Fabio

Hardcore hero

Interviewed by Bill and Frank at Radio 1, February 4, 2005

He’s the drum an bass desperado whose demented experiments with breakbeats helped create the first uniquely British dance music genre. Using their club as foundry, Fabio and longtime partner Grooverider planted the roots of hardcore and drum and bass out of a rag-bag assortment of tunes, all glued together by an idiosyncratic DJing style, a ravenous dancefloor and a common denominator: bass. Their seminal residency at Rage, in London’s Heaven, began with house and ended with a demonic breakbeat sound that drew from European techno, New York house dubs and reggae-influenced British productions. After its synthesis on the turntables of Fabio and co. it became known as jungle. With a few twists and some journalistic spin it was drum & bass. From his early days as a pirate DJ, Fabio has followed the well-worn path to legality, becoming a Radio 1 jock, firstly at One In The Jungle and now on Fabio & Grooverider. Twenty years later, he’s as establishment as an outlaw DJ from Brixton will ever be.

And there are few people who tell stories as well as Fabio. We meet in an anodyne office somewhere in the labyrinth of wonderful Radio 1 where he seems almost part of the furniture. Yet set him a few questions about the old days, the Brixton blues parties, (reggae shebeens named after the old Blue Beat ska label), or Mendoza’s after-hours, and we’re swiftly transported back with him, so vivid are the tales. As we scamper out into the winter chill, we high five and beam excitedly: a killer interview.

Let’s start with where you grew up

I grew up in Brixton, music was always around me. My dad was a record buyer, not a massive collection but a great collection of ska, Motown and stuff like that. Across the board black music. In Brixton growing up it was a massive blues party scene going on. Round the corner from me there was a place called Elland Park. On a Saturday night you could have five, six parties going on, with sound systems. I could hear it from my house. They were in people’s houses, or they used to rig up a sound system in old squats. There were a lot of squats in those days. We used to go to a lot of the local blues parties, when I was 13 or 14. I had a whale of a time, man. That got me into going out and being in this place with loud music playing. It was great because the blues scene was the original club scene, on one level: using huge sound systems, having MCs, not mixing, but the whole emphasis on loud sounds.

And this is very much Jamaicans doing over here what they used to do over there?

That’s right. We used to go to regular clubs and the sound systems were so crap, and you’d get DJs talking shit all night: ‘The next one is, A Ha, “Lean On Me”…’ It wasn’t like that at all. You’d have the host, the MC, and the guy who used to play music, it was like this narration. You weren’t that aware of what was going on but it was brilliant.

Growing up in Brixton was great because of the vibe. Brixton’s very colourful and you can’t really escape the music thing. Music and crime. You had these two areas where you could go if you didn’t want to do a nine-to-five. Either be a criminal or be, not necessarily a DJ, but just have something to do with music. The sound systems were great. Weren’t no money in it or nothing. Strictly for breaking premises and having a party til 1 o’clock in the afternoon.

Did people charge?

They did. They used to charge £2 on the door. The whole thing though was going in and buying drinks. They used to have a little bar set up. It was all very civilised, but it was really dangerous, because we were mixing with hardened Brixton criminals. You stepped on someone’s lizard-skin shoes man and it was curtains. For real, serious. It was like Goodfellas. You knew: don’t fuck with these guys. There was one guy in particular, one dread, he was so smooth and what he used to do was this slow rubbing thing with girls, and he could dance with a girl and skin up a spliff at the same time. We used to watch him, he’s the fucking man. It was this whole mad thing. The dangerous thing was a lot of people wanted to be like them. I did as well, but luckily I was more into music than wanting to go out on the rob.

Was it inseparable?

