I dislike Diplo in so many ways. Actually, maybe dislike is a little strong. I 'meh' Diplo in so many ways. The snob in me thinks he can be a mite sell out-y at times, his Philly accent is tinny - ok, that's not particularly fair but admit it, after her cartoon-esque curves you scowl at Scarlett because of that voice - and his frighteningly constant twitter updates are downright cruel. No Diplo. I do not want to hear that you're swigging dark rum from the bottle as you salute hundreds of yelping fans behind your decks. On the beach. In the sunshine.
But ....
That boy knows how to party.
My lovely London girls and I rocked up to a Major Lazer gig on Wednesday, 26th May at Village Underground expecting a party. What we got was in fact a giant slap in the face with some Caribbean soul, champagne launched off a jiggling bottom, crowd surfing, sweat pouring off tangled, jumping limbs and daggering. Daggering that would make Samantha blush. I watched amazed - mildly horrified but also unable to tear my eyes away, car crash style - as Skerrit Boy climbed up the most precarious step ladder in all of Christendom, pulled his jeans down, waved his tackle around at the shrieking ladies of the audience then leapt - nay, DIVED - onto an excited slash terrified creature beneath him. Oh and then he jumped about a bit on top of her for good measure. What. Would. Mother. Say.
These boys hardly ever tour England so if you can - go, go, go, go, go, go, go. It was phenomenal. The music was great fun full of 90's classics and modern shaking, they definitely know what they're doing and have, more excitingly, brought an exoticism and new flavour to the genre. They're onto something. Just leave your sense of propriety at home. And possibly bring a flannel.
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