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:: CSS / Cansei de Ser Sexy ::
05 September 2006 / The Roadhouse / Manchester
By words : Lauren Strain / pix : Ged Camera

What do you do when a pint-sized Brazilian girl in a black-and-white-humbug-striped-all-in-one-hotpant-suit with lashes of black, glossy serpent hair splattered across her gleaming face grabs three bananas, chomps them with feral, sparkly gnashers in half (yep, right through the toxic skin), then grabs one in her baby-small hand, flashes a white grin at you, cackles like a witch, and squishes, ‘til it squelches out between each finger, ‘til she slaps it on her face and smothers it around, across and up the nostrils, bits of the mush dropping off onto your hair, down your top, into your drink? What do you do if you’re the curly haired teenage boy at the front when she falls off the bar she’s been gyrating on for the last few spazzy beats, lashes her wires around your neck and pulls you into a gang dance, kicking and screaming, tripping over with laughter and kissing you, whilst yelling out “DO YOU WANT TO DRINK SOME ALCOHOL?!” like a crazed demon on acid? What do you do if she runs off with your phone, randomly dials an unsuspecting member of your phonebook, jams the thing against the microphone and hoarsely drawls propositions like “Let’s make love and listen to Death From Above” down the receiver?


Not much, to be honest, other than let it happen, with your mouth hanging agog, your eyes laughing and your sweaty self pouring out the equivalent of Niagara in perspiration. Because tonight, The Roadhouse is a pit of disco-sleaze, with bodily liquids plopping off the ceiling and slithering down the pillars; and, most noticeably, H-O-T.

Guitarist Carolina (or possibly Ana...there are so many of gets kinda difficult) – who appears to be the least clinically insane of the six-piece – purrs into the microphone, “Oh where are you, Lovefoxxx, sweetie darlingggg?” surveying the crowd with sultry eyes in search of the wayward singer who pops up, sure enough, from the gaggles of excitable boys and girls down front, completely sozzled, wobbling a bit and smiling guiltily. Pretending to be meek. Mild, even. But just watch her transform, as she grabs the microphone, lurches up onto the Roadhouse’ barrier and adopts it as her very own party platform; watch that vixen glint in her eye and the curling, winking lips as she teases us for a few tantalising seconds before the guitars slam in and she starts squealing “Ceee! Essss! Essss! Suckssssss!” over and over, faster and faster, like a kicking, squirting piglet to the slaughter. The audience lunges in, hands punching the air on the power chords, eyes gawping up at this little deranged minx of a thing who, by a toss of a head and a stamp on the floor with colourful tight-clad legs and bright green trainers, just got each and every single person in here’s full, devoted, slurping attention.

Their songs are sugar rushes of queasily-erotic electronics, with cute blips over siren-like wails, honks and cheeky beeps against pulsating bass and growling guitar riffs so dance-ready and heavy you’re sure they’re after yer very blood. From the slightly-discomforting breathy pant of ‘Alala’ to the kinky “woo woo”s of ‘Next Month, Day 10’, all garbled over with brashly explicit lyrics and fiercely female confidence, they’re brave and silly and shocking and liberated and ridiculous and fun and hilarious and adorable and scary and sexy and…, they don’t suck. At all.

Pix - Kind permission Ged Camera (c) 2006

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