The DJs were the guys who decided we want to set up our sound system here, and play our music. The criminals used to follow them around, ’cos all the girls used to be there. And, of course, wherever there’s nice girls there’s criminals. It was great, these beautiful women that wouldn’t look at you. You never had a chance. We were 14 and they were 21. At around nine in the morning they’d slow it down and you had to ask a girl for a dance. I think I had one dance in the three years I was going to blues parties. I was so nervous I think she walked away half way through it. It was the earliest memory I have of being captured by the whole club thing. Then things kind of moved on, I got into the whole soul scene.

“  It was great. These beautiful women that wouldn’t look at you. And of course, wherever there’s nice girls there’s criminals. ”

Did you think that reggae was your music, cos you grew up here?

I was kind of divided between reggae and soul. In them days, you couldn’t really be both. I remember they used to say if you liked soul music you were gay. What happened was a cousin of mine used to go to soul clubs, and she used to sneak me in and I never used to tell anybody. Then at the weekend I used to go to the blues dances. Once a girl said to me: ‘I saw you in Crackers on Wardour Street.’

‘No you didn’t.’

She was like: ‘No it was you.’

‘It wasn’t me.’

‘It was you, you were…’

And everybody was like: ‘Boy, I hope that weren’t you.’

‘Nah, a soul club, are you crazy?’

Then I got caught up in it, so when I was 15, 16, I kind of ventured more into going to Crackers and a place called 100 Club, and just getting into the whole soul movement.

Was it the teen disco on a Saturday lunchtime you went to at the 100 Club?

I went to the adults one. I looked 18 when I was about eight. I used to wear a little waistcoat and a shirt. My auntie used to get me in there. This was Friday lunchtime. Telling my mum I’m just popping down the road, I was clubbing, there were girls, everything…

The Friday lunch thing, was it at Crackers?

Yeah. Guy called George Powers and Paul Anderson used to play. Crackers was an amazing club. People used to go there and just dance. Everyone just got on it and there were amazing imports from America. It was fresh and vital at the time.

What was it that attracted you?

I tell you what was so great: it was going into a place and it was mixed. Blues parties were 99 percent black. But this was 50/50. That was the first time I’d ever seen that. It was the first time I saw colour didn’t really matter. You could go out with a white girl and it weren’t no big thing. White guy’d go out with a black girl, and you could hang out with white guys. It wasn’t an issue. You had white DJs, you had black DJs. It was the first time I’d felt this social thing. You could do what you wanted in Crackers. The DJ never talked and he never mixed, but kind of segued the tracks, so it was this seamless mixture of funk and soul. At the time you didn’t know that in 20-odd years you’d still be referring to this place. It was just where you went to on a Saturday afternoon and had a wicked time.

Did you look up to dancers like Peter Francis and Horace?

There was a whole lot of them: Horace and a guy called John O’Reilly who danced for Paul Anderson. So instead of looking up to criminals I was looking up to them. They were getting all the girls. When you’re young that’s what it’s all about. They used to dance and everyone used to crowd round them. They’d walk off with the best looking girl at the end of the night. So it was that same thing: looking up to these guys and thinking I want to be like them. So me and my dancing partner, Colin Dale, we used to go out all over.

If it was such a hot scene, why was there this reggae vs. soul thing?

There were even divides in soul. The jazz dancers used to think we were pussies if you liked funk. There used to be fights with guys coming from rival soul clubs, with jazz boys and soul heads. They’d be like, ‘You guys are pussies, all that pussy music you listen to,’ and so there used to be regular fights. It was just wanting to belong to a certain clique.

Do you think young black guys got into soul because they were looking for a specific black British identity?

I don’t think consciously we were doing that. The blues thing wasn’t a movement it was more local. You went to Battersea, Clapham, all over south London there were blues parties. You did used to follow sounds but it wasn’t a movement in the way that this [soul clubs] was a movement. This was going out into the West End as well. You’ve got to remember the West End was the place.

It’s neutral. It’s not a neighbourhood.

It was a travelling thing. The whole thing getting ready and dressing up as well. We couldn’t afford to buy clothes in the West End, so the only way you could go to the West End was to club or buy records. The whole thing of buying imports, of getting things first, that all came from that, more than kind of the reggae scene. They used to play a lot of old stuff, Alton Ellis and stuff like that. It wasn’t really a forward moving thing.

