CORSICA STUDIOS: A EULOGY

Nothing (good) last forever. Reda Belhadfa bids farewell to Corsica Studios, with three letters of goodbye from those who called it home.

Photography courtesy of Clayton Burke

Requiem aeternam. In a departure from our normally scheduled reviews, what's whats, and otherwise well-earned artistic snobbery, I come today to eulogise. For our more regular readers, this article will come as something of a shock: nauseatingly earnest, without my usual thin veneer of bitchiness, in short, not for the faint of heart.

March in London ended in calamitous fashion, as so many months do in this city as of late, with the permanent shuttering of Corsica Studios. I'm sure that for many of you this place needs little introduction. After operating for 24 years (2002-2026), it has earned its' position as a titan of London nightlife. Nestled under the arches of the Elephant and Castle train station, it has stood as a testament to Londoners' love of fun, art and innovation, a home for the socially homeless and occasionally death-driven reprobates such as myself. Founded by Amanda Moss and Adrian Jones in 2002 (originally on Corsica Street, before relocating to its current home) it has since earned a reputation as the place to be in London. That's where I discovered it.

Sam Sehpherd

It was my first night in London—my first night in the UK, in fact. At that time, I was living in a council estate in Camberwell and didn't know a soul in the vast emptiness of the city. But before leaving Canada, my dear friend, a DJ herself, Maya, pointed me in the right direction: Corsica Studios. She'd apparently been some years before and it had completely changed the trajectory of her life as an artist. She made it seem that it was easily walking distance from where I would be living. I quickly learned it was not, but as I had no sheets on my bed, I was bored and it was unbearably hot in my room, I figured I'd party until I was so exhausted I could sleep in a skip. Corsica delivered: I stayed there until 6am and my life as a Londoner was now set. I'd return a few weeks later, and make my first friend of many made at the venue, Anthony.

Beck Allegro

I could go on endlessly about the various nights, the big names, the lights, the parties held there, however in the interest of journalistic brevity, allow me to conduct you through only one. The final night held before closing was one marked with the greatest outpouring of emotion I have ever been privileged to witness at any London venue. I was the first one through the door (thank you guest list, sorry the rest of you hapless plebs, my humility is clearly endless) and immediately emotions were high. Crying, laughing. Shots. Other things I cannot legally elucidate. But the energy was, suffice to say, special. Not a club night, more a party of old friends seeing one of their own off beyond the veil, like a funeral in New Orleans. The bass was blaring. For those of you who have already been, this is unsurprising, however even by Corsica standards this was obscene. I was informed that ten new subs had been installed to the occasion, it was that kind of insane bass the makes your bones rattle and literally takes your breath away. A final goodbye hug to the people that loved it, and a fuck you to the condo-dwelling ankle biters kicking her out. The night ended 48 hours later, with hugs, tears, a bit of vomiting, and the distinct sense that though our communities loss was incredible, we had done right by the place that loved us so.

Mik Harris

Corsica wasn't just a club for gilet-wearing assholes to try their hand at losing their dried and rotted virginities like so much of London is. It was a dystopic utopia for the othered, the queer and the interesting, those who have an excess of chutzpah. Always a great party. The place that when you're in, you know your in the right place. And all your friends are waiting there.

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Reda Belhadfa is a London-based script writer and critic.