So now we've Nick and Jody. There's Nick, the one-time punk now in his mid-thirties,
casually dressed in Mambo jeans and flip-flops, and dipping into a packet of
chocolate cookies which he somehow manages to smear all over his face. There's
Jody, a 22-year-old, pony-tailed tech-boho, a guy who could easily give Rob
Playford or Photek a run for their money in the studio boffin stakes. Smartly
togged in felt pinstriped trousers and a sleek black T-shirt, just the way current
club chic demands, he tucks into a plate of spag boll, trying to squeeze in
his comments and his opinions between large mouthfuls.
Jody says he'd really like Tribal Gathering to be a three-day occasion next
year, his two main complaints being that this year's Tribal wasn't long enough
or loud enough. While Nick, given his eclectic background, can't think of anything
worse than three days of nothing but repetitive beats.
"I am slightly averse to what Paul Stanley said about Tribal being the
next stage after Glastonbury," he considers. "Of course I love dance
music, obviously I do, but if I was going to a festival, then I'd like to hear
all sorts of different music over the weekend."
Strangely, however, it's this age and generation gap which bonds Nick and Jody
so strongly. Theirs is a complementary rather than distracting business relationship.
They work together in Jody's attic flat at the top of a rambling Victorian
house built on one of Bristol's seven hills. If you look out of the window,
you can see the patchwork roofs of the city mapped out below. Inside, the airy
studio leads to Jody's lounge, which is draped in ethnic wall hangings. A red
and blue Way Out West graffiti tag, designed by one of Jody's mates, throws
yet more colours into the room.
"Yeah, you have really opened my eyes to bands like New Order and Joy
Division," Jody confesses to Nick.
"The age gap works because it means that there's no ego clash," responds
Nick. "If we were the same age, we'd probably be far more competitive with
each other."
Spending most days up here in the studio, Jody meticulously applies himself
to filtering bass lines, while Nick plunders Glass and Eno soundtracks, and
obscure Bulgarian vocals, searching for the perfect sample. It could take a
day or a week, but they are in no rush. And although they'd be the first to
deny it, there's definitely something in the Bristol air encouraging a mellow
approach. It's this chill factor which ensures that Way Out West's lovingly
lingering approach to their work. Jody puts it another way.
"I know it sounds like a cliché but, when it works, it's like a
magic thing. You have got to relax and enjoy it, otherwise it won't happen.
We don't work to deadlines. If the record company says it's got to be ready
for Tuesday and it's not, well, they'll have to wait."
And while house music has been tagged as "the new throwaway pop,"
Way Out West's sound manages to transcend disposability. A distillation of Nick
and Jody's very diverse backgrounds, the dark odyssey of "Domination,"
complete with that JFK sample, and the duo's orchestral remixes of Freakpower's
"New Direction" are certain to still be rotating on a lot of people's
turntables for years and years to come.
"We're spunky hard house!" exclaims Nick.
"Splunky?" splutters Jody.
Well, you can't win 'em all.
1996. Think tech-step, nu Brit house, Hooch, Addidas trainers (still) and Sony
Playstations. Skunk has evolved into the eternal drug of choice and, while the
alternative is rapidly being absorbed into the mainstream, the underground remains
innovative. And the clubs? Vibing off of the likes of Billy Nasty, Jody whips
the eager crowd down at the Lakota into a tech-lather, as his Friday night residency
keeps going from strength to strength.
However, it's Cream which continues to call the shots. Booking a plethora of
big name jocks from Jeremy Healy to Jon Pleased Wimmin to Dave Clarke, those
Chemical Brothers and LTJ Buken, it makes sense that Nick's eclectic tastes
should earn him a regular spot at the UK's über-club.
Following on from his Balearic days at Vision and the later on at Venus in
Nottingham, Nick knows how to tap into the crowd's psyche and tweak it where
it counts.
"The last Cream night I played was so great," he beams. "Paul
Oakenfold and I were DJing out in the back room and, by about 10:30, the place
was already going off. That's the good thing about 2am finishes. It means the
place always warms up a lot quicker. It also helps to improve the social aspect
of going clubbing, because people move onto house parties at the end of the
night, where they talk about the club and socialise more.
"I really love Cream. I think it is a brilliant club. Unfortunately, it's
a very British thing to knock something when it gets popular. But nobody goes
to Cream to hear Robert Miles or Kadoc. They're not what the club is about anymore."
Which is the statement behind Cream's (if not low key, then certainly understated)
second album, where Nick's mix nudges between those of Paul Oakenfold and James
Lavelle. Kicking it with the affirmative Munsterland's "I Like That Sound"
before then moving into the moody terrain of Deepsky's "In My Mind,"
the selection shows Nick at his absolute finest, as he creates a crisp, hard
house-scape fit for total dance floor consumption.
But the stand-out, the cut everyone was talking about as soon as the album
came out, the one that gives you the same feeling as that trembling kiss with
your first ever boy/girlfriend…Of course, you know by now. Way Out West's
"The Gift."
From Cream and Golden in the north of England to the Balearic haciendas of
Amnesia and Ku in Ibiza, the glittering breaks of "The Gift" have
scattered across the dance floors and the dreamy piano samples have reached
their fairytale tip-top notes all summer long. "The moon and the stars
are the gifts you gave," sings Joanna Law, while legions of clubbers blubbered
into their silk shirts.
The original hip hop version of "The Gift" marched into the Top 10
of 1991 alongside The KLF and Tricky Disco. Five years on, with the track now
available as Way Out West's new single, Joanna Law's vocal samples continue
to betray an ethereal timelessness.
Attached to Nick Warren and Jody Wisternoff's little-short-of-epic production,
"The Gift" is a culmination of their diverse histories. It's about
their deep appreciation of music from every genre. Of where it comes from, and
more importantly, where it's going.
And that's how Way Out West's sound has crossed over from the house clubs to
not only mainstream daytime radio but also to underground jazz nighteries such
as John "Dope On Plastic" Stapleton's Bristol-based The Cooker.
"It has a lot to do with attitude," grins Nick. "If I'd played
'The Gift' in my bedroom when I was 15 or 16, my mum would have probably wanted
to sing along to it."
"Yeah, it's music for your mum!" quips Jody.
He may only be joking, but Way Out West's increasingly universal appeal means
that, in a way, he's almost right…
