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 Lee Adcock

Song of the Day #689 – Salsa Chest

Song of the Day #689 – Salsa Chest
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In every aspect, this house was the ultimate retreat from the downtown clubs. For one, it was tucked away above the railroads in a tree-sheltered neighborhood, at the very end of its street. For another, the tiny living room (?) was bedecked in art – surreal paintings and collages; a glittery garland halo; a back porch that faced out into the wilderness.

I wouldn’t know who owned this cheery (albeit spare) abode until about three bands in. One unassuming bloke in glasses carried a mic; the other, a lanky fellow with long hair, plonked a synth on the floor and an iPad onto an amp. He set up the beat – oh, so cheesy, so chintzy, but in that proper Heaven 17 way. If, uh, Heaven 17 played chiptunes.

And oooooh, could that unassuming guy SING. And GYRATE. The other guy tumbled on the floor, stomped and kicked, pumped his ass dangerously close to his partner’s groin. Silly things. Lovely, silly things. I danced and danced but clearly couldn’t dance enough to match them. If this is mere novelty, then consider me a sucker – but the music that makes me move always resonates with me.

“We may not look punk, but we can be punks, too,” the singer announced after their opener, the epic soul crusher “Motorcycle” (which I only know the title of ‘cos I’d heard, earlier, that the band once played the delicious tune eight times in a row when their repertoire was smaller).

Right on, Salsa Chest.

Afterwards, I learn that the long-haired fellow is, in fact, the owner of the house. “How else would we get on such a punk bill?” Oh, I know how…

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