Le Corps Mince de Francoise: Review 28/10/09 The Cavern, Exeter

Is there anything better than a band with a completely off the wall name? What about one that manages to put their tinny recordings to complete shame with a vibrant, unforgettable live show? At their LoFi Cavern appearance electro pop trio Les Corps Mince de Francoise managed to achieve both. Meaning “the thin body of Francoise”, les filles Norwegians were anything except skinny and feeble with a full on, full fat performance. Pummelling the living daylights out of their inexhaustible number of instruments they produced an inordinately catchy set which left any number of body parts twitching long after they’d left the stage.

Before you rush off to the internet to get your online fill, I’ve got to warn that any number of demos or tracks do no justice to the delicious layering offered up by their live shows. Get beyond the amalgamation of androgynous howling to the real deal which even includes a cheeky bit of French rapping. Opening with “Ray Ban Glasses”, the snappy beats managed to elicit lounging indie kids from darkened corners, and as the show went on, more and more were pulled to the electric fizz the girls were effervescing with. Classic electro floorfillers “Bitch of the Bitches” went down as a particular highlight with its skipping drums and chattering vocals. The set bounded with bunny like enthusiasm through a veritable mash up of genres ranging from Ace of Base-esque beats ( I kid you not) via some bouncy bhangra right up to some classic La Roux styled electro pop.

LCMDF are angels with dirty beats and ragged tights; dip your toe in their swirling pool of music potluck for lasting feel good sensations.

© Miranda Thompson 2010

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Lash, Banter, Bolt…Error

Borrowing from Exeter university’s attempt at making not drinking “trendy” and down with the kids y’all, it was going to have to be mentioned at some point. I am a student and…I do not drink.

Not drinking and being a student conjures up many perceptions. Either you’re some weirdo who doesn’t like jumping on the lash wagon or you’re a weirdo who doesn’t like jumping on the lash wagon. Or else you’re some absolute legend who drank so much they landed up allergic to vodka. I’ve heard all the urban myths.

I’d like to classify myself in that second category, but not as some kind of twisted self compliment. Believe me; I used to be first in line to throw myself on the lash. Ever since I could get my sticky hands on a peachy bottle of Bacardi Breezer, I’ve embraced the drinking culture. Collecting shots of people’s drinks at pubs? Yesssss. Netball initiation? Yup. Shit mix in a kettle? Yumtown.

I suppose it all culminated last year in the glorious ten months I spent abroad in France. Every moment I spent was one of the best in my life, whether skiing fresh powder in the Alpes, splashing in the Mediterranean or chilling with a baguette and cheese in a park. And in every single situation I took advantage of alcohol on offer; whether a tummy warming vin chaud or a cheapy bottle of wine – ONE EURO! I still can’t get over it – where it got to the point that alcohol was a frequent, regular, even unavoidable occurrence. My 21st birthday was even nicknamed “J’adore bingedrinking”, a celebration of the British stereotype and another excuse to get absolutely shit faced with an amazing group of friends. I don’t regret any moment of my year abroad but every gulp of alcohol I chugged down was seriously put into perspective when I was hospitalised for 5 days at the end of Freshers’week with a thing called pancreatitis. What a bloody palaver.

To cut a long and dramatic story short, (having projectile vomited across A&E, turned yellow after a morphine reaction and suffered the most gut wrenching stomach ache of life), the doctors announced, in a very dramatic Slovakian delivery that I was to “stay very far from the alcohol.” Of course I burst into tears. It felt like an extremely painful break-up, the end of me and my long love affair with booze. The current prognosis is that I have to avoid alcohol indefinitely, much to the horror of many of my friends. “YOU…not drinking?” tends to be the general reaction my sober state incites. What about all those nights on the lash? The morning-after recollections where you try to relive the banter of the previous night? Frozen margaritas, fruity Pimms and fabulous glasses of champagne? Not for me anymore.

I’d like to say that I’ve embraced the not drinking. Schloer (a grapey, tangy wine-alike), is my new best friend, and instead of downing Jaegerbombs it’s simply shots of Red Bull to keep me going throughout the night. Nights out are surprisingly terrific; I still dance like an absolute maniac and I still do completely twattish things, but with a heavier wallet and a generally lighter countenance – see you later wine wobbles! The only thing I’d swap back for is the power to sit through drunken monologues without the unbearable itch to grab a glass and wallow in deep and meaningful conversation. Whatever happens with my pancreas, it’s been amazing to know that I can survive social excursions without being fuelled by a bottle of plonk. I’d advise anyone to give it a go.

© Miranda Thompson 2010