Andrew Taylor felt like a complete twat. Everybody in the queue for the airport check-in seemed to be dressed entirely in pastels. In the midst of a sea of pale pinks, baby blues, yellows, beiges and whites, he alone was wearing black. Actually, to be accurate it was a combination of charcoal grey and black, but it still made him stand out like the only grown-up at a childrens’ party or a drug squad officer at a rock festival. His face glowed at the thought.
What made his embarrassment particularly annoying was that he had made a real effort to look cool. A couple of hours before he had posed in front of the mirror in his trendiest suit. Okay it was from Marks and Sparks, but obviously the mandarin collar and purple satin lining had been too much for the high street. That was why it had been such a bargain in the sale. With a collar and tie it looked businesslike, without making him look like a businessman. With the black tee-shirt he was now wearing it was part of the perfect smart, but casual, combination. It really was the suit that was right for any occasion. Well, almost any occasion.
But what do you wear to a funeral in Ibiza? Maybe everybody would be dressed in colourful holiday gear. He had a bag full of that, if necessary, but he wasn’t going to crush his best suit in there. All that mattered was that he didn’t look conspicuous. He prided himself on his ability to fit into any situation, even if the price of that was to be ignored sometimes, or a lot of the time.
Now he knew it was a mistake. Actually he had begun to have misgivings in the taxi on the way to the airport.
“Where are you off to?” the cabbie asked, in the way that hairdressers feel obliged to find out what your up to that evening.
Andrew toyed with the idea of lying and giving the name of somewhere that sounded less downmarket to him. But his mouth reacted faster than his brain and he said: “Ibiza.”
The cabbie laughed. “Well you’ll not be off clubbing every night, will you?”
He didn’t like being laughed at. Anyway, how could somebody he’d never met before make assumptions about what he might do? But Andrew had the perfect retort for the cabbie.
“I’m off to my wife’s funeral,” he said.
His cheeks glowing slightly from having said what he thought was unsayable, he waited for silence. But the cabbie did reply. Unfortunately it coincided with the cab pulling on to the M8 motorway and his story was drowned out by the rattle of the diesel engine. Not that the noise deterred the driver, he just kept on talking. So, for the next ten minutes, Andrew perched uncomfortably on the edge of his seat, leaning towards the glass partition, saying “Aye” or “No” as the story seemed to demand.
Finally the cab pulled up outside the terminal. “So you see it worked out okay for me,” said the cabbie. “Just remember, life’s not a rehearsal.” Andrew handed him £16 for the £14 journey and took his place in the queue that snaked from the only two open check-in desks.
He looked round at his fellow passengers to see if there was anybody he could hope to sit next to on the flight. There wasn’t. Harry, the Glaswegian business editor at The Standard, had been spot on. “You’re going to Ibiza at 11.30 on a Friday night on a charter flight? It’ll be like a fucking cooncil hoose wae wings. They’ll be smashing the windaes, shagging in the aisles and flogging the Big Issue as you get on.”
Now a small child was entertaining herself by rhythmically bashing a luggage trolley into the back of Andrew’s legs. He turned round and fixed her with what he believed was his most evil stare. She looked at him and smiled, then stuffed one grubby finger up her nose. As soon as he had his back to her she started again, but with renewed vigour. In retaliation he raised a heel so that the trolley banged into that and with a little flick he knocked it back so she went sprawling. He was sure nobody had seen his neat trick and he smiled to himself at this small victory as the girl bawled behind him. But he couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at the child’s discomfiture. As he turned the father showed Andrew just how evil a stare can be, when it’s done properly.
A strong believer that you are what you read, Andrew buried his face in the dance music magazine he’d lifted from the arts editor’s desk as he left the newspaper office. The cover line about the summer’s best Ibiza clubs had caught his eye along as had the free CD. A quick bit of homework and he could talk to his daughter like an expert. That’s one thing about journalism, you learn to make a little knowledge go a long way. He also hoped that his fellow travellers would notice what he was reading and realise how hip and trendy he was despite the dodgy suit.
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
Saturday, July 19, 2003
Top ten tips for middle-aged clubbers
- Don’t pay full price. Pick up flyers from bars or PRs that’ll get you in free or with a discount
- Never arrive before 3am. Clubs will be empty
- Try to see the dawn at least once
- If you can’t leave the kids at night, go to Space, preferably on a Sunday morning. Pretend you’ve been up all night
- Don’t take a camera. They’re banned from most clubs
- If the main dance floor seems too crowded, explore. Every big club has several rooms and terraces
- Don’t wear too much. It’s hot in there
- Ibiza Town’s clubs tend to attract an older more sophisticated crowd. San An’s clubbers are younger. San Rafael is in the middle and attracts both types according to who’s playing
- Ask clubbers about which are the best nights or check websites such as Ibiza Spotlight (Ibiza-spotlight.com). Don’t trust the PRs – of course they’ll tell you the club they represent is the best
- Don’t worry about your age, you’re providing a social service. At least half the twentysomethings are worried about being too old. You’ll give them hope
Friday, July 18, 2003
The Scotsman article that started it all
I couldn’t have been much wetter if I’d been standing under a hot shower fully clothed. My hair, trousers and shirt flapped and dripped in time to the beat. I would have heard my feet squelching in my shoes if the music hadn’t been so loud.
