Offie Mag

It’s Friday night and I’m feeling alright! Why? DJ Assault has once again come to London—the booty house king of Detroit, right in my back garden—and honestly, I didn’t even plan on going.

For a short working week, it felt very long, and I’d totally forgotten about the barrage of targeted ads I’d been getting all month about this night. I met my friend Ella outside Hackney Wick station with the very pure intentions of just a couple drinks, but as we wandered into Queen’s Yard, she turned to me and said: “Do you know who’s playing here tonight?”

My eyes lit up. Mr. Ass and Titties himself was doing an extended set at Colour Factory. He’d recently played at a strip club in Bethnal Green, but I was too hungover to go—so I was not going to miss this one. DJ Assault has been filling dance floors and blowing out speakers with his signature profanity-laced flavour of ghettotech since the '90s, and tonight was no exception. Four to the floor all night long as he shouts all kinds of pornographic language that would make your mother clutch her pearls.

Nestled inside Hackney Wick’s Queen’s Yard, you’ll find Colour Factory—a two-storey space that’s recently hosted DJ SWISHA all night and a party by plentyppl. I’d only ever been in the smaller upstairs room, so being in the big room was a real treat. Minus points for £7.50 pints, but that’s pretty standard for the area. Already being nearly £30 in the hole before even stepping inside is just another part of our capital’s charm.

We try not to be too critical of venues or artists—we aim to be a beacon of light and positivity—but something that needs more airtime is the decline in quality of support DJs. Not their skill or taste, but their ability to actually support. At minimum, you should be playing music that aligns with the headliner, which I feel is increasingly rare. Maybe it’s on the bookers, maybe not—but it’s still down to whoever’s behind the CDJs to read the room. That felt like the case tonight... Until he dropped Sexy Redd and totally won me over.

From there, the night became a fabulous blur of booty bass, ghetto, and electro. The man of the hour got on the mic and—true to form—didn’t disappoint. If you ever get the chance to see him, do it.

Words by Louis Rowland.