Welcome back to the Deep Dive. I want you to
start today by just purging your mind of the
London you see on Instagram. Forget the brunch
spots, forget the shiny skyscrapers, and definitely
forget the, you know, polite, quiet atmosphere
of the Tate Modern. Yeah, we're going back to
a very specific moment in time, the early 2000s.
The internet is... I mean, it's barely a thing,
at least not in the way we know it. And London
is still a place where you could actually get
lost. And we are looking at a scene that was
gritty. It was chaotic. And it was happening
in buildings that, well, legally speaking, these
people did not own. We are talking about the
collective known as WOW. That's pronounced WOW.
And for anyone listening, just so you can picture
it, that's spelled with an exclamation mark at
the start and the end. It's a palindrome of excitement.
Exactly. So the mission today is to really get
our heads around. How a group of squatters in
Peckham, and we should be clear, this is not
the trendy Peckham of today. No, not at all.
How they managed to build this cultural movement
that attracted everyone from, you know, future
fashion icons to literal U .S. presidential family
members. It sounds like an urban legend, doesn't
it? It really does. But this is a documented
history of a creative incubator that just operated
completely outside the system. OK, but before
we get to the presidential nieces and. the 10
,000 bottles of beer, which, by the way, is a
real number we will get to. A very real number.
We have to set the stage. What was the vibe like
in the London art world before these guys showed
up? Because my impression of the early 2000s
is all very polished, high value, conceptual
stuff. You're spot on. I mean, you had the tail
end of the YBA era, the young British artists.
Think Damien Hirst, Tracey Emin. Right. By 2003,
that scene was the establishment. It was expensive.
It was all white wall galleries. And it was really
exclusive. So if you were a kid coming out of
art school, you were basically looking at a closed
door. You couldn't afford a studio in Shoreditch
anymore. So necessity breeds invention. Or in
this case, necessity breeds breaking and entering.
Well, let's look at the origin. It starts in
2003. And not even in a squat, but in the back
of a pub. The joiner's arms in Camberwell. Which
is such a classic British trope. The revolution
always starts in a pub backroom. It does. And
this was a performance night founded by Hannah
Hanra and Matthew Stone. It was scrappy. It was
fun. But it was, you know, limited. You can't
build a world in a pub backroom. You can only
visit it. Exactly. So the pivot comes in 2004.
This is the moment they decide, OK, we need more
space and we have absolutely no money. And they
find this massive, derelict Victorian building
in Peckham. Precisely. It used to be a co -op
department store. Yeah. And this is where we
need to get a little bit technical about squatting
because I think a lot of people picture like
smashing windows in the middle of the night.
Yeah. How do you just take over a department
store without the police dragging you out in
like 10 minutes? So in the UK at that time, there
was this legal loophole. It wasn't a criminal
offense to squat in a commercial building. If
you could get in without using force. Like an
unlocked window or something. Exactly. An unlocked
window, a door left ajar, and you secured the
place, it became a civil matter, not a criminal
one. So you climb in, you change the locks, and
suddenly the landlord has to take you to court
instead of just... Calling the cops. That's it.
They'd slap a Section 6 legal notice on the door,
which basically says to the police, we live here.
This is our home. Do not enter. It bought them
time, sometimes months, sometimes years. That
is wild. It's like a game of cat and mouse, but
the mouse has a law degree. Sort of, yeah. So
they get this building. Who's actually moving
it? Are you talking about random punks or are
these, you know? serious artist. This is what
really separates from just a standard squat.
Yeah. The talent density was absurd. You had
Matthew Stone, who we mentioned, Millie Brown,
a performance artist, Adam Faramawi doing video
installations. You even had Isabella Summers.
The Machine from Florence and the Machine. The
very same. Okay, that is a heavy lineup. But
the name that really defines the whole visual
identity of this era is Gareth Pugh. Okay, for
anyone listening who maybe doesn't follow high
fashion. Why is Gareth Q such a big deal? I mean,
if you've seen early Lady Gaga or Beyonce's Run
the World video or anything that looks architectural
and severe and maybe a little bit terrifying.
That's Pew. That's the Gareth Pew influence.
He is one of the most significant designers of
the last 20 years. And back then, he was living
in this squat, making clothes out of, well, trash.
Literally trash. Resources were scarce. And this
environment, it created this very specific look.
The group got known for this Harlequin -esque
style. Lots of black and white geometric shapes,
diamonds, masks. It was visual. It was loud.
