A William Burroughs themed night? I’m scared, but get me there now
By Abby Moss / On January 29, 2014
Interzone has been called one of the best nights out in London ever. It’s back for one night only
In 2008, Guerrilla Zoo hosted a party called Interzone in a secret London location. My friends gave it the hallowed trophy of “best night out in London ever. Ever!” It’s back.
Interzone is an immersive, interactive experience, combining promenade theatre, music, performance, art and film in a secret London location on Friday 7th February. Marking what would have been the 100thbirthday of William Burroughs, the night recreates Burrough’s independent, self-governed, stateless state of Interzone. Expect the surreal, the seedy, the decadent and the disturbed.
As with most Guerrilla Zoo events, expect to dress up. Think furs and stilts, suits and corsets – the more imaginative, the better, prepare to be weirded out. Ticket prices include coach travel to the location and your passport to Interzone. Once across the boarder, party until 3am with the gun-runners, tycoons, eccentrics, wild boys and alien creatures that populated Burrough’s twisted and ingenious mind. I’ll be there – cut-up technique journalist? Wasted diliquent? Corrupt official? Suggestions welcome. No nipple tassels though, that’s roughly where I draw the line.
The late Lou Reed said of Burroughs that he was the only writer to express perception “without a filter”, Bowie called Burroughs’s work “infinitely symbolic” and Jack Kerouac deemed him the “Only Prophet”. One of the most important forerunners of the Beat generation and the giant finger that started ripples of artistic and literary influence that followed it, Burroughs continues to influence dozens of writers and artists today.
Buy your passports to Interzone HERE
Interzone has been called one of the best nights out in London ever. It’s back for one night only
In 2008, Guerrilla Zoo hosted a party called Interzone in a secret London location. My friends gave it the hallowed trophy of “best night out in London ever. Ever!” It’s back.
Interzone is an immersive, interactive experience, combining promenade theatre, music, performance, art and film in a secret London location on Friday 7th February. Marking what would have been the 100thbirthday of William Burroughs, the night recreates Burrough’s independent, self-governed, stateless state of Interzone. Expect the surreal, the seedy, the decadent and the disturbed.
As with most Guerrilla Zoo events, expect to dress up. Think furs and stilts, suits and corsets – the more imaginative, the better, prepare to be weirded out. Ticket prices include coach travel to the location and your passport to Interzone. Once across the boarder, party until 3am with the gun-runners, tycoons, eccentrics, wild boys and alien creatures that populated Burrough’s twisted and ingenious mind. I’ll be there – cut-up technique journalist? Wasted diliquent? Corrupt official? Suggestions welcome. No nipple tassels though, that’s roughly where I draw the line.
The late Lou Reed said of Burroughs that he was the only writer to express perception “without a filter”, Bowie called Burroughs’s work “infinitely symbolic” and Jack Kerouac deemed him the “Only Prophet”. One of the most important forerunners of the Beat generation and the giant finger that started ripples of artistic and literary influence that followed it, Burroughs continues to influence dozens of writers and artists today.
Buy your passports to Interzone HERE
Interzone: a night of brain-eating doctors, fortune tellers and nipples
By Daniel Wigmore-Shepherd · On February 12, 2014
Daniel Wigmore Shepherd, it turns out, was the wrong person for a William Burroughs themed night
“So have you read any William Burroughs?” I sip my beer apologetically and shake my head.
“Have you read anybody from the beat generation? What can you tell me about Jack Kerouac?”
“Ummmm it rhymes with necrophiliac?”
My conversational partner cracks a smile but doesn’t laugh. At this point I realise that I was not the best person to go to a William Burroughs themed night set in some random location within the patchwork of warehouses that cover North Greenwich. My reading record has the variety and edginess of a pack of digestive biscuits. I am wearing smart-casual clothes as I have just come from my day job while everyone else is having great fun in mesh and Mexican wrestling masks, and last of all I still can’t understand shit about William Burroughs. I am out of my depth and totally not comprehending what is going on around me. This is what Nigel Farage feels when he walks through anywhere that isn’t 1950s Surrey.
