Sleaze Nation sounded familiar. In its previous incarnation it was
a free club guide, thrust - along with a fistful of flyers - into my
shaky hand at 7am on numerous Sunday mornings when I’d emerged,
wide-eyed and shiny faced, from clubland into reality.
No longer a give-away to be left on a taxi seat or friend’s living-room
floor after a Teletubbies session, Sleaze Nation has been transformed
into a cooler-than-thou style magazine, aimed at the intelligent,
post-modern clubber.
Its agenda is outlined self-consciously on page one: ’This publication
packages the vanguard of life. Subculture for sale.’ But such pomposity
is swiftly undercut with the addition: ’And we look shit-hot underneath
your Rizla.’
The guiding ethos behind Sleaze Nation is that prerequisite for 90s
living - irony. The pages are dripping with the stuff. The title, along
with many a contemporary style aficionado, uses irony as a disclaimer:
you can get away with anything - hot-pink stiletto pixie boots,
loungecore soundtracks to 60s porn movies - if it’s done with irony.
I’ve adopted this stance many times: I wore a highly ironic transparent
frock to Renaissance at the Cross last Saturday - I always like a bit of
sartorial sarcasm with my progressive house.
Sleaze Nation is a mix of interviews (DJs, producers, promoters),
reviews, fashion, listings and opinion pieces brimming with ’attitood’.
The Les Arts section was a welcome addition, proving there’s more to
club culture than mindless hedonism.
The writing is patchy and the design is of the quirky style familiar to
anyone raised on the Face.
Sleaze Nation makes the ideal coffee-table mag. It is to dance music
what Wallpaper is to interiors.