And it was so distinct. It sounds like they were
creating their own reality. Like you could step
off a dirty street in Peckham, walk into this
building, and suddenly you're in a different
universe. That is the key. It wasn't just about
making art objects. It was about being the art.
They wore the clothes. They lived the performance.
It was a 247 immersive thing. But you can't keep
something like that a secret, especially if you're
dressing like a geometric clown and living in
a co -op. All right, they needed an audience.
And they found one. Or rather, they built one.
Yeah. In 2003 and into 2004, they started throwing
these huge warehouse parties. And when I say
parties, I don't mean, you know, a clug in the
kitchen. The numbers here are just, they're staggering.
I'm looking at reports of 2 ,000 people. 2 ,000
people in a squatted building. No security, no
official fire exits, just pure adrenaline and
word of mouth. I can't even imagine the logistics,
the toilets alone. Actually, no, let's not imagine
the toilets. But this brings us to my absolute
favorite detail in this whole story. This is
where the grit meets the glamour in the most
absurd way. You're talking about the Lauren Bush
incident. I am. So you have this illegal rave
in South London. It's sweaty. It's loud. Probably
smells like cheap lager. And in walks Lauren
Bush. The niece of the then -sitting president
of the United States, George W. Bush. And she's
not alone. Right. She didn't just hop on the
night bus. No. She was accompanied by two CIA
bodyguards. Just picture that scene. You have
Gareth Q in a corner making a dress out of balloons,
2 ,000 art school kids dancing, and then there
are two guys in suits with earpieces scanning
the room for threats, protecting the president's
niece. It's surreal. But it perfectly illustrates
the magnetic pull this group had. There's a certain
cachet to that kind of grit that high society
finds irresistible. It felt dangerous. It felt
authentic. Right. If you were at a wow -wow party,
you were at the center of the cultural universe
for that one night. It's the ultimate cool factor.
Money can buy you a table at some fancy club,
but it can't buy you entry into a squat party
unless you know the right people. Though I guess
being a bush gets you in anywhere. Apparently
so. Yeah. But we shouldn't get too distracted
by the celebrity bit because under all the parties,
there was serious work going on. They weren't
just messing around. Exactly. They were putting
on proper art exhibitions. Let's talk about the
show in December 2004. This was in a new location,
wasn't it? Yep. 251 Rye Lane, another Georgian
building, another former co -op. And again, they
didn't just walk in. They had to gut the place
themselves. They were doing construction work,
you know, refurbishing a derelict building just
to make it gallery ready. That's some serious
sweat equity. And the art was eclectic. I feel
like that's the polite word. It was a riot of
styles. You had Chloe Duh Matthews showing these
serene photographs of Lido's, you know, the outdoor
British swimming pools. Okay, very calm. And
next to that. You had Matthew Stone. doing digital
recreations of old master paintings, Rachel Haynes
doing surrealist collages, and Booceville doing
these monkey paintings and incredible B -roll
drawings. It sounds like total chaos, but I guess
that was the point. There was no curator saying,
does this fit the theme? The theme was just,
we are here. That's it. And the opening nights
reflected that energy. It was not wine and cheese.
It was performance art mayhem. I have to ask
about the shopping trolley Mardi Gras. What on
earth is that? It is exactly what it sounds like.
A parade of decorated shopping trolleys. probably
stolen from the nearby Sainsbury's, just processed
through the space. It's taking the junk of urban
life and turning it into a carnival. And then
there was the thriller recreation. Oh, this is
legendary. Lolly Chetwynd, who now goes by Monster
Chetwynd, a Turner Prize nominee, by the way.
Yeah. She organized a full recreation of Michael
Jackson's thriller video. But not like a polished
Hollywood version. No, no, no. Think handmade
costumes, cardboard zombies, a whole troop of
friends committing 100. percent to the dance
moves in the middle of a squat. It's funny, but
it's also really sincere. It's that sweet spot
between we're just playing and we're making something
iconic. It feels like that specific energy, that
serious play, it really hit its peak in 2005.
That was the Children of Wow Wow era. Which sounds
a bit like a cult, but maybe the best kind of
cult. In November 2005, they pulled off their
most ambitious project yet, a week -long festival
curated by Gareth Cadwallader. They took over
a huge warehouse and a bunch of smaller local
spots. And the programming for this week, it
just reads like a fever dream. They had a stolen
cinema. Which was literally them renting cult
films from the local video shop and just screening
them. Simple, but so effective. They had a play
called Factory Dog. And my personal favorite,
the Greasy Spoon Art Salon Breakfast. Hosted
by Lolly Chetwin and Zoe Brown. I mean, taking
the most mundane British thing, the Greasy Spoon
Cafe, and turning it into an art salon. It's
all about... elevating the everyday. But we have
to talk about the finale, because if the Lauren
Bush story shows us the who, the stats for this
final party show us the how much. The numbers
are frankly dangerous. Okay, so 1 ,500 people
at the closing party, big crowd, but let's look
at the booze. They went through 10 ,000 bottles
of beer. 10 ,000. And 500 bottles of whiskey.
