'Enter the Kalyx: Sydney's underground party scene in a time of precarity' / Robbie Mason
Following the COVID-19 pandemic and years of disinterested governance, where to now for Sydney’s nightlife? Robbie Mason examines the recent history of one nondescript building in Sydney’s inner west and the record label that has come out of it - Blue Kalyx Records.
The jazz is frenetic, peddling madly like a cyclist on an icy road. The music threatens, at times, to run itself off the road but the musicians are skilled, accustomed to these conditions.
Red lights and soft-yellow lamps focus on one end of the room and the arrangement of the armchairs and velvet couches nudges our attention towards the source of the music, but the crowd circles around the musicians. Some bop behind them. Nobody at all is in their seat and it’s almost midnight on a Wednesday in late March 2021.
After an intermission, there’s a switch of personnel. Someone begins spitting zany rhymes with a Mac Lethal flow. The jazz transforms into trip hop. Another guy jumps up, taking over the mic. With a more laidback, boom bap vibe, he tosses a slew of Australianisms into the mic with the insouciance of someone accustomed to repping where they’re from. I recognise him as a member of the Who Knows Crew – a Blue Mountains collective.
The warehouse in Alexandria resembles a suave cabaret club. Each table has a candle but no flame flickers. There’s no wind; no draught sweeping through. We’re sealed off from Sydney. But within our pocket universe, our micro utopia, borders don’t exist – neither between performer and audience nor between strangers. People pile onto the couches, share drinks and openly lend each other keys. COVID-19 be damned.
Poster for a Wednesday jazz night at the Kalyx warehouse. Poster by Quiet Humans (Instagram: @quiethuamns).
Six months later I’m sitting in a living room in St Peters with Equestrianaut who helps to run the Alexandria space in the breaks between citywide lockdowns.
This DIY venue was started twelve months ago – truly the last of a dying breed amid inner city gentrification and private development.
Illegal, underground nightlife exploded in Sydney following the introduction of the Liquor Amendment Act (2014) – the “lockout laws”. But when COVID-19 hit, many of the warehouses in Sydney’s inner west which were previously used for events folded. Many worn-out owners and renters have turned their back on raves. Others have pursed licensing and legitimacy. Mothership Studios has irrevocably transformed. Sashimi, 2Flies… Familiar names for those who know the score, second homes, safe spaces… For all intents and purposes, they no longer exist.
With jazz nights, hip hop gigs, art exhibitions and weekend raves, the space in Alexandria is a playground for Sydney’s bohemians. But you’ll have no luck googling the building. It has a name – Kalyx – but that name is generally only advertised via word of mouth.
Image courtesy: Benjamin Weser. A Dunj event at the Kalyx warehouse in Sydney in 2021. https://benjaminweser.com/
Before I begin the interview, Equestrianaut sees that I want to record with my phone. He asks if I have a Dictaphone instead – I don’t – before grudgingly allowing me to record the interview on my phone. He also requests that I refer to him by an alias – his new artist name. “We try to work on a basis of word of mouth”, Equestrianaut explains. “We try to remain under the radar by not posting events publicly on Facebook or Instagram except for among a controlled network of friends and collaborators.” There’s a constant need to avoid the scrutiny of police and local council members, and to filter out unsavoury characters.
A few weeks later, I crowd around a schooner-littered table at the Courty in Newtown with three other members of the Kalyx crew. The trio are discussing a Goa trip. Lachlan Waterhouse (artist name: Waterhouse, fka Warlach) comments offhand that they will need someone (me) to record their adventures if this dream becomes a reality. We share filters and papers and smoke from the same pouch.
We touch on the tension between their desire to attract attention – specifically towards music genres and sounds which were, until very recently, neglected, forgotten even – and their need to attract only the right kind of attention.
There is a significant screening process when outside collaborators approach the group to use the space for an event. Clovis Carrive-Meyer, aka Pollen Mentor, explains: “It’s a juggle between careful calculation and track records, and there is some grey area of chance and risk, of taking a stab in the dark. But once you start to curate a crowd the community helps to filter the good and bad.”
While the Kalyx crew cautiously regulate who can access the warehouse, Lachlan says that they also have ambitions for the space to become a “cultural hub”. They want to open up the space to a wider audience but recognise that not everybody is ready for this yet. Clovis describes the exclusivity and secrecy of the space as an “unfortunate necessity”.
