Popscene: Let-Down A GoGo
by Andrea Lambert
Under kitchen Christmas lights I shuffled in my purse for lipstick. Popscene was the destination, a Britpop night at 330 Ritch that seemed more savory than a Thursday spent with the fire escape.
Rattling up the red-lit alley to the club, beset by frolicking visions of mod mayhem, the brick facades looked oddly blank. Empty. When I went to last week's Supergrass signing, the line had been down the block and inching, Vespas revving, gogo boots a-clatter. Something was amiss. We paid our $5 and crept behind the black curtain, lured by Trainspotting clips and indie-rock twinklings. Weaving between metal tables to a back-room booth, I eyed the lonely dance floor. Two girls in tight tops were doing faux-slinky undulations, backed by spare brick walls and pink oil-swirl projections. We sipped our beer for a while and muttered about soft boys and the general lack of any-gender foxiness in the crowd. Once love life lack patter ran thin, we realized the Banana Republic factor was rising steadily with no end in sight.
Dancing saves everything, right? Right. Strobe-dashed shoulders grazed by as the floor got more and more packed – but strangely. Gone was the militantly shagged, reckless micromini warfare of last week, the so style-conscious they must have quit the day job long ago to watch Mod-Fuck Explosion on slow-mo. No. No. Instead we were treated to the somewhat more entertaining spectacle of a woman in a skintight polka-dot minidress freaking her boyfriend in full blowjob posture. I stopped mid-twist in embarrassment, but since getting embarrassed for other people is sort of useless, it takes valuable time away from doing embarrassing things yourself…Anyway, I just turned towards the screen where the sheet/shit explosion was happening in Trainspotting.
Charlatans and Bowie, the Beatles and Blur, New Order and other pop bits hazed around under the sparkly lights, while I watched ponytailed blondes stare transfixed at the lone clubkid’s tight latex pants. Powder blue. Letting my eyes wander, I kept seeing tube toppers grinding on thick-necked ick things, and the occasional ultramods doing their li’l dances. So superficial, the things you dig into when you’re trying to absorb a gin-dashed night out. I know that, but still there was a rising sense of disappointment as we limped out to the car. My friend leaned up from her fake fur to throw out bars where we definitely could’ve made out frenetically in top of sinks or banquettes, or witnessed more passing pretty people, or at least done decadent things to more exciting sounds. No rock and roll hellfires for tonight, sweetie…
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