Sadly, though, you notice signs that indicate you're not quite as hip as you hoped to be. You don't recognize a single band on Pitchfork. You see ads for sold-out concerts and you don't know any of the names.
At Janelle Monae's concert at the Highline Ballroom Tuesday night, though, I'm feeling pretty smug. Her debut, The ArchAndroid,comes out that same day, so nobody has heard of her. Me, I'm not so sure about the record. I've listened to it exactly twice, and her voice isn't that memorable. She sounds like a soprano Teena Marie, but without the soul or range. The songs are anonymous and overproduced, which may have something to do with the phrase "produced by P. Diddy." Four or five songs sound like Queen played by Dr. Buzzard's Original Savannah Band.
Still, three or four songs are fantastic. I can't get "Tightrope" out of my head. When I get an invitation in my email, I immediately RSVP.
The show is amazing, and in this tiny club I'm literally four feet away from her. She's posing like Grace Jones, dancing like Michael Jackson. She does James Brown's counting and anguished collapsing and "I need my cape!" routine. She does an extended version of "Tightrope" and the crowd goes wild. The floor is bouncing like a basketball underneath my feet. Janelle turns up the heat for a couple more songs and tears the roof off the joint. She makes a triumphant exit, dripping sweat, and we're left stunned. Was that really as amazing as we thought it was?
As the crowd slowly shakes off their astonishment, mentally I pat myself on the back.
Luckily, impossibly, in the three seconds that elapsed between Ms. Monae's total obscurity and worldwide idolatry, I got her record and got into her secret small-club show.
I think, finally. I've got it down. I've figured it out. I'm on top of the heap.
And then the announcer says, "Hey, everybody, let's do the Tightrope Dance!" and as the entire crowd starts to flail in unison I think Fuck you. Fuck you very much.
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