It’s more about having a dubplate than the latest thing.

Exactly. And it was more localised as well. If you went to a blues dance in Battersea they’d be like, ‘You guys aren’t from round here.’ You could seriously get yourself in trouble. The soul scene was different. You used to meet people from Wembley. We’d be like, ‘Wembley, where the fuck’s that?’ And Ilford. ‘Ilford? Never heard of it.’ ‘We’re from Brixton.’ ‘It’s a bit dodgy down there.’ Then the whole soul movement, Caister, it took on a whole new lease of life.

Did you get involved in that?

To be fair I didn’t. None of use drove, and we used to hear about this Caister thing, but by the time we wanted to get in it was kind of like an exclusive club. It was a very white scene. Caister was 80 percent white. Essex was kind of the bastion of racism. We were like what are these guys doing being into soul music? It was bizarre, it really was.

When did you first start DJing.

I was collecting records, and my buddy Colin Dale was a soul DJ and we’d follow him around. The idea of DJing never really struck my mind. I wanted to be a singer, or be involved in production. I was a real trainspotter. I used to know the serial numbers of certain tracks, and me and my friend, we used to listen to pirate radio from one to five in the morning and try and guess who the producer was: ‘Right, who produced this then?’ ‘Well it sounds like the drums could be Harvey Mason, the bassline could be the Brothers Johnson.’

A lot of the times we were right. DJing never really came into it, until my first gig was at a place called Gossips in the West End, for Tim Westwood who was a soul DJ that we followed. Colin Dale used to do the warm up down there, and Tim phoned me up and was like, ‘I really need you to play.’ I was like, ‘Cool man…’

’Cos he went into the electro thing in a big way.

This was literally months before it happened. When I DJed there it was the most horrific experience. I never thought I’d ever be that scared. I was absolutely bricking it. I didn’t enjoy it at all. I walked away thinking, ‘Nah I don’t want to do this.’ Then the early electro scene started and we used to go to Global Village on a Sunday night. But behind this as well was the electronic thing, because we were soul boys, and we were like, ‘Man this electronic things taking away the soul of it…’ But ‘Planet Rock’ and all the early Tommy Boy stuff was just irresistible. There was also a guy called Yakamoto…

Riuichi Sakamoto?

Yeah, and he done a tune called ‘Riot In Lagos’, which was the most incredible tune, even more than ‘Planet Rock’. I just caught the bug. Then I was dissed by the soul boys: ‘I can’t believe you’re into this electro shit man.’ So I just moved from scene to scene. But the early electro scene I felt honoured to be part of that.

People diss Tim Westwood but that guy was in it from dot, man. He changed the game. He stopped playing the soully kind of things and went full steam into electro. Used to go to Spatz, Saturday afternoon. People would be breaking. We were into the Wildstyle thing, all of that shit.

Where was Spatz?

In Oxford St, just opposite 100 Club. Where Plastic People was. Little hovel downstairs. Wicked little space. Great dancefloor and stuff.

How did the house thing come about?

The pivotal point was a pirate station called Faze 1. That was the turning point for everything that’s happened to me since. A guy called Mendoza set up a station. This was ’84. He said, ‘I want all of you local guys to come in and do a show.’ It was a Brixton thing, right next to a pub, and he had a shebeen, an after-hours place, downstairs. But this shebeen, no-one ever used to go to. It was our local but he never had any more than six people there on a Saturday night. We used to go there, get pissed, go upstairs and play some music. A great set-up.

I had an afternoon soul show, where I used to play funk and really early house and electro. Then one night he said, ‘Listen I got a brother called Chris, man, and he knows some guy called Paul Oakenfold and they’ve got this mad thing, have you ever heard of Spectrum?’

I said, ‘No.’

