by JOHNSON CUMMINS

The Gogol Bordello show at le National last Thursday, Feb. 16, was the best show I never saw. Hear me out.

After a particularly “festive” night at the Barfly, I hit the Gogol Bordello after-party at the newly hatched Club Lambi. I quickly saddled up to the bar next to an older, Eastern European gent and shot the shit with him about God only knows. Probably bored with my inane drunken chatter, said chap quickly excused himself by announcing it was “time for the ladies.” I later felt a nudge, and a whispering voice told me that this Eastern-European fella was actually the accordion player for Gogol Bordello. Accordion player? “Time for the ladies”? What?

Now, I won’t say that the groupie thing is just a relic from the ’70s, but I will say this—if you are an accordion player, groupies, almost as a rule, just don’t exist. That, compounded with the fact that next to this squeezebox stylist, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Johnny Winter, Joe Clark, Prince Charles and Ron Reusch could be considered runway material, is certainly no help. Y’see, if you are, ahem, “unfortunate” looking, groupies can be somewhat forgiving—but only if your band is super shit-hot. Given how hideous looking this accordion player was, Gogol Bordello would have to be the raddest thing since the Stooges if he was hoping for any “time” at all with the ladies.

To my shock and amazement, he was soon engrossed in conversation with a girl who—well, let’s just say she was probably geekier than your average They Might Be Giants fan. Another five minutes go by and the accordion Casanova has boldly gone where no other ugly, bald accordion player has gone before, and actually started swapping spit with the bookish girl. By this point, he starts garnering the attention of not only me but a few other people at the bar who were silently cheering him on. Then, as if he were almost defying gravity in front of our very eyes, he and his newfound lover leave their seats and actually hightail it towards the romantic confines of the bathroom stall of the men’s room. After about a minute, my nose for news and pounding bladder merged as I quickly marched into the bathroom after them.

As soon as I opened the door I was instantly greeted with the unmistakable sounds of two people “bumpin’ uglies” bouncing off of the tiled walls. After zipping up over the urinal beside them, I made my way back to the bar and waited patiently for this follicle-challenged rock star to emerge from his impromptu love den. After two minutes, the doors finally burst open, and I don’t know if it was GB frontman Eugene Hütz’s DJ set blasting through the speakers, but I swear I heard trumpets blaring before he made a quick exit stage left into the cover of night. Another minute later, the geeky girl came out, slightly dishevelled, and smoothed some creases out of her dress as she peered over at those of us who had just witnessed a man wrestle the impossible. Without any embarrassment or shame at all, she just brushed away a curl from her forehead, safe in the knowledge that she had just fucked the accordion player in what could only be called the world’s greatest band—ever.

WOTTA SHOW! jonathan.cummins@gmail.com

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