The Circus is in town

Electric Circus suffers from status anxiety. The word on the street glorifies it to no great degree – ‘tacky’ and ‘naff’ are flicked across the air like poisonous sartorial criticisms at a cocktail party. This, I grant, is probably owing to the club’s unfortunate location on Market Street just across the way from Sportsters and down the road from City. Infectious poor taste bleeds down the cobbles and thence to the Circus' public identity.

This is utter guff. Nothing more ridiculous has been indicated with such venomous mock-high-brow pretense since Prince Philip asked a blind and dog-led woman, “Do you think they’re now producing eating dogs for the anorexics?” Electric Circus is a classy joint with all the right components for a decent night out: class without kitsch; trend without trash. Electric Circus delivers 'til it hertz.

First up, from the outset the interior is chic and eclectic with mock Georgian chaises longues, funky wall designs and some neat black angles thrown in to sharpen the place up for the 21st century. Neon strips and flashes of colour dart out in all directions and create the distinguished sense of a swish, swanky and swelligent arena of debauchery.

Next on the cool agenda comes the music. On no special night – as on that when The Journal visited – the DJs are of such crisp, seamless and selective quality that each electrifying piece glides liquidly into the next as you move in life-amplifying sequence. Not one track I recognized, and yet all enfuelled a potent impression of fun. Damn good fun. Brief research reveals a range of interesting nights, from jazz, ska and blues on Wednesdays to indie, rock and rave on Fridays, with the odd headphone party and live night mixed in for good measure.

Forgo gossip and go electric; those uninformed masses know not what they are missing.