by JACK OATMON

Of late, my fellow music journalists and critics have been fond of declaring the “dance-punk” sound dead. The dance-punk (or disco-rock or new-rave, as coined by the British magazine New Music Express, or even electroclash if you want) style is gritty, uninhibited and raucous, much like its middle-aged namesake. Also like its predecessor, it’s a swarm of bands that have been quickly grouped together by pop-culture enthusiasts lacking a better term. Does Death From Above 1979 really sound anything like LCD Soundsystem? Did Blondie sound like the Sex Pistols? No, frankly. One could have an almost identical debate of origins about it, too: Is it from England? New York? Continental Europe even has its claim, if you look closely. The shadows of punk run through its bastard raver son, from the art and artists surrounding it, through the wacky street fashion of the fans, down to the drug-fuelled craze often witnessed at the live shows.

The most striking similarity for me, however, has been the speed at which sideline observers have decried the budding genre passé. Like an indignant Exploited in 1981, let me be certainly not the first to holler, “Dance-punk’s not dead!” Laugh, you may, but anyone who got out and saw the Rapture coming back like the Bush family to Iraq knows the truth. So do all the sweating, grinning art students who witnessed Hot Chip test their new dancefloor bombs like a rebellious North Korea.

With a spate of new bands on the cuff, I’m contending that this whatever-you-wanna-call-it sound is not only written into the DNA of modern dance music, it’s about to metastasize. Don’t believe me? Hop on the net and hear Klaxons slaying it like Saddam. Peep Brighton’s Fugiya & Miyagi rigging votes like the electronic-polling system. I could go on and on about the bewildering charm of the Knife and the easy grooves of Who Made Who, but I won’t. I’ll just leave you to ponder the sleazy virtues of dance music that produces like Kraftwerk, rages like Bad Brains, and does its hair like A Flock of Seagulls.

I don’t know if you’re the kinda cat who hangs at Casa del Popolo and Esperanza, discussing Warhol and Monet when you’ve got a mean hangover, but if, like me, you are, you’ve probably let curiosity get the best of you at some point and bought a two-dollar piece of art from the art-vending machines. Aside from being the best vending machines since the ones in Amsterdam that stock tampons, condoms, rolling papers and Dutch chocolate, and the dirty-underwear machines in Japan, they also throw parties. Weird, huh? That’s the Distroboto launch tonight at Zoobizarre, and you get to see NYC’s funktacular Mixel Pixel live. The next two nights should be squandered on the Mouse on Mars show at Sala Rossa on Friday and the Ninja High School gig at the Main Hall on Saturday. After both shows, everybody’s gonna get mashed at Green Room.

BE THERE, OR BE… jack.oatmon@gmail.com

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