You were told it was an elegant nightclub. You were told it was a debaucherous band. A sensual circus. You were told a lot of things. Now that you’re here all of them – and none of them – are correct. The cocktail in your hand graces all five senses, intoxicating each of them separately – together. It pairs perfectly with the singer, his aggressively smokey voice delivering Peggy Lee’s “Fever” over a slowly rhythmic vinyl scratch hovering somewhere just above a subsonic bassline that feels like it’s coming from the next room. Or the next life. An Alexander-McQueen-Dream of a woman sits at a piano but does not play. Atop it, a sinewy ballerina shifts and contorts sylphlike, a hint of costume barely clinging to her. Telegenic images give off a visual thrum from screens dotting your peripheral vision. It occurs to you that you may be time-traveling. Is it 1985? 1885? 3085? You can’t know. Applause. The bassline intensifies. Accelerates. Becomes crisp and present. McQueen Dream rises to take center stage. Her eyes are Grace Jones. Her lips Betty Boop. Her stance is Iggy Pop. The feedback of a guitar. You hear her thoughts.
She wants to fuck.
The video screens pulse the phrase “consider it a favor”. Your tongue silently works the word “luxury” again and again over your teeth with a ventriloquist’s skill. Into your ears pours an audible liquor. Gary Numan channeling Bertold Brecht on the nose as a Patsy Cline melancholy develops across the palate. The backbone hints of Front 242. On the back is the bitterness of Trentemøller before it finishes with a John Lydon sneer. She strips to the rhythm. A cat on a mission to unmake you. All sex and excess. It is almost like you’re the only one in the audience. Almost. You no longer remember the decay outside. You don’t live there anymore.