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Monday, 22 November 2010 13:00

Concert review: To all the 18-year-olds at the Billiken Club on Saturday, November 20: The Hood Internet crushed it, and it was sick

Concert review: To all the 18-year-olds at the Billiken Club on Saturday, November 20: The Hood Internet crushed it, and it was sick Meghan McGlynn
Written by Meghan McGlynn
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If I were 18 again, I’d throw out the fake ID I got by paying $8 and showing only my county library card to a nameless “state official” from an unmarked storefront on Cherokee Street, before Cherokee Street had streetlamps and coffee shops and rock venues, so that I could get into Stages: Five Levels of Dancing on the East Side.

Instead I would just be my age, and go to the Billiken Club, eschewing alcohol and sporting a blue wristband instead of the yellow one, and I would dance my face off to the Hood Internet.

Apparently, if I were 18 again, now and not then, my older sister’s emerald green and aqua one-shouldered poufy prom dress with the silver-sequined mermaid ruffle could be hemmed daringly short, paired with Kardashian-worthy 5-inch nude suede platform Louboutin stilettos and a side pony, while the guy who lived 2 houses away from me could wear a Ghostbusters tee, checkered slip-on Vans, not because these things are timely now, but because these days when you are 18 years old, everything is new again, and everything is “sick.”

If I were 18 again, I would be cool not because I know how to play Axel F on my Casio keyboard in tune with the Beverly Hills Cop soundtrack on my boombox, but because when Steve Reidell lays Major Lazer over it, he totally “crushes it,” and I can shake my ass to it like nobody’s business.

If I were 18 again, and it was dark, and everyone around me was sweating, and Cyndi Lauper came on, I wouldn’t be at home with my girlfriends mouthing the words to “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” while I mimic Courtney Cox from the “Dancin’ in the Dark” video, because instead I would be rocking my black American Apparel leggings with my vintage boots purchased used at Urban Outfitters -- such a great find -- and I would probably be able to achieve level 16 of Dance Dance Revolution with my sweet moves on the floor. It would be sick.

If I were 18 again, when I heard Alvin and the Chipmunks, I wouldn’t be wearing knit stirrup pants but instead would be rocking my mom’s old drippy gold lamé shirt, but as a dress with a belt around not just my waist but also around my head, and the Chipmunks wouldn’t be singing “we are the chipmunks, guaranteed to brighten your day,” but instead would be maniacally repeating “how low can you go, how low can you go, how low can you go” laid over Ludacris. Me and my braless girlfriend -- wearing a belt around her head, too -- would be squatting limbo-style, but not limbo-style like with a pole at a pig roast, but rather all sexy and dirty and low and bootylicious and full of potential, and it would be so hot.

When Beastie Boys came on, it wouldn’t be “Sabotage” blasting from the back speakers of my friend’s mom’s minivan as we sped around west county tp-ing boys’ houses, it would be in the midst of a full-on booty-shake to “Good Old Rump Shaker” with Mike D. laid over Matt & Kim. And when Dr. Dre came on, I wouldn’t be proudly reciting “1, 2, 3 and to the 4, Snoop Doggy Dogg and Dr. Dre is at the door” bleeping out the bad words, as a sort of sideshow entertainment to my parents’ friends’ dinner party, because it wouldn’t be “Nuthin’ but a G Thang,” baby; rather, it would be “Nuthin’ but a Journal Thang,” with Dre and Snoop laid over Class Actress synth. Hell yeah, “never been on a ride like this before.” I would crush it.

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Saturday night at the Billiken Club, I was not 18 again, but I was there, sweating my face off, as low as I could go, wearing the appropriate boots and leggings and ironic tee, and the all-too deserving yellow wristband, fake ID be damned, giving me access to the Mich Ultras and frozen margaritas and chardonnays offered by the SLU blue-polo-uniformed cafeteria worker paid overtime by Chartwells Catering to work on a Saturday night, who filled up my 99-cent paper bowl full of tortilla chips not once but twice, because the first one got knocked on the floor and were promptly cleaned up by one of those blue-polo-wearing mop-wielding SLU janitors, causing me to be noticed by the discerning eyes of yet another blue-polo-wearing-middle-aged overweight dad-figure standing in the corner chaperoning, trying to decide whether or not my chip spill was evidence of drunken-out-of-controlness.

The Only Children opened last night, spinning, if you can call DJ-ing with Apple computers spinning anymore, or even if you can call Macs Apples anymore, anyway they were spinning mashups of Daft Punk and Estelle and the Talking Heads. Following was two solid hours of STV SLV from the Hood Internet crushing mashups from Rihanna, Michael Jackson, BMX, MGMT, Usher, the Beastie Boys, R. Kelley, Chromeo, Grizzly Bear, Ludacris, Cyndi Lauper, Robin S, Ghost Face Killah, Genesis, Lauren Hill, Yeasayer, Amanda Blank, Major Lazer, Soulja Boy, Dr. Dre, Sleigh Bells, and, the grand finale, Biz Markie. A fitting end, Biz Markie, to this mashup of cultures and eras and memories and ages, and hey, STV SLV, “you, you got what I need.” You crushed it last night. It was sick.

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