A sound like a jet airliner roared across the dance floor, seemingly part of the tune. In fact that noise really did come from an aeroplane, its engines slamming into reverse thrust. It was 11.30 on a Sunday morning at Space and we were right under Ibiza’s main flight path.
This could be a description of torture, especially for somebody of my less than tender years. But it was something for months I’d planned, and even trained for – three times a week to the gym, watching my diet and cutting down on the bevvy.
It was my attempt to kill or cure the Ibiza dance bug I’d caught some three years before on what was supposed to be a convalescent holiday for Barbara, my wife. We went because the flight was cheap, the departure time convenient and sun was guaranteed. Clubbing never entered the equation.
We were staying in a small hotel close to Ibiza Town. For those not familiar with the island, there are two centres of population: Ibiza Town and San Antonio. The former is on the east coast, dominated by a spectacular castle, medieval streets and perfectly-preserved defensive walls. The latter has coloured fountains that dance in time to cheesy pop tunes and the West End, a tightly-packed cluster of streets filled with garish bars and cheap discos. But it does do great sunsets.
Despite their differences, both towns provide constant reminders that this is the world capital of clubbing. We never had any intention of joining in. To me, dance music was a continuation of disco, with its teenage memories of boring Saturday nights propping up the bar, trying to look cool, while girls danced around their handbags.
But curiosity about the Ibizan scene slowly got to us. We had established Bar Zuka as our regular drinking hole. This is the one straight establishment in the gay strip that translates, totally inappropriately, as: “The Street of the Virgin.” Every night parades of drop-dead gorgeous members of both sexes and outrageous transvestites, some teetering over the cobbles on stilts, promoted that night’s clubs.
Eventually, on our penultimate night I asked Mark - who continues to run Bar Zuka with the enthusiastic bonhomie of an English pub landlord - which club we should try. He scribbled a few words of Spanish on a business card. “Just hand this to the only security guy with long hair at Amnesia.” Barbara didn’t believe it would work.
We managed to find a cab, no mean feat at 3am in Ibiza Town. A few minutes later we arrived at Amnesia, a place which, from the outside, has all the charm of a B&Q superstore, even if it does have neon and palm trees.
I handed the card to the pony-tailed head of security. He looked Barbara and I up and down. Then, with a barely perceptible nod we were in, and I was hooked.
This wasn’t a disco. Dancing was a communal activity. Instead of couples mirroring each other’s moves everybody was reacting to the music together. Lights and laser beams cut the air. Perfect-bodied dancers spun and contorted on podiums round the dance floor. Everything was driven by the ebb and flow of banging dance music. The closest I’d ever felt to this experience before was on the football terracing. But here there was a goal every few minutes.
What made it even better was that we had blagged our way in, which made us almost a part of the scene. Dancers, PRs and other club workers receive lousy wages, but they do get passes. None would ever be seen to be paying full price for admission.
It must be said that blagging is not entirely alien to many journalists. So this year, at the start of a week in Ibiza, I found myself in the guest list queue outside the club El Divino waiting to get in to see the super cool Hed Kandi. Waiting allowed me to appreciate the stunning location, on the far side of the harbour overlooking Ibiza Town. That night a huge, reddish full moon cast its glow over the Old Town.
The music matched the surroundings, hitting a natural high as the deejay played a joyous house version of “Let The Sunshine In” just as dawn was breaking. I never thought dancing to a tune from the old hippy musical hair could be so blissful. It was a moment to remember.
A couple of days later I was talking to Hed Kandi boss and deejay Mark Doyle. “Ibiza is still the place where you want to be successful,” he said. “You journalists are always trying to find the new Ibiza, but there’ll never be anywhere quite like this.”
I explained that I’d never dream of going clubbing anywhere else. “You should come to see us in Newcastle. That’s the nearest we come to Edinburgh and there’s a great atmosphere there,” he said. I’m unconvinced. I still expect UK clubs to have something of the disco cattle market about them.
Our conversation was taking place by the pool of the Es Vive hotel, currently the coolest hotel on the island. A restored art deco landmark, it wouldn’t be out of place in Miami’s South Beach.
The hotel is the latest venture for Jason Bull who joined us periodically, his two mobiles and a cordless phone ringing incessantly. For years he has run the Base Bar, the most popular drinking den for Brits in Ibiza town and an intrinsic part of the scene. There’s a rigid night-out timetable: eat around 10.30pm, bar at 12.30am and club at 2.30am.