He said, ‘What we’re going to try and do, we’re gonna do some after-parties.’

So I said, ‘Right I’m going to check out Spectrum next week.’ The next Monday night we went down there. Me and a couple of lads from Brixton walked in and they were like, ‘What the hell is going on here?’ We saw everyone with smiley t-shirts, with big eyes, chewing their teeth, and just walking around in another world. My mates fucked off and left me in there. They were like, ‘You know what? It’s like we’ve walked into hell. We’re going back to Brixton.’ I just remember looking up seeing Paul Oakenfold and this smoke, and him being like a fucking god up there. I was like, ‘This is absolutely fucking amazing.’

To cut a long story short, they asked me if I would like to play at this after-party. I said, ‘What in Mendoza’s? You’re going to have an after party? No way are they gonna come down there.’

He said, ‘The only other guy I know who plays house on the station is Grooverider.’

I said, okay. But I didn’t really know Groove that well. Groove was quite arrogant and aggressive and he used to do the night-time shows. Anyway, he said, ‘Get down there about 1 o’clock in the morning.’ So me and Groove was in there all night, no-one came down; not a dickie bird. Groove had to go work, he was working with computers. He said, ‘Listen Mendoza, I’m off.’

So we was loading the records up in the car when we saw these guys walking down the alleyway going [scally northern accent] ‘Where’s the fookin’ party?’ He was wearing shorts, in the middle of winter, a union jack tattoo on his back and a skinhead, going, ‘I wanna hear some fookin’ music, right.’ He goes downstairs. We go in, we think we’d better play for this guy or else he’s going to kill us or something. He was on his own, just doing this all night [mad dancing moves], putting his head in the speaker, and Mendoza, the club owner, was like, ‘It’s alright, he’s buying drinks, just carry on playing.’

Groove went upstairs, came back and said, ‘Oh my god there are hundreds of people down this alleyway.’ All of a sudden all these people just rushed in there, everyone was pilled up. It was absolutely rammed. They couldn’t fit anyone else in there at all. There was a queue hundreds of people outside. So we decided to make this a regular occurrence, every week! Seriously. We did our own flyers, Groove went out and bought a Ford Cortina for 60 quid and we used to go down to the Trip at the Astoria, and we used to give out flyers there, and the rest is history basically. We had something going on every single week for about two years. That really got us known. Oakey used to come down, Trevor Fung used to come down. We met a lot of the big promoters and we got a lot of work out of it, man. That was really the start of the whole Fabio and Grooverider thing.

“  People used to go home and take their kids to school, have a wash and come back at one in the afternoon. It was happy days. ”

Did it ever have a name?

No just Mendoza’s. It didn’t have a name or anything. People didn’t give a shit, they knew they could come down there, used to go till four in the afternoon. People used to go home and take their kids to school, have a wash and come back at one in the afternoon. That’s what makes me laugh when people say, ‘Can you play for two hours?’ What!? It was happy days, man. It was great.

What was Spectrum like?

Spectrum was crazy. Spectrum was every single person was out of it, you never seen people out of it before…

How quickly did you catch on to what was going on?

About the third time I went there. It was quite scary, man. It was pretty hellish, and that’s why a lot of people turned their back on it because the music was so loud and the lights were so intimidating. The music wasn’t soulful. You’ve got to remember that. The music was this kind of flamenco mixture. And that’s why a lot of the urban guys were like, ‘Fucking hell!’ It was extreme. At the time it was like punk, but ’cos of the background, of listening to electro, we were like this shit, man, is so fucking extreme. And Groove was always extreme. Groove was into Public Image Ltd and stuff like that, so he was, ‘THIS IS ME, YEEEAAH!’

How soon did you get him to go down to Spectrum?

Groove is so completely teetotal. So he came down there and was literally in there for half an hour and said, ‘I am getting the fuck out of this place. I love the music but this out of the head business is… I’ll meet you down at Mendoza’s yeah, you stay here.’