The trio are anything but cliquey.
The group want their DIY space and the record label they recently founded – Blue Kalyx Records – to be both a platform for Sydney’s underground and a bridge between the underground and more mainstream music and venues. But the journey hasn’t always been smooth. Threats box in the warehouse from all sides.
With nomadic flair, the Kalyx crew draw inspiration from local bush doof culture and dance music heartlands further afield including Berlin and Goa. Rather than passively consuming a rave spectacle, the idea within these alternative clubbing cultures is that, if people actively contribute to events, they will look out for each other more proactively. An example is the aforementioned jazz night.
Image courtesy: Chris McClymont. A bush doof in March 2020 (Rara Avis). http://mcclymont.photo
Edward*, a producer, rave organiser and frequent attendee at the warehouse, speaks fondly of the atmosphere there on weekends. “Everyone dumps their jackets and goon bags up at the back on the tables… it feels like a house party much more than a club… The whole event feel like it’s there for the event’s sake. You don’t feel like a customer.”
A code – sometimes included in Facebook event descriptions (“location TBA”), sometimes unwritten – regulates Kalyx. This code includes a BYO policy, respect for all genders, sexualities and races, a ban on anti-social behaviour and an awareness not to loiter out the front of the building. Secrecy is key. Unwelcome blow-ins and authorities, who misunderstand the self-regulating nature of these spaces, are therefore a threat.
In an era of rising techno-totalitarian state surveillance, we often feel like lab rats, scurrying around cages under the watchful gaze of invisible forces. DIY raves, however, are an affront to capitalism – a refusal to drink from the tubes lowered into our enclosures with drug-laced liquids. They are also a collective prison break. They have enabled Sydney’s young population to resist the state’s regulation of bodily autonomy.
Equestrianaut, however, bemoans the fact that warehouse communities do not always harness this revolutionary potential. “Too few in Sydney’s warehouse scene have political aspirations beyond gender politics, beyond what’s being learned at universities.” Equestrianaut expresses some unease about the crew’s decision to hire security following a couple of incidents with anti-social behaviour from punters. While an adequate solution, it is also perhaps the easy solution. Wondering if they could do something more to create an inclusive space, he suggests that they may be shirking their duty as venue managers. “That’s the conclusion we came to after talking to other people running these warehouse spaces… Just get yourself a seccy who is not part of your crew. Maybe they work for an agency. It’s outsourcing. They’re a third party… It appears we want to detach ourselves from the responsibility.” Equestrianaut is vulnerable in this moment, including himself within his own critique.
Throughout our conversation, Equestrianaut waxes philosophical. He discusses the “dictatorship of the proletariat” and the Marxist conception of an intellectual vanguard. He’s remarkably well-spoken for an Ecuadorian national conversing in a second language. I sense that the broader Kalyx crew, who come off as libertarian (but not anarchist), stifle his political radicalism somewhat.
However, when Equestrianaut talks of the possibility of “real spiritual, political transformation”, it’s clear he has a similar vision for the space as his peers.
If there is one thing that defines the Kalyx crew, it’s their openness to disagreement and dialogue. There’s no one dominant ideology. As Anant Joshi, aka Zolo, says at the Courty: “this is what we mean when we say safe space. You can be yourself. What you’re saying might differ from what I’m saying but that doesn’t make any of it the ultimate truth.” In a world increasingly defined by cancel culture and what political scientists term affective partisan polarisation – a descriptor for the increasing tribalism and animosity in recent decades between people who do not share political views – this stance is refreshing.
* * *
As you approach the Kalyx warehouse on a Saturday night the only giveaway is the base thud galloping across the industrial estate. Muffled spaceship sounds seep out of an innocuous building which teeters on the edge of the road like an inflated balloon with too much helium in it. There’s no line out the front, no signs of life. A lone man on the footpath ushers you inside. The hospital lighting and pristine white walls pierces your eyeballs. You hesitate, for a moment, before ascending some stairs. The bubbling chatter becomes a roar. You show your ticket to the person on the door. They sweep back a curtain and darkness envelopes you. The sound hits like a football to the gut. There are almost two hundred bodies packed inside. Sweaty limbs brush against yours. A sci-fi soundtrack barrels from the Translate speaker stack.
