Perhaps Friday night's hot 'n' sticky summer temperatures had the hipster nation in a state, but that's no excuse for the lackluster pout-a-thon that was the Franz Ferdinand show at Volume. Inside, the temperature was approaching 95 degrees and the air was hovering around the dewpoint. Short skirts and tight Duran Duran t-shirts as far as the eye could see. It was a night made for dancing. Then FF hit the stage, smiled winningly, and launched into a fun and energetic (if, as LK pointed out, slightly robotic) performance. There was humor, lead-singer-finger-pointing, and dance beats galore. And 95% of the crowd stood rooted to the floor, their heads moving imperceptibly to the beat. It was like a fucking insurance seminar. I kept trying to dance, pogoing in place like a maniac, pumping the requisite fist... until the guy behind me actually said the words, "Could you stop dancing? You're crowding my girlfriend." I shit you not.
What could have been the show of the summer was turned into a casting call for zombie-movie extras. I kept jumping up and looking for the enclave of fun, sweaty, dancing freaks, but all I saw was tiny groups of three or four people who, like ourselves, were moving as much as the senior citizens surrounding them would permit. Shame on you, Williamsburg. Instead of "We can't wait to come back and play New York City," I imagine the band's lasting impression will be something like, "What a bunch of boring, poncy twats." I couldn't agree more.
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