Jul
18
I feel like I have just stumbled out from a show on the Vegas strip. Ears ringing, eyes burned with strobing lights, mind temporarily blown. When it comes to saving this Word document, I can’t even remember the name of the act I just saw.What I do know is that they are presently one of the “hot new things” coming out of good-old New York City. Of course they are from New York. They are a nothing short of a multicultural circus. They have a small Asian guy dressed in spandex and a neon-colored scarf jumping around playing the cowbell. They have an equally small androgyne dressed in some sort of loose sportswear singing back-up, though she happens to be the better of the two singers. They also have two black guys; their job is to blow the horns. The star of the show is a disco-singing, hip-swinging woman with tight abs and suspiciously large and full breasts who strips down to fringe-embellished hotpants and a cigarette girl brassiere, poledances with the microphone stand, and bears a frighteningly close resemblance to an old boss of mine. This adds only one layer to the incredibly mixed emotions I feel for this act. Oh, right, there are also three other performances onstage. Ah, and there’s the name: Hercules and Love Affair.
They play electro-disco (yes, it is exactly what it sounds like). One-third of the crowd seemed absolutely hog wild about the band (or at least the lead singer. The people in front were, for the most part, straight-looking, slightly older men). The second third seemed torn, like me. Their elitist tendency toward live music (or music, in general) finds the band absolutely repulsive. But it is impossible to deny – they put on a pretty damn good performance and the dance beats are impossible to resist. However, once they became for a moment just a smidgeon too sober, too aware of what they were witnessing, they lost all track of their rhythm. As for the last third, I really have no idea for what reason they were there, how they found themselves in this particular club on this particular night. (Strangely, it was a sold-out show.) Now, call me washed up, aged, boring even. But this scene was just a little too hip for me. Some guy in the front row, standing right in profile with the other photographers, was shooting with a Polaroid camera. Who takes Polaroids at a concert? Then again, who am I to judge?
By the time the band finished (they started after midnight), I was too exhausted, claustrophobic and just straight-up creeped out to stay for the music I actually paid for. Should you judge the band by their MySpace page? No way. Do I recommend buying a cd of theirs? Absolutely not. Do I think the band will be around in another four months? Highly doubt it. Should you see them perform, should you get the opportunity? Most certainly. But don't forget earplugs.
