Two kings of the indie dancefloor unite for a warm, timeless take on 20th century pop and rock
A marvellous night out.
Why, nothing at all, so far as anyone here can tell. The 60-something Andre struts onstage wearing an impossibly foul orange suit and painfully pointed spats, gives the signal, and dances like one who is gamely shaking off the onset of gout. This is a deeply perverse rock'n'roll spectacle, one presided over by, let's cut to the chase here, a dirty old man. "I want everybody to understand that I love pussy," he implores, stating the obvious, before launching into another track from his more recent, Jon Spencer-lauded blooze-punk albums (worth buying for the No Limit-style sleeves alone), although his silver-shirted, none-more-garage backing band have a tendency to sound like Status Quo - less Blues Explosion than wedding reception.
When Andre's on the mic, though, this really doesn't matter. He rubs his wrinkled crotch, grunts through 'Pussy Stank', 'Jailbait' and 'Let Me Put It In' and we all dance like our parents. A marvellous night out.
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