Its a funny place: the Edge.
Is not just a physical location; its a state of being. To be on the edge is to be walking the tight rope; standing on the knife edge of existence - one false move and you fall into oblivion. To be on the edge is freedom, though. For to be on the edge means to exist in the narrow gulf that separates things, whether that thing is something tangible or purely in the realm of ideas, it does not matter. To live on the edge, man, is to transcend.
Kulture Club existed on the Edge. There was barely any legal paperwork for the club, yet those on the street knew where it was. It would never play the best bands or the greatest DJ's, yet it was nearly always full on a saturday night. The appeal, instead, came the Edge - Kulture Club operated out of a derelict warehouse on the fringes of an industrial estate. The area had been slated for demolition and redevelopment for some time, yet the club remained. The thrill of the edge was this: the club might not be there next week; tonight, the cops might close it down once and for all. The edge stimulated the palette; made the ordinary into an Adventure.
And then, inevitably, the stencil had gone up: a luscious pair of red lips with silly white fangs...
And we are off! @Martha Villiers Chrisie Whisper Ashley Cohen Forn Clakes Edwin Bridges Steven Angel Ducard - over to you
Its another night on the edge. The club is packed; the herd seethes and pulsates to the dub step that hammers the dusty concrete and rust spattered girders. Flickering light: alternating black and harsh colours. Disorienting, the space seems simultaneously large and intimate. Ravellers flail; cliques form and chatter behind pillars and in gloomy nooks and crannies, washed blue in the garish, scintillating, light.
Out on the edge, hunting conditions are almost perfect. If you are willing to take the chance. Do you?