Movement Festival

Turin, Italy
31 October - 1 November

Big, big, big room clubbing has a reasonably bad reputation. Most of us, understandably, prefer a bit of intimacy when it comes to spending forgotten nights in dark spaces. As such, Crack entered the absurdly cavernous confines of the Lingotto Fiere Torino exhibition hall with a sense of trepidation – even at 11pm the joint was a heaving horde of leather t-shirted Italian bros pumping pumped fists to the effectively lumpen tech-house stodge boiled up by Davide Squiallace, Matthias Tanzmann and Martin Buttrich under their moniker. Movement, happily, wonderfully, showcased the simple minded joy of a massive club experience.

Big, big, big room clubbing has a reasonably bad reputation. Most of us, understandably, prefer a bit of intimacy when it comes to spending forgotten nights in dark spaces. As such, Crack entered the absurdly cavernous confines of the Lingotto Fiere Torino exhibition hall with a sense of trepidation – even at 11pm the joint was a heaving horde of leather t-shirted Italian bros pumping pumped fists to the effectively lumpen tech-house stodge boiled up by Davide Squiallace, Matthias Tanzmann and Martin Buttrich under their Better Lost than Stupid moniker. Movement, happily, wonderfully, showcased the simple minded joy of a massive club experience.

The main stage kept things defiantly techy all night with Ellen Allien’s blistering set of tough sinewy raw bangers a clear highlight. The BPitch boss’ mum dancing was met with delight by the pumpers and shufflers in their droves – sometimes the endless boogie of mindless hedonism is all one can ask for. Every drop was oceanic.

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Despite the madness of the crowds – jaws swung wildly, Red Bull fumes mingled with fag-smoke and sweatsoaked sweatshirts, men sat with heads in their hands – the sheer size of the space allowed for easy access to the offshoot areas. Local DJs have little pull for jetsetting visitors so apologies to any of the Torino staples we missed on that stage. The titular Yellow stage was more of a draw with a titanically fucked Skream playing a slick’n’solid set of chassis-bumping contemporary house and Steffi dropping the kind of sublimely skeletal techno you’d expect from her.

The slightly smaller Detroit stage housed the best of the action. Rick Whilite got things going with a few hours of upfront rolling magic before everyone’s favourite roller-disco disc jockey Kenny Dixon Jr aka Moodymann stepped up and treated the throng to a masterclass in how DJing should be done: spacey disco rubbed shoulders with gritty house and sweetly soulful cuts, all put together by the greatest to ever to do it in iPhone earbuds. With Whilite acting as compare, KDJ stepped aside and let the old school take over. Mr Cybotron himself Juan Atkins played a blinder; any set that culminates in an airing of the entirety of Cerrone’s seminal Supernature is one to savour. Atkins begat techno which begat the best music of all time so it was natural that he was followed by the grandmaster, the wizard, the imperious and undeniable Jeff Mills. Jeff Mills is Jeff Mills and if he wants to pretty much play a 150 BPM kickdrum and the odd spooky synth note for two hours he can and he will.

Movement is a monument to the pleasures of a peaktime that lasts all night long.

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