Sonar 2008 - Friday by Night

Come night Sonar’s a different story. The crisp white contemporary art complex is replaced with a massive aircraft hanger – to which flocks of people are taken by dozens of Sonar buses. Where Sonar Day greets punters with modern art, Sangria and bright Mediterranean sunshine – at night it’s the opposite. During the fifty-yard walk from the bus stop to the venue we are greeted with bootleggers, stray dogs and litter strewn across the dark industrial landscape. Everything’s on sale – day-glow glasses, rave sticks, burgers, chorizo, whisky and water – there’s even a DJ mixing up tunes on his laptop to accompany it all. All this before you’re even through the gates of the venue itself.

But once you’re in you know it. The sheer size of the venue is awe-inspiring. Colossal ceilings and infinite spaces are filled with the sonic remnants of various sets going on throughout the venue’s four spaces (Sonar Pub, Sonar Park, Sonar Lab and Sonar Club).

In Sonar Club – the biggest of the four spaces at Sonar Night, it’s Diplo’s bouncy psychedelic electronica that warms up the crowd. Their heavily sampled reggae/dance/pop tracks (with songs by artists such as Basement Jaxx, Michael Jackson etc) provide an accessible route into the evening’s techno-fuelled mayhem, which is yet to come. It’s fun, the crowd’s up for it but the climaxes are unfulfilling. Diplo – while one of the evening’s most popular acts, fails to reach the riotous levels of fellow samplers and former Sonar stars the Chemical Brothers.

But it’s Justice that steals the show tonight in Sonar Club. A huge black curtain is slowly lifted revealing a massive glowing cross. This is the act that most of tonight’s 25,000 plus crowd is here to see.

Straight up Justice break into the filthy gritty beats and metal-sampled riffs. Raw industrial samples fill the room and the crowd goes ballistic. Screams, smashing glass, sirens, crashes and horror film samples form the background to pounding hard beats and cold cuts – Justice is Nine Inch Nails on speed.

Walking back at night’s less fun. I’m solo walking past crowds of prostitutes, who dominate La Ramblas with their aggressive tactics – grabbing men’s groins, mauling them and often mugging them. I’m speed walking while clinching my bag as it were packed with diamonds and probably look a bit paranoid. But it’s justified. Men offer me sex, ask me for a light and block my path. Walking down the street to my hotel there’s a Scotsman trying to shake off two working girls. “WILL YOU JUST GET OFF ME?” he shouts several times, but the prostitutes continue to molest him – grabbing his body and pulling him back. “FUCK OFF” he shouts. At which point I suggest he and I walk together. This doesn’t go down well. The prostitute goes for me “Fuck off bitch,” she shouts, launching herself at me. The Scotsman pulls her back. I run off like a true fighter and the prostitutes eventually take the hint. And so I do. Don’t walk through Barcelona on your own.