In common with everybody who has a financial interest in the island Bull was twitchy. Tourist numbers have dropped this summer and those that do come aren’t spending. Much of Europe is in recession and, for the Brits, the pound has fallen 20 per cent against the euro in the last year.
The hotel is performing well, but the bar has moved to larger premises in an area of Ibiza town’s harbour better known for restaurants than for drinking. His clientele is returning though, mostly Cockneys or thereabouts. At times it can feel a bit like Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels in the heat. All that’s missing is Vinnie Jones.
Not every night is equally busy. “People who used to come for a week or two are just coming for the weekend,” he says. “The authorities aren’t helping by making us switch off music outside just after midnight.” It does create a strange atmosphere at the harbour which last year was jumping until 3am. A similar clampdown on the clubs means they shut strictly at 7am. That’s early.
If the Es Vive hotel represents the prosperous, discerning side of Ibiza, I wanted to see something of the island’s mass-market face. That means the busiest club night in San Antonio Judge Jules’ Judgement Sunday. I was wary about all those drunken young Brits.
“Two years ago we had to have a door policy to get rid of the horrible people you used to see on Ibiza Uncovered and now we only get nice people,” Jules told me before he started his set. He reckons that the recession has kept away many of the people who weren’t really interested in the island’s clubs.
“Every deejay loves doing Ibiza. This summer I’ve done Faliraki, Kavos, Benidorm, Playa de las Americas and Majorca, but none of them compare to Ibiza. You still get that holiday atmosphere, but here it’s a magnet for people who’re really into music.”
Diplomatically, he offered me some comfort. “You can be 75 and on the dance floor and nobody will bat an eyelid.” Then he blew it, turning to his business partner and saying: “My dad’s coming again. I just hope he doesn’t get on the dance floor this time.”
In fact nobody did bat an eyelid on the dance floor, except one. A tiny teenager, the spit of Claire Grogan in Gregory’s Girl, kept pointing at me and smiling. Then she started thrusting her crutch enthusiastically at my kneecaps, until her boyfriend dragged her away. Oh well.
My clubbing odyssey continued with the extravagantly camp La Troya at Amnesia. That’s what I love about Ibiza, the tolerance. Perhaps a majority of the crowd was gay, but nobody cared if you were a white, middle-aged, middle class heterosexual. It just mattered that you were having fun.
The following night I was at the same venue for Cream. For the first time I retreated to the VIP area. The dance floor was just too crowded and it didn’t seem fair to reveal my expertise at landing my size 12s on other people’s feet. The heat too was intense, despite the clubs famous dry ice guns enveloping the crowd in a cool cloud every few minutes.
By the end of the week I should have been bored with it all. In fact I just wanted to keep going. There are more than 30 club nights that I didn’t make it to. I’m not sure whether trying to repeat the experience back home would break the spell, but I’ll certainly be back in Ibiza.
And if you decide to give it a go, do drop in and say hello to Jason or Tony at Base Bar and Mark at Bar Zuka. Tell them Nick from The Scotsman sent you. It might not do you any good, but it’ll certainly help my blagging.
A sound like a jet airliner roared across the dance floor, seemingly part of the tune. In fact that noise really did come from an aeroplane, its engines slamming into reverse thrust. It was 11.30 on a Sunday morning at Space and we were right under Ibiza’s main flight path.
This could be a description of torture, especially for somebody of my less than tender years. But it was something for months I’d planned, and even trained for – three times a week to the gym, watching my diet and cutting down on the bevvy.
It was my attempt to kill or cure the Ibiza dance bug I’d caught some three years before on what was supposed to be a convalescent holiday for Barbara, my wife. We went because the flight was cheap, the departure time convenient and sun was guaranteed. Clubbing never entered the equation.
We were staying in a small hotel close to Ibiza Town. For those not familiar with the island, there are two centres of population: Ibiza Town and San Antonio. The former is on the east coast, dominated by a spectacular castle, medieval streets and perfectly-preserved defensive walls. The latter has coloured fountains that dance in time to cheesy pop tunes and the West End, a tightly-packed cluster of streets filled with garish bars and cheap discos. But it does do great sunsets.
Despite their differences, both towns provide constant reminders that this is the world capital of clubbing. We never had any intention of joining in. To me, dance music was a continuation of disco, with its teenage memories of boring Saturday nights propping up the bar, trying to look cool, while girls danced around their handbags.
But curiosity about the Ibizan scene slowly got to us. We had established Bar Zuka as our regular drinking hole. This is the one straight establishment in the gay strip that translates, totally inappropriately, as: “The Street of the Virgin.” Every night parades of drop-dead gorgeous members of both sexes and outrageous transvestites, some teetering over the cobbles on stilts, promoted that night’s clubs.
