Warfare (Melkweg) are equally sanguine towards their squatting little brother, and share DJs and promotional facilities.

Viral Radio’s Juha van ‘t Zelfde says Lockdown is part of the nightlife cycle: ‘We don’t see it as competition, it contributes to the local dubstep scene. Without them we wouldn’t have as many visitors. They’ve gone back to the roots: dodging laws and without playing by the rules of clubs. They’re wonky.’

Keen to hold onto their underground charm (and to keep the police at bay) Lockdown barely publicizes its parties. To connect with its constituency the organisers use social networking sites and word of mouth. Follow @LockdownTown on Twitter to find out where they’re going to be next event, sceduled for Saturday 16 January.

Bovenstaand artikel verscheen in de januari editie van Engelstalige cultuurblad Time Out Amsterdam