034 Terry Farley DJ Mix

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Terry Farley needs no introduction around here, he’s one of the original summer of love DJ’s and has a long association with Ibiza and the Balearic DJ style. The veteran London DJ created Boy’s Own Recordings (1990–1993) with Andrew Weatherall, Cymon Eckel, Pete Heller and Steve Hall. Terry and Steve relaunched the label (breaking ties with London Records) in the early 90’s becoming Junior Boys Own.

Terry is a Londoner whose formative years were spent as a fervent Chelsea supporter. By the 80’s, the London club scene had gripped him and his day job as a gas fitter granted him his first tentative steps into Djing at black soul soul clubs playing electro and go-go. Before long he was warming up with rare grooves for Paul Oakenfold at the Raid parties and started the now notorious Boy’s Own fanzine with Andy Weatherall.

Remixes came first. Terry remixed ‘Wrote For Luck’ with Paul Oakenfold and then went onto mix the Happy Monday’s and Primal Scream in the height of balaerica. This led onto Terry’s first productions with Andy Weatherall, Hugo Nicholson and Pete Heller under the name Bocca Juniors, the result of which was ‘Raise’ ‘Substance’. From here Terry teamed up with Pete Heller and went onto remix many of the worlds leading artists the list including U2, New Order, The Farm, M People and Michael Jackson.

His own productions include his hits with the Farley & Heller project ­ ‘Ultra Flava’ and ‘Shout To The Top’ plus recent collaborations with hit artist Rui Da Silva and many club hits as ‘The Path’, ‘Fire Island’ and ‘Roach Motel’ as well as mix CD’s for Pacha nightclub. ‘Late Night Sessions’ (Ministry), ‘Journeys By DJ’ and more recently for his own ‘Faith’ Compilation.

Here’s Terry talking to The Guardian a few years ago about the early days in Ibiza:

“So there we were in Ibiza in 1988. It was midday, Amnesia had tipped out an hour earlier, and I was sitting with my friends, penniless and in a state of ruin, wearing beaten-up Converse trainers and Smith dungarees in a rundown bar at the wrong end of Talamanca beach when, through a cloud of dust, appeared a huge vintage American open-top Jeep. The three gorgeous Thai girls who jumped out wearing hot pants grabbed everyone’s attention but it was the sight of the driver, a blond-haired man with a wild look and denim shirt unbuttoned to the navel that lifted us from our post-clubbing blues. James Hunt was a former formula one racing champion, but more importantly to us youngsters he was a real Ibiza clubbing face. “Do you lads want a beer?” said our new mate James, coming back with an armful of ice-cold Coronas, before speeding off into the Ibizan sun.

Actually, James blanked us, but I’ve told this story so many times over the years that, like all Ibizan legends, it’s been embellished.

The legacy and hype around ’88 is a case in point. Although that was the year we Brits stumbled across the glamorous Ibiza clubbing scene, the truth is it was already well under way. We didn’t invent it but, like many other great trends, we robbed the best bits – the music, fashion and drugs – and brought them home to a cold and grey London, becoming DJs and launching club nights inspired by what we’d seen, and inadvertently creating the UK’s “second summer of love”.

The first UK clubbers to go out there, the original “Amnesiacs”, were south London teenagers who colonised corners of Amnesia, Pacha and Glory’s. My first night in Amnesia was a true Club Tropicana experience: drinks were free, and so was a cocktail called coco loco which was sprayed into your mouth by staff with weed-killer-style pump-action backpacks full of liquid, the ingredients of which remain a mystery to this day – but you can be sure the letters M, D, M and A featured in there somewhere. There was no roof – you danced under the stars next to people from all walks of life.

Today, it’s a different story. The roofs are on, the prices are up and unless you’re clued up you’re more than likely to be dancing next to the girl who works at your local Greggs bakery than Grace Jones or Freddie Mercury (the stories of his birthday party in the mid-80s at Pikes and Ku could fill a million Ibiza articles), and the Balearic beats that made the island’s reputation have been rudely shoved aside by generic banging house in all but the most innovative venues.

The heady hippy-inspired peace and love Balearic years of ’87 to ’89 gave way to a Brit invasion in the early 90s that wasn’t exactly welcomed by the local Ibiza DJs, or the first-generation acid house crowd. The music became harder and faster and lost its character.

The one club that helped keep Ibiza spot on musically was Space. The terrace in full swing on those heady Sundays in the late 90s was considered by many house heads to be the best party in Europe at the time, and the island owes the Space terrace a debt for helping to revive the half-dead fish that was Ibiza in the 90s.

Twenty years on and Ibiza has become all things to all people, a democratic place (if you have the money), where kids from the wrong part of Liverpool can do freaky dancing next to a fiftysomething Italian heiress at Pacha; where market traders from Elephant and Castle mingle with Brazilian beach babes at the Jockey Club on Salinas beach; where Ibiza virgins on their first parent-free holiday suffer the inevitable sunstroke in San Antonio after too many Bacardi Breezers; where rich European families eat, drink and eventually dance at the swish Blue Marlin beach bar near San José, and the veterans of ’88 now swim with their children at Cala D’hort.

It’s almost time for my annual return to the White Island. I must have been 40 times since that fateful first trip but I know I’ll get goosebumps again when I walk across the airport runway and the giant neon Eivissa sign comes into view. I simply adore the place. I love Monza at Ku on Thursdays, a bastion of tracky techno and dark European tribal beats that plays to a great mix of people, just as it did in the early 80s when it was home to the European jet set.

I love Salinas beach, with its child-friendly warm shallow waters and the fabulous Jockey Club’s deep house and great food. For me, and anyone over the age of 25, food is a major part of Ibiza life. The standard of restaurants is up there with any major city, and at beach bars such as Yemanja at Cala Jondal you can eat great fresh fish and gambas in your swimwear.

Ibiza has a vibe and spirit that can’t be crushed, despite the new rules closing clubs in the morning, and the EU-funded motorways which are scarring the beautiful landscape. You can still simply refuse to use these abominations of modern life and get off on to the ancient dirt tracks to find amazing spiritual places such as Atlantis, made, as legend has it, from rocks that were quarried for a Roman fortress, but abandoned and turned into a secret haven by artists and sculptors. It’s accessible only via a hazardous climb down a cliff face on to the beach below, and I can’t tell you exactly where it is as it’s a sworn Ibizan secret; you’ll have to drive to the San José area and ask the first hippy you see.

Despite the obvious signs of globalisation and dodgy officialdom, Ibiza remains a special and spiritual place and, come mid June, I’ll be there with my usual gang of friends, most of whom were running around the place 20 years ago in daft ponchos and living on a diet of bocadillos. It might now take us three weeks to get over the experience, but we’ll still be parked up in the right-hand corner of DC10, wearing silly sunglasses, knocking back too many vodka limóns, and talking about why we still love this daft island so much.”