Carl Cox and his techno blitzkrieg hit Malaysia...
It’s the first party of 2001: Carl Cox is on the decks and Kuala Lumpur has found something it lost a long time ago – a reason to smile. Partying has become such a serious business. Serious music, serious drugs and serious posing from the crowd: a sheen of sweat and a disinterested air they think is blase.
Fortunately, Cox isn’t having any of it. The World’s Greatest DJ is a three-decked one-man groove machine, and he’s here to have fun in the face of apathy. Movement’s collection of queens, transvestites, prostitutes and ex-pat Europeans stand around preening themselves throughout club resident Gabriel’s warm-up set of techno and tech-funk, waving their London-priced bottles of warm designer beer at one another in greeting.
Cox is their wake-up call. Bottles to one side, two tracks in, and the club is a heaving, sweating mass of running mascara and hair dye. He’s hard is Cox, but not as hard as you’d think. With his tongue firmly in its cheek he unleashes vocal samples (“I’m gonna get that motherfucker”) and sirens. Never one for the breakdown, he keeps the pace going relentlessly with a mixture of techno, old skool hardcore and acid rumblings. And in a nod to his bar mitzvah days of mobile discos, he grabs the mic to find out if we’re having a good time. Of course we are.