Nu funk neo-trannie psychedelic alien sex techno poetry
I’m not a music writer, but I swear I just witnessed the birth of a new genre. Well, it sounded like giving birth, of sorts. Let’s call it Nu funk neo-trannie psychedelic alien sex techno poetry . (Remember, you read it here first).
Anyone performing must wear tight luminous green Lycra leggings, preferably with a codpiece, which must be thrust regularly into a member of the audience’s face, a star outfit not so much touched-off but launched with shiny red brogues and a punky zebra skin T-shirt. Hair must be cropped, daaahling, topped in bleached yellow.
Well, I say anyone. But in reality there is perhaps only one person in this genre. And that’s the self-styled Posh the Prince. I hope he is called Posh the Prince, it was one of the few normal phrases in the set that didn’t involved sexual positions with aliens screamed into a mike from just 10ft away. so normal, I can’t remember it! I should have asked him to spell it, but I didn’t want to interrupt. I could hae been chastised. The codpiece loomed large, like a weapon!
To call this early evening ensemble bizarre gives bizarre a weird name. “Wrong?” Perhaps. Mad? Possibly. Completely and utterly random? Yes, maybe. Totally chuffing random.
Nadia called it “good but weird”. Lucy hailed it as “a bad trip”. Will was left speechless. It was as if his very will to live had been taken from behind. Never have I seen two songs claim a soul so quickly.
Posh the Prince basically toasts – well, screams and bleats – alien sex poetry, over a weird, techno psychedelic mishmash of scarred electro breakbeats and trippy hop hips, imploring us in high-pitched, stuccato, erratic bursts of NYC babble to all have sex in our sleep.
It’s easy to josh. At least he is out there doing something. Better bad than normal, I say.
Personally, I’m glad I experienced Posh the Prince, especially when a boat load of blau-rinse tourists having a four-course meal on a nighttime boat cruise motored past, gawping inanely just as Posh reached his alien orgasm by rubbing himself up against a tree. More pork, madame? “Wass?”
The venue helps matters. I’ve just seen him Posh “perform”, at die Terrase, right on the Spree river outside Club Maria, by Schillingbrucke in Friedrichschain. An intimate venue, if intimate can mean the Nu funk trannie psychedelic alien techno-sex poetic wailings rebounding off derelict factory walls all the way down to Mitte.
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