I was like, ‘OK, yeah cool. Oakey’s playing, let me just stare at him, man…’

Anyway, he might have thought I was gay or something… This hero worship, man! I was like, ‘No man he’s gonna play “Jibaro” in a minute.’

And Groove wasn’t so much into Balearic music, Groove was much more into Fast Eddie and the kind of real soulful acid coming out of DJ International and Trax.

So how did Rage start.

Rage was the US thing. Rage used to be on a Thursday and they set up against Spectrum which was a European thing, Rage was a much more…

Weren’t Justin Berkmann and people like that involved?

Yeah, Justin Berkmann, Trevor Fung, Colin Faver; and they were much more into the American thing, the imports, the Trax thing. And they were kind of against the whole Spectrum thing. That was the first divides; very rarely you’d meet people who’d go to Spectrum and Rage.

We knew the barman there, they didn’t really have DJs at the Star Bar, they had a guy just playing music, and we met Kevin Millins who ran Rage and he was like, ‘Do you guys want to do a little thing down here?’ So we started upstairs, but we had such a massive following up there. We used to ram out this place. We’d established ourselves as kind of underground heroes, so we had a following. We didn’t know how big because we’d never ventured into the club world. Anyway, Colin Faver and Trevor Fung went to LA and missed their flight back, and Kevin said, ‘I’m going to take a chance on you guys tonight downstairs.’ We went in there and basically smashed the shit out of the place. The end of the night everyone was going crazy.

“  We used to get this guy called Danny Jungle lead the dancefloor, going, ‘Jungle, Jungle!’ and then before we knew it that was the tag. ”

But we didn’t want to step on Trevor and Colin’s toes so we shared the main floor with them. But they were still into the US stuff and we were playing early techno from Belgium and Germany: Frank de Wulf, R&S and stuff like that. We really got into that sound and played it down at Rage, and it wasn’t quite going with what Trevor and Colin were doing, but it was getting so popular that we ended up getting the main set there.

We got the Derrick Mays and the Kevin Saundersons and Joey Beltrams giving us dubplates. It turned into the techno place. It wasn’t so much hardcore, it was techno. But we’d get these B-side mixes from Masters at Work, and they used to have straight-up breaks on and we used to speed them up and mix them into the techno stuff. We realised anytime we did that we were getting people euphoric, like this is something new.

We used to get this guy called Danny Jungle lead the dancefloor, going, ‘Jungle, Jungle!’ and then before we knew it that was the tag. Then people started making jungle; Living Dream and Ibiza Records were early labels. We had a set full of this way-out breakbeat stuff. We mixed Prodigy into ‘Mentasm’ [by Joey Beltram], and things like that. It was just the craziest mixture of extreme madness. Rage turned from being this kind of posey kind of night with loads of girls and loads of well-dressed people, to being ghetto man. We ghettoed out the whole fucking place.

Until it got to the stage where… it kind of got a bit shady. It kind of added to the whole vibe of the night though. You didn’t know whether you were gonna get killed down there or not. Great! But then Kevin started to get a bit like, ‘Guys, it’s getting a bit on top in here, we’ve really alienated our old crowd.’

Were there any real incidents?

Nothing major, a few rucks, but you used to get a few of the big dealers coming in there. I think the old guard got a bit threatened. Certain DJs, well-known soulful house DJs, actually made formal complaints to him. Unfortunately the night closed because of that. We had a meeting and he said, ‘Listen guys you’re really going to have to change the music. You’re gonna have to go back to playing house because I don’t really like the crowd and security are getting a bit…’ And he shut the night, man.

When did it close?

I think it closed in ’93.

When you were experimenting with the breakbeats were you conscious you were pushing things in a certain direction?

No. We didn’t have a fucking clue. It worked, but because we were kind of hated on by the more soulful DJs we thought maybe we are doing the wrong thing. Maybe we have fucked the night up totally. We were still doing nights where we played more soulful stuff. Rage was a total experiment. We never used to play like that anywhere else. But in that big club where we had carte blanche. It was Fabio and Grooverider’s house and we just did what the fuck we wanted.