Daniel Wigmore Shepherd, it turns out, was the wrong person for a William Burroughs themed night
“So have you read any William Burroughs?” I sip my beer apologetically and shake my head.
“Have you read anybody from the beat generation? What can you tell me about Jack Kerouac?”
“Ummmm it rhymes with necrophiliac?”
My conversational partner cracks a smile but doesn’t laugh. At this point I realise that I was not the best person to go to a William Burroughs themed night set in some random location within the patchwork of warehouses that cover North Greenwich. My reading record has the variety and edginess of a pack of digestive biscuits. I am wearing smart-casual clothes as I have just come from my day job while everyone else is having great fun in mesh and Mexican wrestling masks, and last of all I still can’t understand shit about William Burroughs. I am out of my depth and totally not comprehending what is going on around me. This is what Nigel Farage feels when he walks through anywhere that isn’t 1950s Surrey.
The night starts at around 8pm and I arrive just outside North Greenwich station where I show my passport to a man in a top hat and tails who looks like he snorts whimsy and shits unicorns. Me and some talkative Russian people get into a taxi and get driven into the middle of an industrial estate. We enter a building which is obviously come sort of indoor paintball range/real-life zombie simulation arena. I go into the entrance area where I find a UN flag and a decently talkative girl behind the desk. She directs me towards a door outfitted to look like an airlock. I go in and some man in army fatigues holding an AK-47 (probably/hopefully fake) and screams at me to get the fuck out. This must be what it’s like being a Jehovah Witness in George Zimmerman’s neighbourhood.
More people show up and I try again with them, the same guy points the gun at us and shouts at us to put our hands on our heads. He then directs us to crawl through some tunnels lined with flour and muck, we end up in front of another man in army gear (also with a gun) who begins to berate and insult everyone in the room. He calls a girl with a nose ring a ‘bovine’ and shouts at two dapper gentlemen to remove their hats and then shouts at them to put them back on because their haircuts are shit. I get dragged into a caged room by a lady (in army gear) who orders me to the floor and shouts at me to smell her finger. There is too much humour for the experience to be really immersive and rather than feeling intimidated all I can think about is how much I want these people’s jobs.
More people show up and I try again with them, the same guy points the gun at us and shouts at us to put our hands on our heads. He then directs us to crawl through some tunnels lined with flour and muck, we end up in front of another man in army gear (also with a gun) who begins to berate and insult everyone in the room. He calls a girl with a nose ring a ‘bovine’ and shouts at two dapper gentlemen to remove their hats and then shouts at them to put them back on because their haircuts are shit. I get dragged into a caged room by a lady (in army gear) who orders me to the floor and shouts at me to smell her finger. There is too much humour for the experience to be really immersive and rather than feeling intimidated all I can think about is how much I want these people’s jobs.
I then enter a concrete room filled with spectral lighting, confused punters and soon-to-open exhibits. I go into a room styled like a Moroccan cafe complete with tea, cushions and interestingly three typewriters. I begin typing but the typewriters have no ink and a girl who is (probably) part of the performance takes out my blank sheet of paper, praises the nihilism it describes and gives me a card to go see the “woman in the tent”. I give her a pen and paper to write out the instructions and she writes down “do not look her in the mouth”. Now I am immersed. Although it’s slightly ruined by the fact that the card, which says ‘Interzone Incorporated’ also has the Easy Print logo on the back.
