The Warehouse Project – Manchester

There’s something about Manchester that always feels like stepping into another dimension. You know the vibe – grey skies, the eternal drizzle, and a crowd that’s always ready to party like it’s the last night on Earth. So, naturally, when B, F, M, D, and I decided to hit up the Warehouse Project to see Bicep, it was never going to be a quiet one.

We didn’t just go to Manchester. No, this was a full on convoy situation. Two cars, both packed with a questionable mix of clothes, snacks and glow in the dark face paints. If you’ve ever tried to coordinate two separate vehicles of friends with the same destination, you’ll know it’s basically like herding cats, except the cats are hyped up on Red Bull and techno.

Now, I’ve been to the Warehouse Project before, but that experience was… let’s call it a big old blur. The kind of blur where you take one too many pills, and the next thing you know, six hours have vanished into a black hole, along with your ability to remember who was even on the lineup. The only evidence I was even there was the wristband on my arm and some shaky video footage of me losing my mind.

The Pre-Game: Airbnb Shenanigans

We rolled into Manchester and checked into our Airbnb, which was a surprisingly nice spot for a group of people who had already mentally committed to destroying their sleep schedules primed with red bulls. Getting ready for a night out in an Airbnb with five other people is a sport in itself. Clothes everywhere, and the bathroom queue was basically a mini festival lineup

And in a way, we were. Because the Warehouse Project isn’t just a venue. It’s a massive, industrial labyrinth of a place where the moment you step inside, the real world ceases to exist. Concrete walls, lights flashing like you’re in some post apocalyptic rave, and a crowd that looks like they’ve come straight from the depths of the techno underworld. You can practically feel your soul vibrating as soon as the bass kicks in.

We arrived for the first sets and the place was already getting pretty packed, the air thick with sweat, anticipation, and that not so subtle hint of everyone’s choice of chemical cocktail. We somehow managed to stick together no small feat considering the chaos and made our way to the main room.

Bicep Takes Over: A Musical Baptism

Now, if you’ve never seen Bicep live, let me tell you, it’s not just music. It’s a religious experience I’m telling ya. The kind where every beat feels like it’s being woven into your very DNA, and you can’t help but surrender to it. The lights were the biggest takeaway from the shower, as they pulsed in perfect sync with the crowd, casting these surreal shadows that made it feel like we’d stumbled into some underground techno cathedral.

Bicep, of course, were absolutely killing it. They have this way of building a set where each track makes you feel like you’re on the verge of some great epiphany, only to hit you with a drop that wipes your brain clean. I stood there, surrounded by thousands of people, all of us collectively losing it. And this time, I was present. No memory gaps, no mysterious disappearing acts, no pink teddybear pills, —just me, the music, and that ever looming bassline.

The Crowd: Ping-Pong Heads and Neon Sweatbands

Speaking of the crowd, let’s take a moment to appreciate the human zoo that is the Warehouse Project at the end of the night. As the night went on, and Bicep went deeper into their set, it was like watching a live nature documentary on the effects of club culture. When you’re stone cold sober, you get a front row seat to the absolute madness of it all.

The lights would flicker up every now and then, illuminating a sea of pinging heads, eyes wide, jaws swinginggg. It was like someone had turned on the lights at a house party, and everyone suddenly remembered how utterly wrecked they were. Some people were just fully gone, hugging strangers, talking to speakers, or doing that weird dance where your limbs seem to move independently of your body. You know the one champs

And then, there were the more composed ravers. You know, the ones who dress for the Warehouse like it’s a fashion week event. Think neon sweatbands, mesh tops, and sunglasses at 4 a.m. (indoors, of course). It’s like everyone had gotten the memo that if they weren’t absolutely peaking by the time the lights came on, they’d failed the assignment.

Post-Rave Reality: The Morning After

As the final track came to an end, and the lights flicked on properly, the crowd looked like they’d been hit by a freight train. Everyone shuffled towards the exit like zombies, trying to piece together what had just happened and where they were supposed to be going next.

We crawled out of there, ears still ringing, brains slightly fried but intact enough to piece together the night. No six hour blackouts this time, no “what year is it?” moments. Just pure, unfiltered rave madness, AND the satisfaction of having survived it with my memory (mostly) in check.

Back at the Airbnb, the after party was more of a slow de-escalation. You know the drill: snacks, water, and that half delirious, half hyped conversation about what just happened. Everyone trying to remember the best bits and figure out what on earth we’d all been doing during that 10-minute stretch where we somehow lost M entirely in the crowd.

Bicep were unreal. The Warehouse Project lived up to its reputation. And, for once, I didn’t lose six hours of my life to an ecstasy induced blackout. Call it growth, call it maturity—either way, I’d call it a win.

Aaron Mouland

Quit drinking on 23 July 2021 after a two-day bender and swapped bars for border crossings and 12-step meetings. Three sober years, 36 countries, 113 travellers (totally dry), fuelled by street food, jelly babies, and a broken Google Maps app. Wandersober is my journal, my SEO lab, and my mission. Featured in GQ, Mirror, Evening Standard, MarketWatch, and more.

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