Fatboy Slim

Club 9:30, Washington DC. 26/3/05

The circumstances in which we acquire and alter our tastes are often overlooked. Usually we're led from one thing to another passively, and sometimes we're just struck by unexpected brilliance. This review focuses on a moment decided by chance, that initiates an interaction.

I was recently at Dulles Airport, outside Washington DC, waiting at the international arrivals. Amongst the crowd of returning Americans I saw the celebrated DJ Fatboy Slim. There's something uncontrollably exciting about celebrity, and instinctively you doubt if it can be so. I turned as he disappeared across the concourse, noticing his luggage: a camouflage record bag. Heart beat a little quicker, it's tempting to give the event more significance than it deserves - we're in an age where we're encouraged to "know about" famous people, and to supplant that superficiality with personal anecdote is meaningful. It was cool to see him in the flesh.

Now I've always liked Norman Cook. He's struck me as being passionate about his vocation, struggling to balance the professional desire for popularity with the trappings of fame. As he walked through the airport he stood out by being ordinary, and I was refreshed by this.

After I got back I looked into why he might be in town, and saw that he was due to play a gig later that week at the 9:30 club. There is no reason why I would have considered going, had it not been for the chance encounter at Dulles. But somehow it felt like a patriotic duty to attend, and I got hold of a ticket.

The 9:30 club is a small venue, surrounded by decaying brick buildings and alleyways. We lined the streets in a two hour queue entering the main doors just after midnight to a buzzing venue. I was astonished how intimate the club was, looking up to see Fatboy Slim - on a raised boxing ring -  no further away than he had been at the airport. On opposite sides of the room stretched bars, a stage at one end, and a balcony completed the square.
First stop was to stock up on lager, swig back a few off the cuff, then get out into the action. The music bright, and the main man dancing away with his own unique style, it was a welcoming entrance.

I am not a dance music connoisseur. I am a submissive consumer that enjoys having a bevvie and a boogie, but I've never bought a record in my life. I've been known to demonstrate a ferocious thirst for a night out, but I'm not a "good summer" adorned in witty sloganed t-shirt, speaking of Ibiza and the legends of the decks. I wouldn't know where to start, except to parody them.

Such is the fame of Fatboy Slim, however,  I'm aware of a lot of his work, and I like it. I've never felt tempted to buy it though, since I've been more than willing to let others impart their tastes on me.  Of course this isn't true for other people. As I carried on swigging away I noticed the dance music connoisseurs - invariably named Baz, Gaz, Daz etc... - leaning against the bar comparing notes on the performance of our Norm. Come on lads, get your back up off the wall.

Even I could tell that this wasn't a faultless performance, however. In patches Norman completely missed his link, and a fair few times he pointed at his equipment in frustration. That said, at his lowest moment "right here, right now" looped over and over as he was forced to discard the intended compliment, searching frantically through his camouflage record bag for a song. It was a treat to see so closely a master so desperately trying to keep his balance, and a highlight of the night when he kicked in with a perfect redemption. and all with a grin.

Inadvertently it was a piece of classic Fatboy Slim - slow something down, wait a while, then speed it up again. Hitchcock-esque in his manipulation of anticipation.
Those "good summers" along the periphery tutting away at the mistakes were missing the point. This was not a classical recital to be judged on accuracy to the score. It was a piece of live music: a performance. If a footballer hits the crossbar from 30 yards you don't start booing him for not passing. You don't expect perfection, you expect entertainment - and we were getting it.

The greatest thing about Fatboy Slim is his enthusiasm. For those of us there for a show, his interaction with the audience took the gig to a fantastic height. Alas we were in a minority, as I only noticed having moved round behind the decks so I could see the DJs view - a line of static bores. For some mad reason there were people without beer in hand, evidently sober in every sense. Cooky would hold up messages to the video camera on the decks, each one getting more confrontational until I was half expecting him to just say "come on your miserable bastards!". But sod 'em. I don't know what aspect of American culture I wasn't quite getting, but I wasn't going to waste any time thinking about it. There was enough of us swarming around the stage to make the gig a success, and ultimately strengthen the bond between performer and audience.

Well and truly drunk, the gig ended with Norman leaving his stage to the bounceable "Take Me out" by Franz Ferdinand, and it was a fitting finale to an intimate, upbeat and thoroughly enjoyable evening.

We'd missed the last metro, but somehow managed to negotiate a special train home aboard which reflections were made. A bloody good night out, watching a talented showman play with a little license. Not caring when it didn't work, and basking in when it did. That's fine by me.

Anthony Evans