Oh, the glamour! Not only is the club Electric Stew based in London's Trendy East London (as is the PlayLouder mansion, geographyphiles) but they appear to have thrown up almost the comprehensive primer for that achingly fashionable phenomenon we're being asked to call "electroclash". Strictly one for the styloscenti this, then, yeah?
Thankfully not. The first CD here is a sharp dissection of vibrantly human post-retro-futurism, incorporating the twin queens of robo-lascivia Peaches and Miss Kittin as well as the sleazy electronic experiments of old favourites like N*E*R*D and technoid colossus Felix Da Housecat and a combination of mechanised out.pop classics past (Dakar & Grinser's searingly clinical reconstruction of 'I Wanna Be Your Dog') and future (yes, folks, this is your first chance to shell out for Tiga and Zyntherius' bespoke, juggernautish sashay through 'Sunglasses At Night', surely the song that's going to catapult the whole movement into the mainstream come next month). And if that all sounds a little too hectic - it is meant to be the soundtrack to a club night, after all - then the accompanying second CD's there to add, actually quite imaginatively, to your chillout collection. No Dido, then, but it does contain the Doves' finest hour (oh, alright, until that new album comes out) in 'Sea Song' as well as inspired appearances from Spiritualized's blissfully undating 'I Think I'm In Love' and PJ Harvey, a woman whose presence is an invariable guarantee of quality these days. Alright, so the inclusion of Turin Brakes and the ubiquitous-but-still-not-getting-any-better Simian might be a little on the obvious side, but Sigur Ros? (It's 'Staralfur', if you were wondering.) The B52s? Or even, be still our beating hearts... Siobhan Fahey? That's just spoiling us...
Which seems to be exactly what the good people of Electric Stew are determined to do, and, as an advert for their evenings, it's not far short of perfect. Not so much a stew as a smorgasbord, in fact, and one that'll leave the most delicately-palated punter feeling like a connoisseur.
Iain Moffat
