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Culture Reviews
Pink Grease
B2 Club 
By Sarah Sly
Why did God inspire AMERICA to invent Rock-n-Roll?

So that skinny British boys would dance around in tight pants and eye-liner.*

"Pink Grease" is exuberant - and funny. Admittedly, glam rock/ tent revival tactics have been done before, but ain't it always fun! The whole band should come play in my hometown.

If they all can't make it, I'll stick to Front-man. Dedicated to prancing about stage and jumping over arched necks, this pale platinumed singer cuts a unique profile. He's lick-able.

Bass-boy appears extra-enthusiastic, liking to kick about the stagehand during his multiple scurries to restore mic-stand arrangement. The Hand preserves good humour by consistently knocking him back, taking out vodka bottles and cymbal stacks in the ruckus. Drummer just wears an expression of bland calm while catching the metal pre-crash and beating away.

Meanwhile Jimi Hendrix in lead guitar and light brown afro regularly jumps in and out of position whilst clicking thrift-store cowboy boots. Two absorbed electro-wizards more peacefully occupy their respective corners concentrating on colourful boards and duct-taped mini-synths. (Instead of passively reading further disaster description, why don't you click on and discover some zany creativity for yourself.)

Although the music exudes numerous influences, these infusions are well merged and the tunes sound fundamentally self-spawned. Quite an accomplishment in general, but notably here. Many musicians visiting Moscow stoop to render popular world standards in order to easy please a foreign audience. Not these boys. Concerning less sell-out-ish crowd-winning stratagems, Bass-boy chooses the high road of shouting Russian phrases and striving to convey complex messages in 'MATY'.

The audience itself starts out over ponderous, mesmerized by the bands antics and unsure of what to do to each other. But "Pink Grease" eventually works the crowd up into a steady paced enthusiasm, gleefully expressed in incessant insistence on an encore. Lacking by now Mister Percussion, Bass-boy conjures up from the masses none other than Phil - the fill in drummer Gorbachev, who makes it through two tunes before Bass-boy himself is forced to attack stated duty. Front-man jigs on an amp lost in this moment of artistic despair...

The spectacle is over and everyone goes to smoke a cigarette. Contemplating the essence of this young raw anomaly, I sombrely wonder if they are quite as slutty as advertised. The world is ever in need of lasting decadence and utter rejection of family values, so I pray to God there are not false prophets. You see, it's a pitched battle and the Baptists must be stopped.

*In fact, contrary to fundamentalist Christian doctrine, glam rock is the true telos of linear history and not a uni-polar world led under Bush family fascism.

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