I'd been banging on about Ibiza Rocks even before I'd landed on the island. Notorious for its huge line-ups and special open-air vibe, you can imagine my reaction when I found out Slaves were on the bill. Indie / rock music has been my genre of choice for as long as I can remember, so I impatiently clambered through the gates to get my dose of the alternative side of White Isle life I'd been craving.
Before I was even inside the venue, one of the Rocks staff said,“Ruby Tuesday? The Rolling Stones?” Finally someone who knew the true meaning behind my name - I was impressed. A wave of jealousy caught me off guard as I scanned over the balcony overlooking the stage - just thinking about one week in this hotel is bliss. Above me the sky was a deep red, I could practically smell the sunset as it sank behind the walls.
I stood waiting for the support act feeling nostalgic - there was a familiar pre-gig whiff of summer sweat and beer; a smell that shouldn't excite me as much as it did. Rat Boy - looking like something the NME had just cooked up - ran on stage with instant energy, squirting us with a water gun filled with what could have been vodka, judging by the sea of open mouths below. The first few chords of ‘Wasteman' were played and a pack of girls tried to lock eyes with him - a look of slight far-off desperation in their own.
After Rat Boy, DJ Patrick Nazemi kept to Rocks' grime, hip hop and garage roots, using the power of Skepta's ‘Ladies' Hit Squad' to get us ready for the punk chaos we were about to dive into. And chaos it was, from start to finish. Slaves bounced on stage: “I'm seeing a few pairs of sunglasses already lads, having a good night?” They never held back on their thoughts as they plunged into Slayer-esque riffs accompanied by the lyrics of their song, ‘Suicide'. The two-piece prodigy stayed true to punk culture, preaching between every track. “This is a song about television - unless it's David Attenborough on TV, you're being hypnotised”. There was a cheer of approval before ‘Cheer Up London' unsurprisingly started a moshpit; not unusual for Ibiza Rocks.
I closed my eyes and lent against the barrier, the white Slaves logo burnt into my eyelids. Frontman, Isaac Holman, unleashed the mightiest of howls into the microphone, and I sank into complete contentedness - feeling new again - refreshed by a new sound and experience. In the mist of my euphoria, I was interrupted by a clanking sound beneath my feet, followed by screams. The band had thrown a drumstick into the crowd and for the first time in my life, I felt like a winner - clamping hold of it for dear life, I left Ibiza Rocks with one of my best memories yet.
WORDS | Ruby Munslow PHOTOGRAPHY | James Chapman
