A FAVORITE FROM FIVE YEARS AGO
“Needy Girl”
from the album She’s in Control
Original release date: February 17, 2004
iTunes
February 22, 2004:
David Macklovitch, a lanky half-Moroccan Ph.D. student of French literature at Columbia, and Patrick Gemayel, a meaty Lebanese accountant with gold teeth, were in a cab on their way to Brooklyn on a recent Friday night, marveling that they are seen as a too-cool-for-school novelty act.
Mr. Macklovitch, 25, and Mr. Gemayel, 26, are the unlikely pair that make up Chromeo, an electro-funk combo signed to Vice Records, a label started by the hipster bible, Vice magazine. By day, the men, childhood friends from Montreal, pore over books. By night, Mr. Macklovitch picks up a Flying V guitar and becomes Dave 1 and Mr. Gemayel inserts a talkbox into his mouth and, with his vocals digitized, becomes P-Thugg.
“When I’m not in class, I’m at the library,” said Mr. Macklovitch, throwing his hands around like a loony scientist, glasses and all. “We are not cool,” Mr. Gemayel whispered.
Their debut album She’s in Control, a record of slow jams dipped in sticky lip gloss, came out on Tuesday but could have been made 20 years ago, alongside those of Shalamar and Cameo. So it makes sense that Chromeo — just like the 80’s-obsessed retro bands Fannypack, Junior Senior, and Darkness — face skeptics who assume they are merely winking at the music they filter.
“If we were ironic, we’d do a polka album,” said Mr. Macklovitch, defending the band’s sincerity. Mr. Gemayel added, “We’re fun, not funny.” After a round of Québécois the odd couple collapsed into giggles.
Outside Volume, a performance space at North 13th Street and Wythe Avenue in Williamsburg, a freezing, angry crowd was penned in like a bunch of sad calves. “Stop pushing!” screamed a girl in furry boots. “What’s going on?” Mr. Gemayel asked. “Is there free food inside?”
Each person, upon entering, was handed a white jumpsuit. “You have to put it on,” said a man holding out a bundle to Mr. Gemayel, who countered, “Come on man, you know how we are with the style.” Mr. Macklovitch, with his suit on backward, was proudly watching his friend being waved inside. “P is a thugged-out individual,” he said.
In a room with black lights, glowing bodies surrounded two girls dancing to the techno in suits scrunched down to reveal white bras. With his arms spread out, Mr. Gemayel glided toward them. The girls clung to each other in front of a growing number of men with videocameras — an avant-garde version of MTV’s spring break. “This is like a rave for 35-year-olds,” Mr. Macklovitch complained.
Jumping into a cab back to Manhattan, the guys hoped for a better scene at APT, a bar in the meatpacking district. “No one dances in New York,” said Mr. Gemayel, looking around at the mostly male crowd. “Everyone is concerned with looking cool. In Montreal, no matter where you go, people dance.” A remix of George Benson’s “Give Me the Night” started, and Mr. Gemayel shimmied, this time with himself.
At 1:45, the two friends headed out. King Kino, the Mick Jagger of the up-tempo style of Haitian music called konpa, was about to take the stage at S.O.B.’s. “I want to dance with fat chicks,” Mr. Gemayel announced.
“This is King Kino’s first show since leaving his band, the Phantoms,” explained Mr. Macklovitch, who like his partner grew up in Montreal’s Haitian community.
Pulling up to the club, Mr. Gemayel finished his conversation with the (coincidentally Haitian) cab driver in Creole. (Though a man of few words, Mr. Gemayel also speaks Arabic, French, Italian and a bit of Spanish, and he is teaching himself Hebrew.)
With trumpets blaring, the host announced the main event. Multicolored lights swirled over the crowd as Mr. Gemayel and Mr. Macklovitch wedged through.
“This is the next level,” Mr. Macklovitch said. “Tonight we went to Brooklyn, Long Island-style Manhattan, and now we are in Queens,” he said, a nod to the Haitian-heavy crowd. “This is great.” Finally in their element, the pair relaxed and swayed to the rhythm, pointing out possible dance partners.