GONZO: House Of God

All chances of covering this conventionally have become royally fucked. I am too strange, too wired, too emphatic and too in love to be in any way uniform. To not live presently is criminal. Better writing – truthful, fucked up, ecstatic, lost, perverse writing. I want observation without a real objective or agenda. I want to be joyously, drunkenly and serenely aware. I want to compress eight hours of real life into an emotional photograph, and to title it something…

Techno, Rendezvous And Searching For Church In The House Of God

It’s the crown jewel of the Birmingham techno scene. House Of God is all human scenery – noisy, sticky, alive. There’s no air just smoke, musk and pheromones. Green lasers obscure painted faces, a wonderfully fucked combination. Everyone is in love, if not with each other, then with their own circumstance. We’re musically galvanized, chemically augmented, restless, exhilarated, stoned! We’re unashamedly and indulgently enjoying every atom of one another. There are friends rendezvousing on every periphery. With my own company of heroes, the exploration begins…

Three rooms, all alike in dignity but each with their own heartbeat, their own personality, their own sound. Who’s playing where at what time and in what order? Fuck knows, Jesus, who cares? Migrating from one room to another feels like defecting to some preferred genre, so in this case, I am in jungle country. Labeling this music is a contentious endeavor – it all comes to me like a robotic orgy anyway. Spasmodic fax machine fucks damaged 90s printer while R2D2 beats off furiously. But like the bigger techno room and the smaller and tamer disco chamber, all the music is a story of a pulse. That constant heartbeat rarely changes. It’s the erratic embellishments, obscure mutations, unfathomable composition and inhuman bleeps and bloops that are inspiring, the heartbeat is to keep me moving – always moving. I lose track of time completely, I employ myself to dance, drowning in Red Stripe, and connecting with strangers with only my legs and bouts of intense eye contact.

“Don’t lose yourself in the mirror, for fuck sake,” I tell myself. I no longer identify with my own reflection. I feel like Buddha but look like Edward Scissorhands. I must smoke and smoke heartily. The smoking area is a gas chamber – nostril sting. The clamour of voices intertwines into a mass audio of laughter and snippets of conversation, impossible to focus on, becoming white noise. She holds on to my shoulders passionately, Esmeralda – tall, pale, beautiful. “Have you seen Church?” she asks, emphatically. I hadn’t, nobody had, not for hours. Nobody knows why he calls himself Church either, it is an enigma, his name is Nathaniel, 23, graduate, lover. He charges through this planet, knocking over continents, so to speak. But Church got himself lost at House of God, appropriate, no? “We must find him, and bring him back!” I say. But we become easily distracted. Her dialogue doesn’t leave room for breathing, she is too alive, too aware, too besotted with words. I understand everything.

Nobody has eyes anymore just a pair of black spheres. And I keep seeing the same girl. Her hair looks heavy on her head, brunette curls transitioning into blonde as it falls, as though it had been dipped in bronze. Pale, slender, warm, her beauty is obvious. Jesus, I live for these infatuations. But she is always fleeting. She is worth writing about, if only to demonstrate the idea of extreme magnetism, which is constant in all people – especially here, especially now.

But I have two extra bodies attached to my arms. I’m holding two friends love-captive, they’re happily obliging. I have become an archetypal waster, a fool, a tobacco chimney, talking passionately without reservation or memory, and without Rizla too. We rendezvous! We rally! It’s here, lost to dance in the centre of House of God, that I realise this intense emotional clarity, communal atmosphere, dancing, music worship and the love isn’t an unimaginable leap from something religious. But this is without dogma, sustainability or philosophy. This is an eight hour mindgasm, it would be hard to call it anything else. For all the music discovered and the people observed, the emotions felt and the great rush, release and catharsis found, House Of God hosts a flock I am happy to be apart of, if only once, just for tonight. Praise all ye techno lords.


We never found Church. He tells me he ended up in a large cage somewhere in Birmingham Town Centre, where police had to set him free. Somehow he traveled over 10 miles, passed through a locked door, and ended up on a couch. He was a lost apostle that night, and we love him dearly.

– Guy Hirst

Read Our Surgeon Article Here

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Voodoo Jukebox - promoting underground, independent and bizarre music, based in Birmingham.