Eventually, on our penultimate night I asked Mark - who continues to run Bar Zuka with the enthusiastic bonhomie of an English pub landlord - which club we should try. He scribbled a few words of Spanish on a business card. “Just hand this to the only security guy with long hair at Amnesia.” Barbara didn’t believe it would work.
We managed to find a cab, no mean feat at 3am in Ibiza Town. A few minutes later we arrived at Amnesia, a place which, from the outside, has all the charm of a B&Q superstore, even if it does have neon and palm trees.
I handed the card to the pony-tailed head of security. He looked Barbara and I up and down. Then, with a barely perceptible nod we were in, and I was hooked.
This wasn’t a disco. Dancing was a communal activity. Instead of couples mirroring each other’s moves everybody was reacting to the music together. Lights and laser beams cut the air. Perfect-bodied dancers spun and contorted on podiums round the dance floor. Everything was driven by the ebb and flow of banging dance music. The closest I’d ever felt to this experience before was on the football terracing. But here there was a goal every few minutes.
What made it even better was that we had blagged our way in, which made us almost a part of the scene. Dancers, PRs and other club workers receive lousy wages, but they do get passes. None would ever be seen to be paying full price for admission.
It must be said that blagging is not entirely alien to many journalists. So this year, at the start of a week in Ibiza, I found myself in the guest list queue outside the club El Divino waiting to get in to see the super cool Hed Kandi. Waiting allowed me to appreciate the stunning location, on the far side of the harbour overlooking Ibiza Town. That night a huge, reddish full moon cast its glow over the Old Town.
The music matched the surroundings, hitting a natural high as the deejay played a joyous house version of “Let The Sunshine In” just as dawn was breaking. I never thought dancing to a tune from the old hippy musical hair could be so blissful. It was a moment to remember.
A couple of days later I was talking to Hed Kandi boss and deejay Mark Doyle. “Ibiza is still the place where you want to be successful,” he said. “You journalists are always trying to find the new Ibiza, but there’ll never be anywhere quite like this.”
I explained that I’d never dream of going clubbing anywhere else. “You should come to see us in Newcastle. That’s the nearest we come to Edinburgh and there’s a great atmosphere there,” he said. I’m unconvinced. I still expect UK clubs to have something of the disco cattle market about them.
Our conversation was taking place by the pool of the Es Vive hotel, currently the coolest hotel on the island. A restored art deco landmark, it wouldn’t be out of place in Miami’s South Beach.
The hotel is the latest venture for Jason Bull who joined us periodically, his two mobiles and a cordless phone ringing incessantly. For years he has run the Base Bar, the most popular drinking den for Brits in Ibiza town and an intrinsic part of the scene. There’s a rigid night-out timetable: eat around 10.30pm, bar at 12.30am and club at 2.30am.
In common with everybody who has a financial interest in the island Bull was twitchy. Tourist numbers have dropped this summer and those that do come aren’t spending. Much of Europe is in recession and, for the Brits, the pound has fallen 20 per cent against the euro in the last year.
The hotel is performing well, but the bar has moved to larger premises in an area of Ibiza town’s harbour better known for restaurants than for drinking. His clientele is returning though, mostly Cockneys or thereabouts. At times it can feel a bit like Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels in the heat. All that’s missing is Vinnie Jones.
Not every night is equally busy. “People who used to come for a week or two are just coming for the weekend,” he says. “The authorities aren’t helping by making us switch off music outside just after midnight.” It does create a strange atmosphere at the harbour which last year was jumping until 3am. A similar clampdown on the clubs means they shut strictly at 7am. That’s early.
If the Es Vive hotel represents the prosperous, discerning side of Ibiza, I wanted to see something of the island’s mass-market face. That means the busiest club night in San Antonio Judge Jules’ Judgement Sunday. I was wary about all those drunken young Brits.
“Two years ago we had to have a door policy to get rid of the horrible people you used to see on Ibiza Uncovered and now we only get nice people,” Jules told me before he started his set. He reckons that the recession has kept away many of the people who weren’t really interested in the island’s clubs.
“Every deejay loves doing Ibiza. This summer I’ve done Faliraki, Kavos, Benidorm, Playa de las Americas and Majorca, but none of them compare to Ibiza. You still get that holiday atmosphere, but here it’s a magnet for people who’re really into music.”
Diplomatically, he offered me some comfort. “You can be 75 and on the dance floor and nobody will bat an eyelid.” Then he blew it, turning to his business partner and saying: “My dad’s coming again. I just hope he doesn’t get on the dance floor this time.”
In fact nobody did bat an eyelid on the dance floor, except one. A tiny teenager, the spit of Claire Grogan in Gregory’s Girl, kept pointing at me and smiling. Then she started thrusting her crutch enthusiastically at my kneecaps, until her boyfriend dragged her away. Oh well.
My clubbing odyssey continued with the extravagantly camp La Troya at Amnesia. That’s what I love about Ibiza, the tolerance. Perhaps a majority of the crowd was gay, but nobody cared if you were a white, middle-aged, middle class heterosexual. It just mattered that you were having fun.
