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LONDON'S HIPPEST POSTCODE

Postcodes are key navigational devices in London. They are the first thing you tell your cab driver; the first thing to notice when you're looking up a new club, restaurant or a friend's flat. The code is simple: N, S, E and W signify the direction; numbers and additional letters specify the location. Typically S means south of the Thames or, in the so-called Sloane zone, south of Hyde Park.

Postcodes also signify social status. For London's hipsters, all arrows point to E8, or Dalston, north-east of Central London in Hackney. At first Dalston appears a little rough. Bits of trash line the grimy streets; there's an overground train but no tube, so traffic is fairly thick and getting here can be a slog. Veterans of the area tell stories about the crack addicts that once crawled the streets, but such things now seem remote. The area has gentrified in recent years, and is part of larger revitalisation plans in preparation for the 2012 Olympics.

Turkish restaurants, fried-chicken joints and bars line the E8's main drag, which, depending on the cross street, is called Kingsland High Street, Stoke Newington Road or Stoke Newington High Street. On a recent Wednesday night, restaurants and bars were packed as if it were Friday. A preppy-looking line sprawled out onto the sidewalk in front of Dalston Superstore, a late-night cocktail bar. A few smokers lingered in the alley outside a wine bar just down the street from Barden's Boudoir, a subterranean live-music venue. This particular night it was packed with a 20-something crowd who came to see three live bands fronted by tall, skinny, white dudes. If you're a young man looking for a new haircut, this is your place.

The Hipshakes, a three-piece garage-punk band from Sheffield, tore through their opening set as if it was the first gig they had ever played. It was a beautifully sloppy, raucous, enthusiastic affair. Fronted by a fairly limp and mullet/rat-tail-sporting singer, the Britain-based Lovvers followed with a punk-ish rock set that never quite matched the energy of the first band.

From Austin, Texas, the Strange Boys plugged through a swampy, Creedence Clearwater Revival-inspired set that included a few brief moments of Sonic Youth-inspired free noise and ample amounts of Texas alt-country-rock that bored the hell out of us and yet seemed to captivate a large chunk of the Brits in attendance. When the woman sitting next to me shouted "Texas Sucks!" in between songs, the lead singer nodded in reluctant agreement, but then quickly seemed thrown off.

We stopped off for a drink at Dalston's local jazz bar, which has no live jazz, rarely plays real jazz and smells like orange-scented bleach. Two older, grey-haired men stopped us on the street and asked "Where do we find a proper pub around here?" We sent them a few blocks west, just outside the E8 postcode.

~ GARY MOSKOWITZ
 

Picture credit: Fin Fahey (via Flickr)