Before I penned this feature, I gave clubbing with your womb-host a search on Google to see what other mother-daughter duos had to say about sharing clubbing space with their creators. An article that was pushed out last year by The Telegraph was slapped with the header, 'Mums and daughters now go clubbing together. Yes, seriously.' The 'yes, seriously' part of that wound me right up - as though clubbing with your mum is an inconceivable thought. But then again, this has been my reality for a long time. It may seem dysfunctional to some, but let's not get it twisted; the foundations of it don't lie in that cheesy, try-hard 'my mum's just one of the girls' vibes - she's not trying to relive her glory years by gatecrashing mine, and nor are we each other's wingwomen. There's a small age gap between us and that tends to blur the lines from time to time - we function more as sisters - but there's no cringe factor involved here, and she still pulls out the mum card on my arse. In fact, my disco mum, Claire Lawrence, was havin' it large as the dance music revolution initially smashed the UK, and I grew up on that stuff – I used to bounce around on her bed, aged five, to the Bassheads and Frankie Knuckles. I was nurtured on early house and techno, so it seems only natural that I myself would evolve into a clubber by nature.
From UK raving to the dance floors of Ibiza, this little island stole my mum's heart, soul and many a memory over a decade ago, and I was there to witness the aftermath of her sessions thanks to having an auntie who also loved a bit of White Isle action. For a few summers in Cala Llonga I'd be in my auntie's care with my two nutjob younger cousins, while Senora Lawrence was out hitting Manumission or Space. I'd pore over the magazines and CD sleeves she'd bring back, obsessing over the music I was too young to taste that was throbbing from a stacked soundsystem. On one hopeful occasion, she tried to sneak my gawky, early teenage face into Pacha, but I was still too underdeveloped for entry and the experience was to be continued. Years later, and I'm finally following in her well-trodden Balearic footsteps, and while she's been there and done that, she ravenously seized the opportunity to get herself here and experience it all again.
It's my second season in Ibiza, and after having my mum here for another two-week spin recently, here's why getting through those doors with your old school raver ma is an excellent shout.
She's a seasoned raver
This isn't a case of Claire having missed out on clubbing, or having discovered a taste for dance music over two decades on from when it big-banged itself into existence - my mum knows her stuff. It's reassuring getting on that dance floor with the closest member from your family tree, in the knowledge that their first clubbing experiences were during the raw, formative years of the late '80s. She knows the score and she knows all too well what makes a clubber tick past the first signs of dawn. This is made even better when the likes of Dance 88/89 at Sankeys rears its golden year ravehead and holds a nostalgia branch out to both of us – Claire for the first-hand experiences, and me for the mixtape bedroom memories. The only downfall to all this is the undeniable envy that she raved to Detroit and Chicago's finest when the scene first burst out and thousands were plunged into a new way of living.
The mum card
My mum - the M.I.L.F. - could easily pass as my mate or my sister, and that works to my advantage the majority of the time. She's lived on the other side of the world for the past eight years, so clubbing with her isn't a regular occurrence, and that means it still maintains its novelty factor. I can't help but feel a bit proud that I can beast in for a beat munch with my mum, and occasionally I like to show that off. Some people's reactions can be on the patronising scale, with a couple of "awwwwws” chucked in - in the sense that she must seeing it all for the first time - when really, she's witnessed some mad shit here a long time ago. The mum card is also best served when you've got some eejit munching at your ear. It might have nothing to do with anything, but inserting “this is my mum” into the exchange usually slices off the chat pronto.
Unfazed and undaunted
If your mum's been through the acid house years and hasn't lost a taste for it, it's likely she's going to be an open-minded sort. My mum's seen Manumission at its finest, and from the stuff I've read and heard, that place was a castle of total chaos. So, when you're together at La Troya for its prison session and you see a guy donning a pig's mask in a mocked-up cell dragging in a willing punter, and then observe him dipping his John into the saliva pit, there's no need to have a crawling feeling of embarrassment about seeing it with your ma. It was me that was stood there like a voyeur - or a pure pervert - and she was away from the scene before a crowd gathered and it ended up looking like a zoo. It's good to know that no psychology debrief was needed, because she's seen it all before.
She buys the booze
This one is especially relevant to last year, when for the three weeks she was here, I went from living like a peasant to a king. Sometimes you can forget you're at that bar farting out cash as if you've been on the Heinz beans, but when you're a worker here, you've got your strategies for avoiding steep price tags. Thankfully, that maternal instinct lasts years past the milk bottle teat, and luckily for me, funds the liquid that gets you primed for steaming through the tunes. Cheers mum, you're good.
No ties
As soon as we get in to a club, Claire's off on her own adventure. A meeting place is decided and it's cheerio for now, see you in a few sweaty hours. It's probably through her that I've got a penchant for the solo mission – if you haven't got a dance floor partner in slime, get yourself out there and find one. She had no qualms doing it in Ibiza all those years ago, and she's still just as comfortable flying solo. I'm not left wondering what her current state of mind is and I know she's probably in there making her own temporary mates. Plus it gives us loads to talk about on the long disco bus ride home.
WORDS + PHOTOGRPAHY | Aimee Lawrence