Looking back on it people aren’t that brave any more, and that’s probably one of the reasons dance music’s got slightly stagnant. No-one would dare do that any more. It really was, at the time, so out there. We really got people’s backs up with Rage.

And the press just slagged it…

At the start the press slagged hardcore, ‘Charly’, things like that. Mixmag put it on the cover and basically laughed it off, saying this is a fucking joke. But they loved jungle, cos that cartoonish element wasn’t there in jungle. Jungle was very aggressive and quite abrasive. Buju Banton sampled over breakbeats. It was a real ghetto thing. ‘Oh it’s black music, we love black music, it’s the new punk but it’s like black punk.’ So much bullshit going on.

When did jungle become drum and bass?

That happened in about 1996.

Any explanation?

The whole tag ‘jungle’ took on a real sinister angle. It just got so smashed in the press. We were like if we’re going to carry on we’re gonna have to change the name here, ’cos we’re getting slaughtered here. The ragga thing kind of went, and it turned into drum and bass. It all fell apart in ’98. We were getting totally slagged off for the music, everyone was like drum and bass has died, which was the headline for 18 months. And then garage came along: the death knell for drum and bass. It was the new drum and bass. It was the biggest kick in the teeth for us ever.

And they had all the girls…

Yeah! They had all the girls, it was where all the girls went from the jungle scene. Drum and bass was at its worst. Garage got so big so quickly, and so flavour of the month. Drum and bass was suddenly nothing. We didn’t even have a review section in magazines, no drum and bass reviews, never listed any clubs we were doing. It was like we’d died! Come up to modern day now, and drum and bass is as big as its ever been. And I feel this year is a real turning point for the music. It’s been around a long time and everyone’s got over the fact that we’re gonna be here now. We’re not going anywhere.

What about the Sunrise parties and outdoor raves you did?

Sunrise was the craziest times, man. I got into it ’cos I knew a few guys that were selling tickets. At my first gig there I did the warm up, the first slot. Colin Faver had the nightmare of nightmares when he was DJing. I don’t know what happened but he had a nightmare set. And everyone was throwing things at him. The promoter was like, ‘Colin get off. Fabio, have you still got your records?’ And I put on ‘Strings Of Life’, man. I’d never even heard ‘Strings Of Life’, and I’m not claiming to be the first man to play it but it was the first time it got played at Sunrise. I’ll tell you what, everyone stood there, and you couldn’t direct this in a film, it was like Close Encounters and when it started going [the faster bit], it just went off! I could have played that record all night and everyone would have went home and said, ‘I had the best night I ever had in my life.’

What was it like doing business with some of these guys?

These guys would walk away with silly amounts, 700 grand clear profit, without the police or the tax man knowing anything. You’d have all these people marching into a field and these county police who’d never even seen a black person before, going, ‘Oh my goodness, what are these people doing in this field, what shall we do? Shall we call the army?’ Then The Sun came out with that rave thing and that blew the whole thing apart and they was like, ‘Yeah we saw E wrappers, silver wrappers that these druggies take.’ It was laughable but it changed everything. It was never quite the same again. After that you got helicopters and police monitoring you, following you around. It was like being subversive. I don’t know if it was the time but everyone thought everyone was old bill. It was a really paranoid time.

Did you get a kick out of feeling like an outlaw?

You did. But at the same time towards the end it wasn’t fun any more. You were literally being chased through fields with your records, and the feeling that you were gonna get all your records confiscated and it’s the end of your career. It wasn’t fun any more.

