Fannypack

I’m led to believe that Trash is quite a trendy establishment. Indeed, there’s enough individualism going on in here (amongst all the traditional ripped jeans/suit jacket combos of course) to supply Top Shop with ideas for the next three years. However, whilst taking one of many slashes brought on by too many bottles of reasonably-priced French lager (let’s not kid ourselves – Trash isn’t cheap, but it is_ reasonable), I notice the guy next to me is wearing a Made top. Don’t Good Charlotte wear them all the time? Hmm, something of a faux pas, _non?

Anyway, the only reason I’m here is for the live acts – Zoot Woman and Fannypack. It’s the latter’s first UK show, barring a few DJ slots. Zoot Woman however are old news. Jacques Lu Cont’s time with Madonna may have discredited his synth-led electro-pop outfit somewhat, but in fairness Zoot Woman were never that great anyway. Two albums into their existence they may be, but the chances of a third must be slimming by the day if this is all they can muster. Fists are pumped skywards by the few people that apparently own the records, but in general the crowd’s reaction is one of pure indifference. More a pasty pastiche than an honourable homage – the band’s sound is caught somewhere between the Eighties and Nineties, and what with both decades being a thing of the past, said music feels rather redundant. With Duran Duran back, do bands like this really deserve our attention? Nah, next.

And next is the hip-hop group of the moment, Fannypack. Yes, the name’s a reference to a bumbag, but it just wouldn’t be right if there was no element of sleaze to these three girls and two guys whatsoever. The sleaze comes in the shape of keyboard player and sample supplier Fancy, a tall, bald guy who looks over his three young disciples like a slavering Pete Waterman-like pop svengali. You want to think that these three girls, aged between 16 and 22, are in some way being exploited, but their performance suggests otherwise. They’re supremely confident, playing up to the crowd and grinding about like there’s no tomorrow. They don’t look like your typical hip hop starlets either – there’s no bling here, just hot pants and attitude. Indeed, it’s their attitude and professionalism that attracts the most attention, as their music is throwaway fun at best. ‘So Stylistic’, the title track from their debut album on Tommy Boy, is funky enough, but elsewhere the beats are lightweight enough to have The Beastie Boys' ‘Licensed To Ill’ sounding more like ‘Ill Communication’. Breakthrough single ‘Cameltoe’ seems to have already lost its appeal, and whilst the lyrics are inspired, in a way – “Is your crotch hungry, girl?/Coz it’s eating your pants” – the music is dangerously Shampoo-like. Basically, they’re not a patch on the likes of fellow, more serious lady rappers Northern State, also from NYC (and who also attracted Beastie comparions), but, for all their fundamental flaws (the visually obvious age gap between rappers and musicians, the fact that any one song is pretty much the same as the next), they _do_ know how to throw a party. Which is certainly something in a posers’ palace like Trash.