Anyone who says Ibiza is dead clearly hasn’t been there in the past three or four years. Anyone who says Ibiza is dead is probably over forty and married with two (or more) children. Anyone who says Ibiza is dead clearly never made it to Pacha this year. Anyone who says Ibiza is dead is more than likely as good as dead themselves!!!

Its almost as if Ibiza had a point to prove this year. And with good reason; the scandals of 2004 were nearly enough to hammer the final nail into the already-half-buried coffin, and, on many levels, 2005 was do-or-die for the white isle. If it were not for a certain pastiche of people it would have almost certainly been death. Any island regular who knows even a fraction about the scene will be able to pick out the few individuals who pretty much single-handedly saved this island from utter ruin. They would be: Erick Morillo – commercial house’s messianic DJ; Andy McKay, the latter-day Lazarus of the clubbing experience – the guy who brought us first Manumission and now Ibiza Rocks; the indefatigable Gee Moore of Bora Bora; and of course David Guetta, the godfather of the French house music scene. All of whom together combined to keep this island where it should be – at the top of the list of global experiences.

As in any crisis or economic retreat, a lot of the fat is lost. People tighten their belts and the wealth of choice is reduced. Parties can become hostile, fighting to maintain their share of an ever-reducing pie. What brings us out of this slump though, is the loss of second-rate stuff and the efforts of those left to improve what they have to offer.

And boy oh boy, does Pacha have a lot to offer. Pacha enjoys its position as the icing on the clubbing cake, but even this Rolls-Royce of a business is not immune from the pressure. Accusations can and have been made about the group’s attempt to muscle out those weaker than itelf, but no-one that came to what many regard as clubbing’s Mecca can deny that these guys have done everything in their power to come out stronger and taller from the current decline. Imagewise the club has certainly raised its game was definitely looking the part this year. The glitterballs appeared to be brand new, sparkling like a Svarowski wet dream. Upstairs on the terrace, a bevy of burlesque beauties bopped in an oversized champagne glass, littered with red petals, wearing very little, and leaving even less to the imagination. Absolutely amazing!

So, in an environment where many acknowledge that dance music is “dead”, “stale”, or “finished”, Pacha steams on like a luxury liner, its guests dining at a sumptuous banquet, oblivious to the rocky, stormy seas outside. Inside this bubble, house music is definitely alive and kicking. Seven days a week. Don’t believe me? Ask David Guetta. Ask Erick Morillo. Ask Eric Prydz. Ask David Morales. Ask Pete-flipping-Tong. Ask Todd Terry! Ask anyone who works for Defected. They will beg to differ.

Defected have certainly stamped their authority on the island, and the company, now in its third year there, see their move to Pacha as a natural progression on the back of a successful season at neighbouring El Divino. In the proprietor Simon Dunmore’s own words: "Pacha is to Ibiza what Studio 54 was to New York. It is a pure disco. It encapsulates glamour, kitsch and hedonism, making it a perfect home for Defected." (Yeah right, and the doubling of capacity to 3000 doesn’t have anything to do with it does it Simon!) ...

To be honest, on the night we visited, on a peak evening in August, it looked like Defected were struggling a bit. At high season in August this club should be rammed by 2am. As it is for Morillo’s and Tong’s nights. But it wasn’t. It did fill up, don’t get me wrong, and it did rock in a way only Defected can, but it wasn’t what we at SMDHQ are used to. And it certainly didn’t rattle and intimidate in the same way as Underwater’s nights in previous years had done. Who were, incidentally, elbowed aside to make room for Dunmore and co. But perhaps this has more to do with the commercial edge that Defected has over Darren Emerson and Underwater, famed more for their darker, deeper side. And Defected does indeed pack more punches DJ-wise looking at its books, boasting Martin Solveig, Sandy Rivera and the Kings of Tomorrow, the Belgian Tour de Force that is JJ & KC, amongst others, on their roster. And the decadent glamour of the surroundings did seem to fit in better with the soundtrack that was on offer.

But that’s the trend. In times of difficulty, we retreat to what we know best, and dark and heavy was laid off for commercial and funky. Which led to the club being much more British in clientele vis-à-vis the more continental mix present on Tuesdays in years previous. But hey, we drink more than our European counterparts so this will undoubtedly remain the trend for the foreseeable future. Just try to steer clear of Tong on Fridays, or, if you do have to go, wear a pair of old trainers. As it gets absolutely rammed and you will, I promise, come home with scuffed shoes !!!

Thank god, then, for David Guetta, and his thrice-yearly sojourn that is F*** Me I’m Famous. No teetering on the brink of inadequacy for this night, I can assure you. This night was rammed even at 2am and threatened to carry own well past the 8am chucking-out time. And the DJ’s were out in force, and in number. Alongside the veritable master Guetta, was the ubiquitous French house music pioneer Bob Sinclar, as well as the young Swedish pretender to the throne Eric Prydz, who all but ensured that the dancefloor was packed from start to finish. The merchandise was out in force too, although £50 for a T-shirt did seem a bit steep, even by Pacha’s own meteoric standards. Our man on the ground did manage to steal away with a rather attractive rubber bracelet, emblazoned with those magic words, “F** ME I’M FAMOUS”. They are now a central part of his silent routine with the ladies. He simply taps them on the shoulder, points to the wristband, and awaits the slap …

© Simon Ambrose 2005