Our first course pales in comparison to The Modern Dance
Dinner at the Twisty Bungalow rarely admits distractions, least of all those by pretentious art-rock bands. So imagine my surprise when, while listening for the first time in 25 years to this delightful Pere Ubu record, I could only nibble at this delicious fresh fruit in poppyseed dressing. It turns out I have a subconcious emotional attachment to pretentious art rock. Let me tell you:
Mes petits, I could but shake a tailfeather!
To say that this belated tailfeather shaking was an enormous relief is like saying that Dick Cheney is sort of creepy. Although I had not realized it, a quarter-century’s worth of Pere Ubu-related twinkle-toeing and rug-cutting was bottled up inside me, roiling and churning, erupting in nervous tics and unexplained rashes.
For in 1978, when this, the first New Wave record ever, came out, it was considered uncouth to outwardly manifest the slightest enthusiasm for anything. Crack ye not the smile! Snap ye not the fingers! Do ye not All Sixteen Dances! Dancing was for disco and assholes. Pere Ubu was fucking avant-garde.
So we did not boogie-oogie-oogie. We did not work our skirt. We did not put our pubis in the air. Our groove-thang, booty, and moneymaker remained motionless and began to atrophy. We just stood around quoting Hesse.
Fortunately, it was the 70’s, and you could still get ludes, and AIDS was just a twinkle in Ronald Reagan’s eye, so we all had ridiculous sex to make up for it. But still.
Non-alignment pact! Sign it!