The following night I was at the same venue for Cream. For the first time I retreated to the VIP area. The dance floor was just too crowded and it didn’t seem fair to reveal my expertise at landing my size 12s on other people’s feet. The heat too was intense, despite the clubs famous dry ice guns enveloping the crowd in a cool cloud every few minutes.
By the end of the week I should have been bored with it all. In fact I just wanted to keep going. There are more than 30 club nights that I didn’t make it to. I’m not sure whether trying to repeat the experience back home would break the spell, but I’ll certainly be back in Ibiza.
And if you decide to give it a go, do drop in and say hello to Jason or Tony at Base Bar and Mark at Bar Zuka. Tell them Nick from The Scotsman sent you. It might not do you any good, but it’ll certainly help my blagging.
- nick@penpusher.com
Sunday, January 26, 2003
Outline for a book about Ibiza
The book was never published, partly because somebody else was working on a very similar idea...
Ibiza – where the hippy dream still lives
The initial idea for this book was to look broadly at the “New Ibizans”, the common term describing people who spend much of their time on the island, but were not born there. As I looked more carefully, however, it became clear that there is one group that has had a more profound impact than any other – the hippies (or “peluts”, hairies, as the locals call them). Certainly, beatniks had been coming since the 1950s, but it was not until the mid-1960s that Ibiza became the place in Europe to drop out.
Of course, other places attracted large numbers of draft dodgers, musicians, artists and wasters, the difference is that in Ibiza they stayed. Their impact can be seen and felt throughout Ibizan life, as I would hope to show in a book and/or television series.
It is difficult to be precise in a synopsis before I have had chance to interview even the main players. This plan has been drawn up using information gleaned from a few short visits, a very limited amount of published literature, the internet and brief conversations with acquaintances on the island. But I know enough to be sure that there is a story to tell, in fact many stories to tell. The characters and places are colourful. And I think I can show sides of Ibiza that most people are not aware of.
This synopsis is divided into six parts which could either be sections of a book, hour-long television programmes or, hopefully both. There would obviously be more flexibility in a book format, but either way it seems to provide a logical narrative structure.
1. Why did the hippies choose Ibiza?
A cheap, sunny and beautiful island in the Mediterranean has obvious attractions. But those attributes could be applied to dozens of places from Corfu to the other Balearic Islands. The more spiritually inclined believe there is something mystical about Ibiza’s place at an intersection of leylines. What is certainly true is that the island has a tradition of tolerance going back centuries to at least the time when Jews fleeing the Inquisition were protected on the island. More recently black jazz musicians came to get away from racism and, in the early 1960s, it had the first bar where “men danced with men” openly. Somehow this combination made Ibiza the centre of European hippy culture and it has remained so as it went from being the poorest area in Spain to the wealthiest.
If one place in Ibiza illustrates the changes the island has gone through it is Las Dalias. This year is the 50th anniversary of its opening as a bar built and run by Joan Mari Joan. It is still run by his son. In the 1950s it was a nightclub complete with orchestra. In the 1960s the garden was landscaped and it attracted package holiday tourists to its “chicken-a-go-go” flamenco nights. Not long after that the local town became a centre for Ibiza’s hippies and a recording studio was opened. It became a tradition for bands to celebrate the completion of an album by playing at the nightclub. In fact the list of stars who have played there reads like a litany of 1960s and 1970s rock music including members of the Stones, Led Zeppelin. Mike Oldfield and the Jam. In the late 1980s it was at the centre of the new dance music scene, where it has remained. At the same time what had started as a “swap meet” in aid of the local church became a fully fledged weekly hippy market.
Las Dalias continues to thrive as the symbol of hippy culture in Ibiza with the bar, market, restaurant and an amazing garden filled with flowers, murals and statues of Hindu deities. Many of the people who have been involved in its creation are still around, including the owner Juanito.
2. Music & Clubbing.
There are direct links between the hippies and the dance music scene which started in 1987. Hippies were behind the parties which echoed the raves in the UK. They also created several of what became the dance superclubs. These started as farmhouses which were venues for regular parties. Sound systems were added and admission was charged. Eventually roofs were added as noise laws were enforced.
Unlike Las Dalias, it is not possible to track the changes to any of the superclubs through one individual or family. There are, however, many of the original hippy rave organiser, deejays, club workers and others who, between them, can complete some of the stories. It is not an area where there is any shortage of material.
And, of course, there are the clubs, most spectacular of which is Privilege which started in the 1960s as the San Rafael Social Club. Later it became Ku and, after a change of ownership, Privilege – the biggest nightclub in the world with a capacity of 10,000.
