Welcome To The Superstar Disco Club

Our rating:

A gloriously slanted and enchanted trio from Marseilles, [a]Superstar Disco Club[/a] are not, as you may have mistakenly presumed, yet more kool French disko, in the vein of [a]Daft Punk[/a] and [B]Et

A gloriously slanted and enchanted trio from Marseilles, [a]Superstar Disco Club[/a] are not, as you may have mistakenly presumed, yet more kool French disko, in the vein of [a]Daft Punk[/a] and Etienne de Cricy. They are, rather, [I]le trottoir Frangais[/I], ie: the French Pavement, drizzling their melodies in razor-blade guitar noise and pinning down their angular pop with a perversely Fall-esque rhythmic sense.

However, the involved Cedric, Amilie and Jeremy temper this familiarly ramshackle shimmy with a distinctly unpleasant, psychotic lyrical approach. These are songs about perverts leering at young clubbers (‘Katia Movement #1’), S&M torture dungeons hidden away in the centre of town (‘Chancery Lane’), and the exquisite [I]schadenfreude [/I]of Naomi Campbell’s legendary catwalk pratfall (‘The Abstract Fashion Crisis Day’).

It’s like [I]Delicatessen [/I]scored by Brainiac, [I]Eurotrash [/I]presented by Frank Booth from [I]Blue Velvet[/I]. It’s also the most exhilaratingly sordid record since the Pixies‘ incestuous-sex-‘n’-tequila classic ‘Surfer Rosa’, as much a comment on the current indie scene’s po-faced puritanism as [a]Superstar Disco Club[/a] themselves.

“Have you been to the kinkiest place in town?” asks Cedric in ‘Chancery Lane’? We presume he’s referring to the [a]Superstar Disco Club[/a]. There are spy cameras in the toilets, porno-movies projected on the walls, broken glass scattered across the dancefloor.