I sat in the back of my English composition class, skimming through my new copy of WAD magazine. I should have been doing something more “productive” with my free time besides reading about French house music, going green, and the debut of Justices new album. A hand full of French youths crowded into a venue, swaying to the mixed-bebop-beats of Xavier de Rosnay and Gaspard Auge.
In the corner of my eye I see Xavier, with a fresh suave look about him, his legs crossed, and a cigarette dangles from his lips loosely. I bet a million woman have kissed those lips and I wouldn’t be surprised if that were so, and or if it were more then a million.
Pedro Winter stands beside Gaspard at the turntable, both are bearded which make them look older. Their headphones hung over their necks; almost looking as if it symbolized their profession of “beats”. I suppose that’s why Gaspard and Xavier named their album “CROSS”. Pedro Winter, who produced the new album by Justice, was recently married to fellow French entertainer Nadege Winter . . .Their marriage was published in WAD magazine and the entire thing was a happy event. Pedro and Nadege look to me like that type of young newlyweds who are going to last a lifetime. They look “happy”, and I put that word in quotations because that’s just what Pedro and Nadege are. Happy.
Uffie, a female French rapper takes the stage, grabbing the mic from Xavier, throwing her right hand in the air as her purple hoodie casts a shadow over her fair complexion. Like the boys in the club, she too, carries a heavy gold chain around her neck. Her words flow like that of the sound from the speakers and the crowd hails her their Queen of spit and rhymes. Pedro, who stands by has his arms crossed and looks as though Gaspard is provoking him. They laugh throwing their heads back and Pedro runs off the stage, diving into the masses, which then carry his thin jolting body over from the next helping hand to the next. At that exact moment, Xavier leaves his seat and stands next to his partner and fellow neo-beat-mixer, Gaspard. They resemble each other in ways that they don’t, like half brothers that have taken a liking to the other. Both smile and spin off at the turntables. “Do the D.A.N.C.E,” sings, what sounds like a group of little boys and girls from a scratchy unreceptive radio from the late 70’s. The disco sound brings the entire venue into an uproar. The single entitled D.A.N.C.E has been a late bloomer of popularity here in the U.S. of A. and I pity our disadvantage in being Americans when I see how much fun the French are having with simple sample beats and bitten sound bites from a Michael Jackson single. Gaspard and Xavier move their chosen hands over vinyls, moving their hips to the sound that they have created. From the front of the stage, all the way to the back I saw how the wave of hands swayed from the right and to the left, in unison, in a trance, and in complete togetherness with the beat of “the radio”. I couldn’t help but want to be a part of that and envied the style in which it was done. I WAS alone, and remained so, Long Beach is not my idea of “in”, and for me, it will never level with me.
I stepped out of the two pages I had been staring at for the past 5 minutes; it seemed like an entire night of mischief and mayhem, booze, sound, sound and more sound, and I missed it without even being a part of IT.
