Thawing out
At System, getting spun
Tobacco teeth crunch sandy ice. Checking out System, an easy bar in Newington Green for those with a taste for drama.
First: a pilgrimage across town.
I packed a bag with two dented Kronenbourg, like some sort of well-traveled bum. From west London I took a train to Finsbury Park and then a bus, which reeked of shit. I hallucinated in the green gases, and my yellow body was dumped on a Dark Road. Shadow-walking past warm homes with soft interiors, I recovered fully.
I got to the bar, licking the last gold drops from my blue beer tin. From a black Benz a bearded selector surfaced, his record bag bulging obesely. I produced a stylo from the womb of my beanie, taking notes on tea-stained paper. I felt like a detective in a David Fincher motion picture, sexy and investigating a flash-lit drug-den.
Enough foreplay. Inside I got a glass of five-pound red wine, which I huffed until I understood what it felt like to be a grape. The ambiance was directed by a man called Jojo; he exhibited a feminine touch, which pleased. The room was packed now and on my left shoulder a furry arm spilled a pissy liquor. Voices filled my ears.
My unpierced ear: I went to a warehouse party.
My artful ear: It’s better when you swirl it.
It’s worth mentioning Jojo’s bar, called System, open only at night, is inside a butcher shop, called Stella’s, run during the day by his brother Luca. Though the hours are different the businesses co-exist, at least in form. At a glance: scary knives and headless fruits, meat hooks and bread limbs, cow heads suspended above grass-fed speakers. The vibrations at System feel vaguely Caribbean—like you’re chewing rum by a broken fan.
The bar’s real spectacle is the view from inside. A curtain of wino-breath hangs at the glass façade, camouflaging the half-baked clientele. Between tracks Hakim would disappear into the sick streets, his head blue-frosted and orange-flamed, then return just in time, and sometimes late, to switch the record. I tapped my writing device to the music, pollocking my palm with green ink.
I depend on the almighty Jah only
My salvation come from him
He’s the only one, I protector, I saviour, I defender
And I shall never be defeated
I left a tip and caught a bus, smoked a joint and poured a Baileys. I raise my glass to Scarlett and Jojo of System at Stella’s; a bar that feels like nowhere I’ve ever been, or maybe just the once, under the influence of something mind-altering.
London, December 1st