“  We felt glad not to be part of Thatcher’s Britain. We don’t do nine-to-fives, man. We’re outlaws with bandanas on our heads, dancing in the fucking street. ”

But the early days…

We used to get a call from headquarters, which was the house round the corner where they sold the tickets, and they wouldn’t know where the rave was going to be until nine at night. Convoys 30 or 40 cars, like, ‘Where’s the party?’ Go to the M1, go to Heston services and then you used to get another phone call, it’s here, and you’d drive down, and what you’d see was these dark fields and then all of a sudden you’d see one laser. It was like the Batman sign. It’s over there! All of a sudden you’d look and there’d be 300 cars behind you.

So you didn’t know any more than the punters where it was going to be?

No. And that’s why we used to go there. It was so impromptu. You’d see farmers going, ‘Fuck off out of my field.’ Or in residential areas, in a warehouse, we used to see people sitting with their kids, ‘What’s going on? This is so scary,’ until 11 or 12 in the afternoon.

They were the greatest days man. I’m not going to witness anything like it again. You did feel like a rebel. And you did feel, coming home, 12 o’clock in the afternoon, with a tie-dyed top on, dripping with sweat, walking into a petrol station with bare feet, you did feel like…

You’ve got to remember this was Thatcher’s Britain at the time, and we were like: Fuck Thatcher! Fuck the Tories. So you really did feel like an outsider. We felt glad not to be part of Thatcher’s Britain. We’re nothing to do with you. We don’t do nine-to-fives, man. We’re fucking outlaws, we’re going around with bandanas on our heads, dancing in the fucking street. You had an allegiance with anyone with a smiley badge. It was like a code. You’d see a smiley badge and you’d be like, ‘Yeahh, shhhhh.’ It really was like that. It was a secret fucking society man.

© DJhistory.com

RAGE 50

FIERCE RULING DIVA – You Gotta Believe

BLAKE BAXTER – Sexuality

LTJ BUKEM – Music

JOEY BELTRAM – Energy Flash

SMOOTH AND SIMMONDS – The Four Seasons

BLACK DOG – Virtual

RHYTHIM IS RHYTHIM – It Is What It Is

FALLOUT – The Morning After

EGO TRIP – Dreamworld

FLOWMASTERS – Let It Take Control

ARTHUR BAKER FEAT. ROBERT OWENS – Silly Games (Bonesbreak Mix)

LTJ BUKEM – Horizons

CENTERFIELD ASSIGNMENT – Mi Casa

INNERZONE ORCHESTRA – Bug In The Bassbin

LENNIE DE ICE – We Are I.E.

D MOB – That’s The Way Of The World (Morales mix)

FINGERS INC – I’m Strong

JOHNNY DANGEROUS – Reasons To Be Dismal

APHRODISIAC – Song Of The Siren

JUNGLE WONZ – The Jungle

DEEP BLUE – The Helicopter Track

BLAKE BAXTER – When We Used To Play

BODYSNATCH – Euphony (Just For U London) (Bodysnatch Remix)

D.A.L. – Strings On A Monster Bass

FABIO AND GROOVERIDER – Rage

ADAMSKI – Killer

FINGERS INC – Distant Planet

GOLDIE – Terminator

BLUE JEAN – Paradise

LEFTFIELD – Not Forgotten

MR FINGERS – What About This Love

TOTAL MADNESS – Petey Wheatstraw

ZERO B – Lock up

RALPHI ROSARIO – You Used To Hold Me

HOUSEMASTER BALDWIN AND PARIS GREY – Don’t Lead Me

NEAL HOWARD – To Be Or Not To Be

MARC KINCHEN – MK EP

BOBBY KONDERS – The Poem

LFO – LFO

ZERO B – Rumpelstilstkin

MOBY – Go

VOODOO CHILD – Voodoo Child EP

OB1 – OB1

JIMI POLO – Better Days

RHYTHIM IS RHYTHIM – Strings Of Life

JOEY BELTRAM – Mentasm

TRONIKHOUSE – Hardcore Techno EP

SUEÑO LATINO – Sueño Latino

RON TRENT – Aftermath

STERLING VOID – Runaway Girl

Compiled by Fabio.