When Michael Alig spoke of his vision for the New York City clubscene in the late 80s, he spoke for a whole generation of young adults across the United States, who when the notorious, drug fuelled, and now debunked, debased, and disqualified Club Kids emerged to shake the safe, suburban dreams of modern day America; was ignited a passion for fun, flummery and fabulous excess in a young and aspirational new movement, that would see a colourful and shamelessly hedonistic culture of flamboyance take centre stage.

This was a time of experimentation. The popular consumption of the relatively new drug ecstasy, saw born the vibrant clubscene of the 80s and 90s, a world dedicated to pleasure seeking, barrier pushing, and self expression, that within only half a decade had spawned an entirely self indulgent and quintessentially celebrity-like culture of the big, bright and bold that we have seen imitated by a new generation of Myspace hungry teens of the new Millennium.

You only need log onto any given social network to see the many and various ways in which the new youth choose to express themselves. The Myspace ‘shot’ was coined of a desire to put oneself in the limelight, to create an image identity that would envelope and validate one’s own sense of online existence, and in doing so form a brand around the notion of identity.

All of this, which rose sharp (and has fallen sharper) has been food for thought and encouragement to an echoed generation of Club Kids (albeit a slightly less drugged up version.) But how much of this self expression and here-to-see hedonism is carried forward, beyond the safety of a computer monitor?

In my view, not a great deal. If you slice off the bottom two quartiles of the Myspace generation (who, being American, and being under twenty one, can’t yet even consume alcohol) you are left with a small percentage of young people who, from what I can see, keep the inflated sense of self only for the Facebook photo album.

Go out on any Friday or Saturday night and you are met, even on the gay scene (a scene considered more flamboyant than most) with a whole host of grey, low slung All Saint’s shirts, comb overs, Topman tank tops and tees with ‘that’s so 80s‘ cassette tape prints. Everywhere you look there is grey. The same old faces dressed in the same old places, in the same old cliques, telling the same old, tired jokes, with the same old goal at hand; to have a ‘good time.’

Michael Alig would be turning sharply on his prison mattress if he were to see the drip drab results of what was once a proud, but shameless cult of clubbers, dead set on redefining a ‘good time.’ These kids don’t know what a good time is, he would say, pissing from the balcony on the new bar-boy (true story.) Where are the colours? Where are the go-go-boys, the funky chicken, the sex, the sleaze, the sweat? This is a ‘good time?’

It doesn’t of course help that most clubs close before five in the morning these days, and it doesn’t of course help that a ‘global recession’ has seen many of these havens reconsidering their entire business model. But the way I see it, there is a deeper seated shade of grey sat at the base of this pallet of pastel pasted prints; we’re an assimilation nation.

I was surprised to find the other day that (amongst other strange looks) I was set upon in Leeds city centre by a girl who was amazed that I could be “so daring” as to wear a (faux) fur trapper hat. Said girl was your fairly typical suburbanite, cool enough, but playing it fairly safe. I just smiled and thanked her, but it got me thinking, if we’re a nation of consumers stuck in the cycle of buying only what we think will effectively and ‘fashionably’ integrate us with our peers, what hope is there of ever reviving the once vibrant clubscene of the electronic era?

My friend, Alex explained to me how he had gone from drab to fab with the growth of his own personality: “My freedom of expression in my clothes grew with my confidence and vice versa. This was a fun period of exploration; I fell in love with colour, boom! my wardrobe exploded. I remember going to uni one day, looking like Noddy, big red sweater, bright blue skinnies and an eight foot long yellow scarf. I wasn’t wearing it to look good, it was more of an “I’ll brighten up this winters day,” and it was great. I spent the whole day with a massive grin on my face.”

A similar realisation dawned on me some time ago. Where once I was interested in appealing to those I aspired to be, I now look to appeal to my own sense and need for self expression. You are your own greatest billboard, and everything you wear, say and do says something about you. Even the way you walk is a statement of personality, and one that should not be considered (as I had previously) the make or break signs to another, but instead, the being true to yourself, and the journey of self discovery that comes with pushing the boundaries of your own identity.

Fashion isn’t for everyone, I know. I know that not all who dress in grey tees (yes, I own a few) are doing so through some emotional insecurity, and I know that not all who wear baggy jeans are doing so because they haven’t the balls to go tighter, but wouldn’t it be refreshing if in all the cases of those who do find themselves shying away from the big, the bright and the bold railings could find it within themselves to say “fuck it, I’m wearing this, and I don’t care how fucking ridiculous it looks!”

As James St James said, “It doesn’t matter what you look like! I mean if you have a hunchback, just throw a little glitter on it, honey, and go dancing.”

When we escape our inhibitions, when we let go and pursue the fabulous for its own sakes, we set ourselves free. Wouldn’t it be something to go out clubbing one weekend, to be met with a room full of clashing colours, bright masks, fancy dress outfits, bizarre gas mask ensembles and bold bloomers to boot? Well, I think so anyway, and I don’t believe it should be restricted to the confinements of the dance floor either.

With a new decade comes a new breath of life in us all. To most of you reading, this is the decade of your youth. We are already the bastard childs of now two recessions, and are reminded almost on a daily basis of our national financial predicament. But I say our mate Dave can keep his ‘age of austerity.’ I’ve got a big bright trapper hat in my closet that’s gathering dust, some face paint in dire need of use, and the champers on ice. I’m saying ‘fuck it’ to a world of mend and make do, the wanker bankers that got us into this mess, with their wrinkled faces and memories of yesteryear can bail their own establishments out. I’m going to make the Tennies a big, bold and colourful party-hard decade to remember, and I invite you all to join me in it!

To the Club Kids of tomorrow!