I then go to a doctors surgery run by a man in a suit and white coat named Dr Benway. I talk to his assistant about booking an appointment. She says that they are entirely booked up and to get into role I announce that Daniel Wigmore-Shepherd III tolerates few and waits for fewer. She bumps me up the list. In the surgery the doctor, sitting next to what seems to be a brain in a bedpan, asks what he can do for me. I offer myself up for a lobotomy and he assures me very quickly that he appreciates my generosity and assures me that he will not eat the brain. We then discuss the tastiest part of a human to eat and reach the conclusion that it is the fatty tarsals on the fingers. He prescribes me some ‘bug power’ (it’s sherbert) and a lolly (which goes down fantastically with the sherbet) and I leave.
I then go to a doctors surgery run by a man in a suit and white coat named Dr Benway. I talk to his assistant about booking an appointment. She says that they are entirely booked up and to get into role I announce that Daniel Wigmore-Shepherd III tolerates few and waits for fewer. She bumps me up the list. In the surgery the doctor, sitting next to what seems to be a brain in a bedpan, asks what he can do for me. I offer myself up for a lobotomy and he assures me very quickly that he appreciates my generosity and assures me that he will not eat the brain. We then discuss the tastiest part of a human to eat and reach the conclusion that it is the fatty tarsals on the fingers. He prescribes me some ‘bug power’ (it’s sherbert) and a lolly (which goes down fantastically with the sherbet) and I leave.
I wander slightly drunkenly near a bunch of people silently watching a man in mesh attempt ventriloquism with a decapitated dolls head. Someone offers to take my picture with him, but as I approach the man kicks wildly at me and goes back to fondling the doll.
It is finally my turn to see the “woman in the tent” and I go in with a guy called Rob whose combination of floor length dreadlocks and beard makes him look like he might take root if he stood in a field for too long. The woman in the tent berates me as weak and warns me of a ‘rotting cantaloupe’. I am confused because I have been going to the gym since New Year and my fruit bowl is currently subjected to a Naziesque regime in which the weak and infirm are tossed aside. She then lifts the veil she is wearing to reveal makeup that makes it look like her mouth has no skin.
After talking to a few avid readers of Burroughs I am informed that the ‘Interzone’ is a place, spatial or imaginary, in which desires, passions and youth culture run riot. The Interzone was inspired by Burroughs infamous time in 1950s Tangiers. But the attendees, at least the ones I talk to, are not students but adults who have day jobs in finance, sales and IT. The whole event seems to be geared towards letting us experience living like Burroughs in an interzone of booze, smoke and nipple tassels, but only for a night. In 48hrs most of these people will be in smart-casual dress on the tube scrounging around for a seat and a copy of the Metro.
By the time I stumble out into the industrial estate at 2am, I feel pretty fucking counter culture. This of course disappears the second I realise that I forgot to do my time-sheets at work. I will need to go in early on Monday.
Images (except Goblin): Gabriela Jones
It is finally my turn to see the “woman in the tent” and I go in with a guy called Rob whose combination of floor length dreadlocks and beard makes him look like he might take root if he stood in a field for too long. The woman in the tent berates me as weak and warns me of a ‘rotting cantaloupe’. I am confused because I have been going to the gym since New Year and my fruit bowl is currently subjected to a Naziesque regime in which the weak and infirm are tossed aside. She then lifts the veil she is wearing to reveal makeup that makes it look like her mouth has no skin.
After talking to a few avid readers of Burroughs I am informed that the ‘Interzone’ is a place, spatial or imaginary, in which desires, passions and youth culture run riot. The Interzone was inspired by Burroughs infamous time in 1950s Tangiers. But the attendees, at least the ones I talk to, are not students but adults who have day jobs in finance, sales and IT. The whole event seems to be geared towards letting us experience living like Burroughs in an interzone of booze, smoke and nipple tassels, but only for a night. In 48hrs most of these people will be in smart-casual dress on the tube scrounging around for a seat and a copy of the Metro.
By the time I stumble out into the industrial estate at 2am, I feel pretty fucking counter culture. This of course disappears the second I realise that I forgot to do my time-sheets at work. I will need to go in early on Monday.
Images (except Goblin): Gabriela Jones
