After much self-inflicted blasting of Night Ripper into mine ears upon the bus of 149, I was expecting a paramount performance from mash-up DJ Gregg Gillis, aka Girl Talk of Pennsylvania. However, as I am always told, expectations are the set up of disappointment and with an upset stomach and a screaming, head-splitting, keyboard bashing duo beforehand, the evening was doing a pretty good job of weaning it’s way out of my good books. I had failed to notice a fat ‘Boston’ logo on the front sign beforehand, so when I realised that all corners of the venue were filled with Americans, I began feeling slightly odd and insignificant. I am still unsure of why it felt so outlandish; it was as if I’d been teleported to a different country of alien species without prior warning, but then again, perhaps Girl Talk was SO brilliant he may just have had an avid Yankee following in London, which can only be a good sign. Maybe.
American sacrilege aside, after the shrieking teenagers had fled the stage, some random greasy-haired technician began setting up laptops, but a closer look assured me it was actually Gregg himself. Disappointed I may have been with his original mundane attire, but after much faffing about for half an hour gaffataping wires, he reappeared with trendy headband, red hoody and dirty grey joggers in tow. After a semi-haughty ‘God bless America’ speech (the crowd went wild as you’d expect- those crazy ruffians), he finally delivered the goods. His signature style of cut and paste hip-hop beats and rhymes layered on top of indie and old school classics failed to disappoint, and moments in, EVERYONE, including myself, unashamedly ambushed the stage to rave with the sweaty mongrel (who looked like he’d just come from ‘The Last Supper‘ as Amy observed). Arms were up in the air, bottoms were sticking out, a few gun fingers were on show, and wet hair was swishing all over the place – but what made it extra bizarre was Gregg’s eagerness to join in with the crowd; all lines between celebrity and public civilians were lost amidst the revelry. His delirious washing machine moves led to the flinging of his clothes everywhere from top to bottom, but thankfully, I think, his boxers just about stayed on as a rampant fan yanked at one side giving me a perfect snap happy opportunity of half his buttocks. Scroll down to take an exclusive look – you perverts.
It was best that the early curfew of fifteen minutes past midnight was kept in place, as if I’d danced anymore I might have keeled over like one of the drunken frantic girls there who fell off a table three times, each time insisting she get back on her high horse. Electrifying this hairy man was, and I shall certainly be inviting him over to the UK again to DJ at my house sometime; providing he keeps his clothes on, of course.
Music ed’s note: Did you scroll down before you read the whole post? You should be ashamed of yourselves!
- Girl Talk – NIGHT RIPPER
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