Chromeo
Club 1234
Montreal
July 12

Cheeky (La)Bonne

WARNING: I am about to gripe. Click away now if this will ruin A) your impression of me as a whimsical, Holly Go Lightly gad about town or B)your beer buzz.

Where do I begin? I was looking terribly forward to the show. It promised to be a lot of fun—a bit of electro-funk madness near the end of a trying, tiring work week. But things started to go awry as soon as the big bouncer crossed my name off the G-list; the woman at the door took my water bottle away even though I invited her to take a whiff of its contents. I was searched not once, but THREE SEPARATE TIMES for weapons and drugs - and if you knew me to see me, you’d have a good laugh at this. The bartendress, though very nice, over-charged me for my Chivas (we’re talking high-class,Tokyo strip-club prices) and worse yet, the Powers-That-Be decided to over-pack the venue.

Which brings us to the issue of the crowd.

OK, babies—things are about to get ugly. Because here’s the deal: never, and I mean NEVER, have I EVER been surrounded by such a clamorous group of pushy, shove-y, rude, self-aggrandizing, coked out, urban-posturing, suburban-pampered brats in bad day-glo who think bringing back the eighties(an era that they were too zygotic to revel in the first time around) is the paragon of creative genius. Lil’uns, I hate to break it to you, but your aunties hid those “Desperately Seeking Susan” effects for a reason! And boys? Oh, my sweet, effete, tightly-panted boys(who were being madly padded down for guns—in what realm could any of them properly hold, never mind USE a deadly weapon?!!! And with barely there tank tops and painted on bottoms, just WHERE would they stash it???!!): ACID WASH DENIM IS NOT AN IRONIC STYLE STATEMENT! It is just bad! Just plain bad!!!!!

Dear readers, you should know I like “the scene” as much as the next gal, but this was all too much. I couldn’t hack being stepped on, bumped into or pushed out of way any longer. I was forced to leave before the main act came on. This has never happened. I once staved off fainting and being stretchered out of a mouth-hot venue after having stupidly imbibed a half-bottle of corked wine just to hear the first few songs of a concert. I am a trooper! I love my music! I can hold my own in a crowd! But this was ridiculous. I don’t know if it was the moon’s position in the sky last night or just the cumulative effect of Gen Y’s hot-housed, cokiously-fed, camera phone-propagated, overgrown, narcissistic mutation of self-love, but Lord on high, the vibe made me run for the hills.

Walking home, I passed a dive bar, its door propped slightly ajar. Inside, people were milling about, sipping their poisons, half-listening to a guy strum away his acoustic guitar. They didn’t have to lower their voices when he began to sing. They didn’t have to stop and clap for the guy. Hell, they didn’t have to get out of my way when I went up to say hi to a friend at the counter. But they did. And you know what? Not a one was wearing lacey half-gloves. And there was nary a painter’s cap in sight.

THE CD…

It’s the eighties. My older brother has just discovered Prince.

“C’mere—listen to this.”

I’m never invited into his room. Something’s up. Could be bad.

I disguise my mounting apprehension with cool, seven year old indifference.

“Whaddaya you want? I wanna go downstairs and watch Three’s Company…”

“Shuddup. Just c’mere and listen to this…”

I roll my eyes and shuffle onto the orange shag. He tells me to sit down.

“This is soooo cool. OK, y’ready?”

I nod. He presses play.

What shot out of his Sony ghettoblaster that fateful evening was a continuous hot salvo of synth, funk, strings and drum machine beats. My head instantly started bopping. I couldn’t have faked ennui if I tried. God, that synth. It lead my brother down a path of Casio keyboards, drum pads, Cameo and Kraftwerk.

It just made me want to dance.

Kinda like Chromeo’s new spin, “Fancy Footwork.” In fact, as soon as I put it on my….OK…you want the truth? Really? Fine. I still have a Sony ghettoblaster. From the nineties. With a double cassette player. It’s black. And sort of oblong. But what’s important here is that it has a CD player (a vast improvement over the eighties’ model.) Which still works quite well. When it’s not busy cutting out or skipping.

Ahem….

So, upon pressing play, I was instantly catapulted back to those good ol’ days of funneled funk, processed licks and manufactured beats. I was off the couch and on the floor as soon as “Tenderoni” caressed my speakers (they’re metal y’know. Made in Japan. Where are you going to find that these days, huh? Huh?) The title track “Fancy Footwork” sent me spinning off into a wall. “Opening up (Ce Soir On Danse)” wouldn’t give my feet a rest. Chromeo’s a kickin’ task master with some of silliest lyrics(“Momma’s Boy”) and canned voices(“My Girl Is Calling Me (a Liar)”) this side of…..y’know what? I don’t want to wax nostalgic anymore. I’m tired of fetishizing my past for your pleasure. Just shuddup, sitdown(I dare you) and take a listen to Chromeo. Won’t sound as sweet on your plastic speakers, but it’ll still make you wanna shake it.