Revolving to tonight however, the much-lambasted smoking ban of '07 is openly flouted within seconds of their peroxide-scented emergence whilst hi-vis security jackets are soon seen floundering amidst the wrestle of the most devastating circle pits seen this side of Sonisphere, or at least north of the Thames. Irregardless of the scents of bleach, enticing eau de toilette and a fusty, carbon monoxide-based fog La Femme exude an exceedingly enviable chic to which the eerie sway of La Femme Ressort attests as saccharine girlish swoons massage hypnotic sinisterness and the iced glares of a particularly menacing drummer encircled by the Danse Macabre of sleek silhouettes. The maddening pace of raucous surf-pop number Télégraphe meanwhile ups the ante further, arpeggiated synths romping to devastating drum battery. Precisely what Faris et al. have been meticulously striving to brew over the past clutch of years, it's done to exceedingly more invigorating and indeed intoxicating effect: for while The Horrors trade in unabashed superficiality, we're here privy to fervid belief in that which thunders through the PA and this purely arouses allure in their every impassioned yowl, in every uncontainable thrash of keyboard, in every swell of psych-slanted Strat. However it's the noirish discombobulations of Sur La Plance that instill greatest imprudence on behalf of those sweating and smoking on flooring now gloppy enough to rival that which attracted myriad Converse soles to SW9 as the maniacal mêlées of Paris' infamous Pop In are recreated convincingly, much to the indignation of a lone bouncer. La Femme tonight proved devilishly fatale.
