New Year’s Eve, Club Nokia, I was smiling at the lovely crisp night and the off the meter white van cab that dropped me at the door. I was super smiling to get the turquoise wrist band that let me close to the stage and a pass that gave me upstairs wandering privileges. I like Club Nokia, when the music is upbeat and the crowd isn’t competitive, when the music is Chromeo and the crowd consists of everybody from bedazzle-eyed lanky late teens and balding men wearing tiny gold top hats, to sexy high top sporting gay girls and hyper mini-skirted chicks of questionable preference.

Gaslamp Killer’s hair was so big that when he moved he looked like he was doing so in slow motion, blurry. He started somewhere around Radiohead’s Idioteque and closed somewhere around Little Wayne, give or take a few incredible beats that had the quickly thickening crowd moving.  The party continued with Vega and Peanut Butter Wolf—and then, the count down, it came from nowhere, time was quickly passing us by, 5,4,3,2,1, Chromeo. Chromeo was the countdown, a midnight treat, an electronic Hall & Oats with such style and face, friends since high school, a pair that perform in a place that seemingly sits parallel to our place and time, in a para era.

The crowd was chanting, lady lamp legs shining on stage, the bearded thin one on the guitar in a black suit and dapper white shoes, the bearded round one on a keyboard, in a peculiar white purple green orange african motif geometric print outfit, flowing pants matching an unbuttoned button down, backwards green baseball cap, and that thingy in his mouth that makes him sound like a melodic robot—the pair an electro funk phenomena.

My expressive can only oscillate between the mild little haiku summarizing a huge situation,

chro-me-o, oh-oh
their banter beats created
a simple warm cure

and a great flood of not so bon mot details,

a pink neon two step sign, 100%, fancy footwork, drinks, dancing, jumping, laughing, cheeks sore, fantastical fanhood, Chromeo left, Chromeo came back, don’t stop believing, flood to the outside, bright night cab ride, a snack of black olives, to sleep, to wake up, in a familiar bed with two relatively familiar female faces.Thank you, Chromeo, for the happiness, youth and romance you provided in a never ending dark light damp virtuoso.

—Dre Zhubi