3. Sex & Drugs
It is impossible to ignore the profound effect that illegal drugs have had on the island starting, of course, with the hippies who brought LSD and cannabis to the island. Later Ecstasy was at the heart of the dance music scene. It is not just the consumption of drugs, but the quantities of cash involved, that have had an impact. Many of the restaurants, bars, hotels and clubs were bought with drugs money. They also offer an easy means of laundering funds because they run on cash. Many of the big dealers are well known, in fact I’ve met a couple of them. I could certainly write or talk about them in what would have to be a very discreet way.
Sex is also vitally important to Ibiza, not just because of the combination of youth, sun, music, drugs and alcohol. It has one of the world’s longest established open gay scenes. The Calle de la virgin (Street of the Virgin) in Ibiza Town is the focus for an amazing night-time parade of transvestites, tanned torsos and fetish queens. The big clubs also have nights which are aimed at the gay community, but the island’s tolerance works both ways and heterosexuals are certainly not made to feel unwelcome. In fact, gays have arguably done as much as the hippies to create the modern Ibiza. There are certainly plenty around who would be happy to talk.
More surprising is the success of strip clubs in Ibiza. With all the naked flesh on show on the island’s beaches during the day, who would have thought that anybody would be willing to pay for more of the same at night? Ibiza’s top strip club, the Blue Rose, was started by the daughters of a German lawyer and his American fashion designer wife who dropped out on the island in the 1970s. The daughters went to LA and on the basis of what they saw there decided to start a strip club in Ibiza. It remains a family affair with mother designing costumes and daughter doing choreography. All should be available for interview.
4. Hotels, bars and restaurants
Some of the hippy homes gradually metamorphosed into hotels, best known of which is Pike’s. Aussie traveller Tony Pike bought a 15th century finca in the 1970s, kept adding bits until it became a five-star resort much-loved by rock stars and deejays. It was also the setting for the video of Wham’s Club Tropicana. Tony Pike still runs the place and gives great interviews.
Upmarket bar and restaurant Bambudha Grove developed in a similar way. John Moon, another travelling hippy, started a small restaurant which gradually grew into a hybrid eating place, bar and club. He’s a fascinating character who has been at the centre of the Ibizan hippy and music scene for years.
Although these are the two best known hip hospitality entrepreneurs, there are many others.
5. Art, architecture, fashion design, pottery
Ibiza’s art scene pre-dates the arrival of the hippies, but the two scenes have to some extent coalesced. Away from the concrete package holiday jungles there is a distinctive Ibicenco architecture which was a strong influence on Le Corbusier who visited the island early in his career. The island also has an enduring impact on world, but particularly Spanish, fashion through a group known as Ad Lib based in Ibiza Town. San Rafael has a street with nothing but potters, all producing work which is more art than craft. Elsewhere there are more sculptors and painters than you can shake a brush at.
6. The soul and future of Ibiza
Another link with the hippy past comes in a spiritual form. Ibiza is often described as “the yoga capital of Europe”. It is also not unusual to see Buddhist monks wondering past the quieter beaches as well as lots of New Age events round the full moon and so on. Many of these people try to live an existence which has minimal impact on the earth, recycling and minimising waste. This ecological awareness was strong enough to enable the island in 1999 to get its first left-of-centre government largely because the conservatives wanted to build a golf course in the middle of a national park. Last year, however, the conservatives were returned to power.
That division reflects the continuing debate about the future of the island. In 30 years it has gone from rags to riches. The question is: how does it keep that wealth. The conservatives want to build more golf courses and marinas while clamping down on the clubbers, hippies and anybody else who might upset the wealthy tourists they hope will come to those new marinas and golf courses. The clubbers and hippies have an uneasy alliance trying to retain the island’s hedonistic freedom. The hippies, though, are concerned about the rampant commercialism of the dance music scene and its impact on the environment.
It is a debate that will continue.
Ibiza – where the hippy dream still lives
The initial idea for this book was to look broadly at the “New Ibizans”, the common term describing people who spend much of their time on the island, but were not born there. As I looked more carefully, however, it became clear that there is one group that has had a more profound impact than any other – the hippies (or “peluts”, hairies, as the locals call them). Certainly, beatniks had been coming since the 1950s, but it was not until the mid-1960s that Ibiza became the place in Europe to drop out.
Of course, other places attracted large numbers of draft dodgers, musicians, artists and wasters, the difference is that in Ibiza they stayed. Their impact can be seen and felt throughout Ibizan life, as I would hope to show in a book and/or television series.
It is difficult to be precise in a synopsis before I have had chance to interview even the main players. This plan has been drawn up using information gleaned from a few short visits, a very limited amount of published literature, the internet and brief conversations with acquaintances on the island. But I know enough to be sure that there is a story to tell, in fact many stories to tell. The characters and places are colourful. And I think I can show sides of Ibiza that most people are not aware of.
This synopsis is divided into six parts which could either be sections of a book, hour-long television programmes or, hopefully both. There would obviously be more flexibility in a book format, but either way it seems to provide a logical narrative structure.