Wait, hold on. 500 bottles, if you do the math
on that. That's like a third of a bottle of whiskey
per person on top of almost seven beers each.
That is not a party. That is a medical emergency.
It was a festival of excess. They had 13 live
bands, including the Long Blondes. It was just
an absolute explosion of energy. So how did they
sustain this? I mean, 10 ,000 beers aren't cheap.
Where was the money coming from if they weren't
charging huge entrance fees? Well, sometimes
they were charging a few quid on the door or
selling the booze themselves. But the real economic
engine. was what they weren't paying. Rent. Exactly.
And this gets us to the core philosophy. Yeah.
The aha moment of why wow really matters. Matthew
Stone said something that I think just defines
this whole generation of artists. He said squatting
was an opportunity to invest in what they actually
believed in. And he contrasted that with the
alternative, right? Yes. He said the alternative
was chipping off bits of our soul working as
unpaid interns. That hits hard. I think anyone
who's tried to break into a creative industry
knows that feeling. You work for free for exposure,
but you're still paying a grand a month for a
tiny room. It's a trap. Wow. Stepped outside
of it. Sohn's point was that by removing the
financial burden of rent, they bought themselves
time, time to be playful. He said, and this is
the key quote, serious ideas came out of that
ridiculous house. Serious ideas came out of that
ridiculous house. That should be on a plaque
somewhere. It's the incubator theory. If you
lower the overhead to zero, you can afford to
fail. You can afford to dress like a harlequin
and make a dress out of bin bags. If you're paying
market rent, you have to make art that sells.
You have to be commercial from day one. They
were pre -commercial. Totally. They even had
their own media arm to document it all. The fanzine,
fashion art leisure. They were controlling their
own narrative before that was even a buzzword.
But as with all good things, especially good
things involving London real estate. It had to
end. The core group left that main Peckham building
in 2006. Was that it? Was that the death of the
collective? Not right away. The energy kind of
dispersed, but it kept moving. They went international,
did events in Dresden, Germany. And back in London,
they just kept finding the weirdest possible
venues. They squatted a quick -fit garage in
Camberwell. For an exhibition. From a Victorian
co -op to a tire -changing shop. I love that.
Yeah. Yes, I'll have an oil change and a surrealist
collage, please. It proves the vibe wasn't about
this specific building. It was about the approach.
They did an event in Burningham in 2007. Millie
Brown and Adam Faramaui kept the torch lit, bringing
in new people. So, zooming out, we're looking
back at this from the mid -2020s. London is so
different now. Peckham is so different. You can't
even buy a coffee in Peckham for less than four
quid, let alone squat a department store. And
that's the tragedy and the lesson of this story,
isn't it? Wow. It's a perfect case study in what
happens when you just give young, creative people
space. We talked about Gareth Pugh changing fashion.
The music, the whole aesthetic shifted from that
90s minimalism to this like maximalist new wave
explosion. A lot of that happened because of
this specific space. It's the business model
of Dohemians. High creative output requires low
living costs. When you gentrify a city so much
that a derelict warehouse costs millions. You
kill the incubator. You push the weird out, and
when the weird goes, the innovation goes with
it. Exactly. You end up with a very polished,
very safe, and maybe a very boring culture. It
was messy, it was dangerous, and probably a health
and safety nightmare. But it was alive. So here's
the thought I want to leave you with today. And
it is a bit of a provocative one. We live in
this era of the side hustle. Everyone is trying
to monetize their hobby because rent is just
astronomical. We're all those unpaid interns
Matthew Stone was talking about. We're all working
just to pay for the space to sleep with no time
left over to dream. Exactly. So in this landscape
of sky high rents and relentless hustling, where
is the next month to assault supposed to come
from? Is it even possible to have that kind of
ridiculous creativity when you literally can't
afford the physical space for it to happen? It's
the question that kind of defines the future
of our cities. If we don't make space for the
chaos, we're going to lose the culture. Something
to think about the next time you walk past an
empty building and wonder what could be happening
inside. That's it for this deep dive. Thanks
for listening, and we'll catch you on the next
one.