Yes, the inherent incongruity is blinding, the hyper-contrast of the experience surreal. Hearing Âme’s muted techno meander and echo – like, properly, non-figuratively echo – off the Royal Albert Hall’s cosmic ceilings while 5000 people graduated from polite sitting to gentle shuffling then thinly controlled leaping anarchy, was… immensely fun; though mediated by the spectral uncanniness of ardently raving in the cramped furnishes and vertical caverns of one of the most famous concert halls on the planet. The question you’re likely asking is, was it more than a decadent gimmick? Yes and no.

What strikes you immediately is the space, or its limitlessness. A facile observation but the hall is enormous, and the first act I caught – Nina Kurtela, a Croatian visual artist and dance maker who had a melodic techno soundtrack programmed to fit with her choreography – was impressive in isolation, but in its miasmic surroundings it didn’t make as punching an impact as it would have in more intimate proximity. Seeds of doubt flowered with the relative emptiness of the Hall, the bar-side rumours that the fundamental absurdity of the event had alienated most demographics; who was this night for exactly?

Not 19 year olds on the disco discovery trail, possibly not the Hall’s traditional Proms season ticket holders, and not really the discerning thirty year old charity sector veteran now restricted to a night out every few months. The plus side to this demographic paradox is it bursts the blood vessels of Daily Mail and Telegraph readerships viewing their sacred culture as under attack or something, so the biggest of props to both LWE and Innervisions for that alone, never mind their immaculately designed events.

The demographic answer became apparent with the emergence onto stage of Henrik Schwarz and Bugge Wesseltoft, the techno producer and jazz pianist double act who dazzled, Wesseltoft’s ebbing compositions ennobled by Schwarz’s careful, calculated synths. The Hall grew busier and a more general audience formed, the 30 to 50 year old management consultants migrating en masse from Canary Wharf and Bank to rediscover their 20s; some in suits and ballgowns, some pre-emptively changed into designer trackies and crop tops. It was, to an extent, an act, a recreation of the platonic ideal of a rave rather than something genuine, scrappily idealistic, and remotely subversive; I get that almost all clubbing now is (necessarily a lot of the time) corporatised and that doesn't stop them being great, but this occasion, underlined by the setting, felt especially Last Days Of Rome.

But it was really fucking fun. Âme’s live set was the night’s peak, and the point of no-return on basic enjoyment over ideological discomfort. The sound was magnificent, nearly incomparably so. Emphatically loud and delicately precise. The lighting was intensive without overbearing, Âme audibly loved the opportunity of laying down 'Rej' at the Hall with welcomely visceral track amendments, and the Hall was the Hall. Even the crowd gave it their all, Savile Row cufflinks dedicated to the art of the fistpump. It was intoxicatingly, principles-left-at-door brilliant.

Although Howling's EDM was derivative and sentimental, they still sounded impeccable; their very insipidness reinforcing just how clear, how punchy, how immersive the soundsystem was. The final 90 minute DJ run-in from Dixon B2B Âme accelerated, shifting from the main stage (adorned by the Innervisions cube) to a smaller 360 degree stage just below the seating; the stalls were flooded, the concept of rows and columns long discarded, crowds morphing into the thronging mass they long desired, while the elitest elite grooved from the private boxes, the chasm of a room a neon teem. The surreality never vanished, but caring about the socio-economic institutions at play did. A decadent gimmick? Technically yes, but absolutely a worthwhile one if you can afford it.

Though the night felt further from acid house’s manifesto than conceivably possible, it was an exceptionally good time; and being carefully considered by a sniffer dog at the Royal Albert Hall box office is a 7/10 anecdote.

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