1. Why did the hippies choose Ibiza?
A cheap, sunny and beautiful island in the Mediterranean has obvious attractions. But those attributes could be applied to dozens of places from Corfu to the other Balearic Islands. The more spiritually inclined believe there is something mystical about Ibiza’s place at an intersection of leylines. What is certainly true is that the island has a tradition of tolerance going back centuries to at least the time when Jews fleeing the Inquisition were protected on the island. More recently black jazz musicians came to get away from racism and, in the early 1960s, it had the first bar where “men danced with men” openly. Somehow this combination made Ibiza the centre of European hippy culture and it has remained so as it went from being the poorest area in Spain to the wealthiest.
If one place in Ibiza illustrates the changes the island has gone through it is Las Dalias. This year is the 50th anniversary of its opening as a bar built and run by Joan Mari Joan. It is still run by his son. In the 1950s it was a nightclub complete with orchestra. In the 1960s the garden was landscaped and it attracted package holiday tourists to its “chicken-a-go-go” flamenco nights. Not long after that the local town became a centre for Ibiza’s hippies and a recording studio was opened. It became a tradition for bands to celebrate the completion of an album by playing at the nightclub. In fact the list of stars who have played there reads like a litany of 1960s and 1970s rock music including members of the Stones, Led Zeppelin. Mike Oldfield and the Jam. In the late 1980s it was at the centre of the new dance music scene, where it has remained. At the same time what had started as a “swap meet” in aid of the local church became a fully fledged weekly hippy market.
Las Dalias continues to thrive as the symbol of hippy culture in Ibiza with the bar, market, restaurant and an amazing garden filled with flowers, murals and statues of Hindu deities. Many of the people who have been involved in its creation are still around, including the owner Juanito.
2. Music & Clubbing.
There are direct links between the hippies and the dance music scene which started in 1987. Hippies were behind the parties which echoed the raves in the UK. They also created several of what became the dance superclubs. These started as farmhouses which were venues for regular parties. Sound systems were added and admission was charged. Eventually roofs were added as noise laws were enforced.
Unlike Las Dalias, it is not possible to track the changes to any of the superclubs through one individual or family. There are, however, many of the original hippy rave organiser, deejays, club workers and others who, between them, can complete some of the stories. It is not an area where there is any shortage of material.
And, of course, there are the clubs, most spectacular of which is Privilege which started in the 1960s as the San Rafael Social Club. Later it became Ku and, after a change of ownership, Privilege – the biggest nightclub in the world with a capacity of 10,000.
3. Sex & Drugs
It is impossible to ignore the profound effect that illegal drugs have had on the island starting, of course, with the hippies who brought LSD and cannabis to the island. Later Ecstasy was at the heart of the dance music scene. It is not just the consumption of drugs, but the quantities of cash involved, that have had an impact. Many of the restaurants, bars, hotels and clubs were bought with drugs money. They also offer an easy means of laundering funds because they run on cash. Many of the big dealers are well known, in fact I’ve met a couple of them. I could certainly write or talk about them in what would have to be a very discreet way.
Sex is also vitally important to Ibiza, not just because of the combination of youth, sun, music, drugs and alcohol. It has one of the world’s longest established open gay scenes. The Calle de la virgin (Street of the Virgin) in Ibiza Town is the focus for an amazing night-time parade of transvestites, tanned torsos and fetish queens. The big clubs also have nights which are aimed at the gay community, but the island’s tolerance works both ways and heterosexuals are certainly not made to feel unwelcome. In fact, gays have arguably done as much as the hippies to create the modern Ibiza. There are certainly plenty around who would be happy to talk.
More surprising is the success of strip clubs in Ibiza. With all the naked flesh on show on the island’s beaches during the day, who would have thought that anybody would be willing to pay for more of the same at night? Ibiza’s top strip club, the Blue Rose, was started by the daughters of a German lawyer and his American fashion designer wife who dropped out on the island in the 1970s. The daughters went to LA and on the basis of what they saw there decided to start a strip club in Ibiza. It remains a family affair with mother designing costumes and daughter doing choreography. All should be available for interview.
4. Hotels, bars and restaurants
Some of the hippy homes gradually metamorphosed into hotels, best known of which is Pike’s. Aussie traveller Tony Pike bought a 15th century finca in the 1970s, kept adding bits until it became a five-star resort much-loved by rock stars and deejays. It was also the setting for the video of Wham’s Club Tropicana. Tony Pike still runs the place and gives great interviews.
Upmarket bar and restaurant Bambudha Grove developed in a similar way. John Moon, another travelling hippy, started a small restaurant which gradually grew into a hybrid eating place, bar and club. He’s a fascinating character who has been at the centre of the Ibizan hippy and music scene for years.
Although these are the two best known hip hospitality entrepreneurs, there are many others.
