And enter stage right it's the aptly monikered [B]Jacques Lu Cont[/B]. [B]Jacques[/B] is also wearing a no-sex-please-we're-robots type boiler suit...
Whooh! Yeah! Live on [a]Radio 1[/a]! Wiv [a]Pete Tong[/a]! Like back-to-back crap disco records! Super-pukka repetitive beat twitching frenzy or what? Fab gear! Crazy! Let’s hear ya! Whooh, yeah! So, like, later we got [a]Basement Jaxx[/a]! Whooh, yeah! An’ they’re gonna, like, sort of stand there and play other people’s records! Whooh, yeah! Sorted! Wiggle them Flat Eric glove puppets! Whooh, yeah! Give it up! Far out! Let’s all like twitch! Like twats! Whooh! Yeah! Cool!
But first we’ve got Les Rythmes Digitales! Live! Onstage! And first on, in a fetching pink boiler suit, it’s Jo Reynolds! You may remember her from previous pulse-pumping pop-phenomena such as that Placebo cover. She’s got a Little Lord Fauntleroy pageboy haircut and massive dead tarantula eyelashes and lip gloss and a blinding Julia Roberts-style smile and she’s very, very, very, VERY pretty. In a sort of ooh-er-lead-guitarist-from-Hanoi-Rocks sort of way. You know, like where your ultra-hetero chum drools, “I fancy HER!” and you’re like, “But it’s a BLOKE!” and he’s like, “No WAY!” and you’re like, “Har har you PUFF!” but it turns out that she IS a girl after all – shock horror! Which is to say that she’s petite and presentable and neatly packaged and looks exactly like Nicky Wire. In his fucking dreams. Cool!
And enter stage right it’s the aptly monikered Jacques Lu Cont. Jacques is also wearing a no-sex-please-we’re-robots type boiler suit. And he, too, is grinning like Thom Yorke counting his money. And he looks like a goofy cartoon carthorse with a scarlet Woody Woodpecker haircut. My God! How cool can a band get!?
And then, for the next 30 minutes, Jacques and Jo jerk and spasm, pose and grin like psychotic porpoises while effortlessly bashing out a comforting blanket of ultra-lite Gary-Numan-on-Prozac-style ‘Frisco-disco and generally coming across like Kraftwerk crossed with the Teletubbies with Tubby-vibrators up their Tubby-custard lubricated Tubby-asses and we are most amused.
And then, about halfway through, Monsieur Lu Cont straps on a bass guitar and whacks out some funky and appallingly proficient slap bass and everybody in the house goes, “Wooh! Yeah!” Everybody except NME, of course. We sit at the back and mutter, “So WHERE are the portentous statements about the human condition? Hmm?” and stuff. Yes, readers, we refused to enjoy ourselves on your behalf. It was great!