The Kalyx crew platform a genuine diversity of sounds. Depending on which night you visit the warehouse, you can enjoy jazz, hip hop, dub techno, drum’n’bass, psy trance and everything in between. But the warehouse is not the only platform the Kalyx crew use to champion local artists. Two weeks ago, they released their debut EP through Blue Kalyx Records.
Anant describes the label as a “natural progression” for the group. As well as functioning as a regenerative tonic for Sydney nightlife, the label represents a step towards healthier outlets of expression, towards a “mindful musical community”. The crew plan to have more daytime events and midweek events. The raves aren’t going anywhere but the crew want to be known for more than simply running Sydney’s best sesh dungeon.
What is remarkable is the unmistakable sense that the eclectic sounds on the EP are thematically linked. Rather than charging all over the place like a shark sniffing blood, the EP coasts through trip hop, psy-ambient, breaks and liquid drum’n’bass. The feel is smooth, glossy even. The opening track titles – ‘Underwater Dreams’ (Pollen Mentor) and ‘Afloat’ (Warlach) – give the uninitiated an indication of the music’s direction. Clovis positions the release at the centre of a “trip hop revival”.
The album cover for Blue Kalyx Records VA001. Album artwork by Kurro Olmo (Instagram: @bazookaraptor).
This narrative element of water is fitting. Listening to the EP, I feel like I am scuba diving, communicating with the artists via hand signals and telepathy. When the fourth track comes in, ‘Of The Night feat. Pyrotechnix’ (Pollen Mentor), Equestrianaut monologues in Spanish. I’m trapped (liberated?) in a dreamscape with Spanish mantras rolling around inside my head. It’s as if Equestrianaut is whispering through speakers in waiting rooms, elevators and shopping malls, inducting me into the Kalyx world via subliminal messaging. The track is all third eye hip hop and scratches – a throwback to the boom bap flavour of 00s Australian hip hop. “Down by the river with the banks pulling reefer, gravel the road when I travel in the Beamer” raps Pyrotechnix.
Infused with psychedelic sounds, the EP cushions you in a haze of weed smoke. It’s entrancing, addictive almost, but the latter description suggests dependency – a hollowness within – and this music is soulful and pensive.
This is not music for escapism; it’s music to open up to.
The two tracks by Zolo, ‘Pre-Dystopia’ and ‘Guru Mantra’, fuse tribal sounds and tabla drums with futuristic throbs, drawing on Anant’s Indian heritage. The EP exists at the meeting point between East and West, and this isn’t a tokenistic or performative gesture by a dreadlocked doofer showing you their crystal collection. The Kalyx crew bring an international slant to a scene usually dominated by locals. The crowds who gravitate towards the grittier DIY (and often illegal) events in Sydney tend to be those in the know, those with deep roots in the city, but the Kalyx crew is more diverse. The circle of mates running the Kalyx warehouse and contributing to the record label – an ever-fluctuating number – have roots that span the world. Ecuador, Colombia, India, South Africa, Spain, France. The list goes on.
The EP is a reflection of the DIY spirit of the Kalyx crew. On the surface, it may seem unwieldy but you will quickly realise there is method to the madness. From organising events last minute to releasing an EP which traverses expansive musical territory, it’s clear that the Kalyx crew are dream-chasers. They’re unafraid to try and unafraid to fail. Not many have the initiative and courage to source and run a warehouse venue in Sydney.
This drive to have a go is everywhere you look. Regarding his musical background, Lachlan says that “around 13 or 14 I picked up the guitar… I never learned how to play properly. I never learned scales. I never learned how to read music. It took me over and my hand sort of did the playing and I learned by ear”.
Anant, meanwhile, describes throwing the very first Friday night club night his hometown had ever seen… in grade 10. “My city to date doesn’t have a club. It just has small pubs… Electronic was very niche. It was not even acknowledged or greeted with any sort of validation.” Within the Sydney rat race, it seems the only way to make things happen artistically is to build it yourself. The Kalyx crew, then, are well-trained; primed to persevere in spite of the morsels of state government arts funding.
The initial conceptualisation of the Kalyx world stems directly from the inner west warehouse community. Lachlan and Equestrianaut were both living at the Sashimi warehouse in Marrickville. “There was a lot of talk at Sashimi. A lot of hazy days”, Clovis elucidates. Lachlan jumps in: “It’s different from other people’s late night talks and trippy adventures because we were serious about our word. We went out and actually did it.”