5. Art, architecture, fashion design, pottery
Ibiza’s art scene pre-dates the arrival of the hippies, but the two scenes have to some extent coalesced. Away from the concrete package holiday jungles there is a distinctive Ibicenco architecture which was a strong influence on Le Corbusier who visited the island early in his career. The island also has an enduring impact on world, but particularly Spanish, fashion through a group known as Ad Lib based in Ibiza Town. San Rafael has a street with nothing but potters, all producing work which is more art than craft. Elsewhere there are more sculptors and painters than you can shake a brush at.
6. The soul and future of Ibiza
Another link with the hippy past comes in a spiritual form. Ibiza is often described as “the yoga capital of Europe”. It is also not unusual to see Buddhist monks wondering past the quieter beaches as well as lots of New Age events round the full moon and so on. Many of these people try to live an existence which has minimal impact on the earth, recycling and minimising waste. This ecological awareness was strong enough to enable the island in 1999 to get its first left-of-centre government largely because the conservatives wanted to build a golf course in the middle of a national park. Last year, however, the conservatives were returned to power.
That division reflects the continuing debate about the future of the island. In 30 years it has gone from rags to riches. The question is: how does it keep that wealth. The conservatives want to build more golf courses and marinas while clamping down on the clubbers, hippies and anybody else who might upset the wealthy tourists they hope will come to those new marinas and golf courses. The clubbers and hippies have an uneasy alliance trying to retain the island’s hedonistic freedom. The hippies, though, are concerned about the rampant commercialism of the dance music scene and its impact on the environment.
It is a debate that will continue.
Wednesday, January 15, 2003
First thoughts about moving to Ibiza
The idea came to me as I sat unshaven in a grubby dressing gown in front of my computer. Rain was running down the windows and it was getting dark.
Although I had not got round to getting dressed, or even cleaning my teeth for that matter, as far as my world was concerned I was sitting in an office shiny, happy and probably in a suit. I can generally make a good impression on the phone.
There is little need for face-to-face communication for the company I run. This is perhaps strange because we are supposed to be in the communications business. Essentially penpusher, the company, is a word factory providing mostly product descriptions, case studies and e-newsletters.
We started it to cash in on the internet wave, reasoning that people would want websites that were well-written to go with their flashy designs. Unfortunately the bubble burst before we could make our millions.
So we ditched the office and went virtual. What that means is that instead of phoning clients from a room with people, you call them from a back bedroom. In practice, nobody knows the difference. You could be anywhere.
So what the hell am I doing in damp, chilly, miserable Britain? A good question.
When most people reach my age – 47 if you must know, although I think I look younger – they have things to tie them down. Kids are the usual reason, or elderly parents.
Despite years of trying and a course of IVF treatment that led to an infection nearly killed my wife, I am not going to be a parent. My mother died eight years ago and my father just before the Queen Mum’s funeral just last year, not that the two events were in any way related.
For a long time it seemed likely that the flexibility of my work would allow me to help him through his last days. In the end that was not necessary thanks to his best mate. It was, perhaps, as straightforward as these things ever can be.
Depression sounds like the easy option. However, maybe I am callous, but I like to think I am being rational. I see the combination of events as an opportunity for a new start.
For children of the middle classes, of which I am one, the death of your parents means a substantial nest egg. In theory I am against inherited wealth, but in practice who would turn down a lump sum to pay off all their debts?
Although I had not got round to getting dressed, or even cleaning my teeth for that matter, as far as my world was concerned I was sitting in an office shiny, happy and probably in a suit. I can generally make a good impression on the phone.
There is little need for face-to-face communication for the company I run. This is perhaps strange because we are supposed to be in the communications business. Essentially penpusher, the company, is a word factory providing mostly product descriptions, case studies and e-newsletters.
We started it to cash in on the internet wave, reasoning that people would want websites that were well-written to go with their flashy designs. Unfortunately the bubble burst before we could make our millions.
So we ditched the office and went virtual. What that means is that instead of phoning clients from a room with people, you call them from a back bedroom. In practice, nobody knows the difference. You could be anywhere.
So what the hell am I doing in damp, chilly, miserable Britain? A good question.
When most people reach my age – 47 if you must know, although I think I look younger – they have things to tie them down. Kids are the usual reason, or elderly parents.
Despite years of trying and a course of IVF treatment that led to an infection nearly killed my wife, I am not going to be a parent. My mother died eight years ago and my father just before the Queen Mum’s funeral just last year, not that the two events were in any way related.
For a long time it seemed likely that the flexibility of my work would allow me to help him through his last days. In the end that was not necessary thanks to his best mate. It was, perhaps, as straightforward as these things ever can be.
Depression sounds like the easy option. However, maybe I am callous, but I like to think I am being rational. I see the combination of events as an opportunity for a new start.
For children of the middle classes, of which I am one, the death of your parents means a substantial nest egg. In theory I am against inherited wealth, but in practice who would turn down a lump sum to pay off all their debts?
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