I like Madame Claude’s. If you arrive early you get to sit in a doll house. It’s cosy with your girl or good friends. And I never get tired of the ceiling. Apparently Madame Claude lives upside down. She has bookshelves and tables and slippers and they all hang from the ceiling. Even the clocks are inverted, their mechanisms too. (You never see Madame Claude walking around, though). Beers are cheap and the entrance is variable, according to the size of your pockets and generosity.
On good nights, the DJ will be putting on all kinds of unexpected stuff. I discovered this track this last Saturday, you might want to check it out. Belbury Poly – The Hidden Door.
When the concert starts it’s like you see in movies the way it used to be done in the opera, when they’d come into the salons to announce the start of the acts. Then you proceed to the cellar and the cellar is no more than one hundred meters squared. It’s usually packed. If you manage to get in early, though, and find a place near the band, it’s as intimate an experience as it can possibly get.
The first act on Saturday was Anatopia. I had never heard of Anatopia before. But Anatopia rules.
They’re just two. Male and female. They’re all in white, with white mask painted over their eyes. The guy’s dressed like Boris Becker. White tennis shorts, white polo and white tennis shoes. As soon as he starts playing you understand the pun. The guy’s got a drum set under his shoes. And with the great players’ foot play, his concert is a fucking tennis match. The disco beat never stops, feels like he’s always about to turn it a notch deeper. With his hands he plays electric guitar, mostly, in a post punk style that reminds of Delorean.
She moves like some cyborg maid that also sings. And she sings in this disco semi rap until she surprises with angelic tones swinging classic melodies –she reserves them for some very few, concrete moments. The lyrics like the announcements of some airport in the back plains of the consumer mind. They’re like post punk disco in space and then they’re conceptual, and the whole act is of a freakish brilliance that hits like a breeze – I kept turning around to check the expressions on others people’s faces, all I could see was dance moves and smiles (and hairs back from the breeze).
They’re hungry and fearless, these two.
The encore: As the song ends she merges with the public. The beat keeps going. She’s vomiting this white paste (or maybe beer foam) and twitching like in some kind of overdose. After a while like that, she grabs the microphone and starts yelling into the ceiling, I love you, I love you so much.