The Kalyx crew is a dedicated team ready to throw themselves at any moment into new projects. In the breaks between hard lockdowns, the schedule of the Kalyx crew overflows. Jazz nights on Wednesday, hip hop on Thursdays and raves most Friday and Saturday nights. “It’s part of the thrill as well – to demonstrate to yourself that you are capable of doing that, that you can push yourself to the extent of burning out”, Equestrianaut says. “There is some kind of self-destructive gratification in that.”
A Deloitte Access Economics report from 2019 estimated that an underdeveloped night economy, as a result of the lockout laws, had cost Sydney $16 billion. Many creatives have packed up and left Sydney because the city – with its unaffordable housing and vapid culture – no longer holds any value to them.
New South Wales (NSW) has consistently lagged behind other states and territories in arts funding. Excluding spending on large institutions, Victoria spent $31 per capita on the arts according to a paper prepared in 2017 by the Department of Planning and Environment. In Queensland, it was $23 per person. In NSW it was a mere $18. COVID has not changed this discrepancy. At the start of the pandemic, the Victorian government dedicated $49.1 million in COVID relief to the arts sector. The NSW government, meanwhile, dedicated only $1.86 million in new funding to the arts.
The state government has pillaged and disrupted the production line of creative talent across NSW. But musical and artistic innovation continues to thrive within Sydney’s DIY, underground scene thanks to certain, attentive workers on the production line, who collectively, organically and almost single-handedly ensured that operations never ceased entirely. Nowhere is this more apparent than within electronic music scenes.
But this situation is taxing. Sydney rave organisers often throw parties at a financial loss or with very slim profits. I have heard mutterings of friends losing thousands of dollars on events.
There is an age old debate in underground-rave circles surrounding events and artist payments. Those of a particularly staunch, anti-capitalist bent, advocating for free party culture, maintain that no artists should be paid for their work. For events to truly escape the bounds of capitalism, we must resist creating payment hierarchies between artists. We must jealously guard underground spaces as sites of community rather than profit-making. The obvious counter-argument is that, by refusing to pay artists at all, organisers deprive artists of a living wage and ensure that art production remains confined to an ivory tower. Often, only those with the capacity to sell their labour for free can participate. Seen in this way, this anti-capitalist perspective ironically becomes an elitist one.
There is an underlying assumption to the realist perspective – a police stinger carefully placed to deflate the tires of this slogan-adorned cavalcade of unwieldy, misfit vehicles. This reality bomb acknowledges that artists also need to eat and that we reside within a capitalist system whether we like it or not.
The danger is that the missile is a smoke grenade – a mirage behind which profit-minded forces can move in, arrest and silence the raucous punks with their loudspeakers and chants.
There is no easy solution. But the Kalyx crew are keen to reward struggling artists despite their shoestring budget.
Poster for a techno event at the Kalyx warehouse. Poster by Quiet Humans (Instagram: @quiethuamns).
The Kalyx warehouse is a passion project. “We all work on the basis that the money we receive out of this project will not allow us to make a living”, Equestrianaut says. After paying rent, the crew pays collaborators. “We try to look at the average fee on a freelance basis … We always ask them if they think the payment is fair compared to industry rates. That’s our main priority.” After this, the crew will have a non-hierarchical meeting to divide what little revenue remains amongst themselves.
Even in this COVID world, Sydney hasn’t died. Why? Because nightlife aficionados, often in their early twenties, are pouring their life savings into the entertainment industry, propping up Sydney’s nightlife during a government-approved, live music recession. Edward* says there is a “massive difference” between formal clubs and BYO venues, and it’s clear which one he prefers. The irony is bittersweet.
Sydney warehouse parties are under threat. The longevity of this scene remains in question. But I sense warehouse parties won’t be disappearing anytime soon; not if the Kalyx crew have anything to do with it.
* Name changed to protect this person’s identity.
Words by Robbie Mason (@robbiemasonlhs).
You can find Blue Kalyx Records VA001 on bandcamp here: https://bluekalyxrecords.bandcamp.com/album/blue-kalyx-records-va001
Photography by Benjamin Weser. https://benjaminweser.com/
Photography, including thumbnail image, by Chris McClymont. http://mcclymont.photo
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