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Crystal Method 

Revolution, Nov. 10

CRYSTAL METHOD
  • CRYSTAL METHOD
The only truly democratic musical genre — heck, art form of any sort — may be live dance music. The will of the group dominates; in the end, the only measure of a DJ is how well he can manipulate the masses. Intellectual appreciation is merely a bonus when your butt is the ultimate aesthete.

So it's tough to give the Crystal Method (Ken Jordan and Scott Kirkland) the glowing send-off that they should have earned for their set Friday at the Rev Room. The Method distinguished itself by multilayered tweak-and-bass mixes and an almost pompous patience in escalating the sounds before dropping the beat. Alas, someone done sucked the energy out of the mob.

Too bad, because the scene seemed to be set. From Little Rock's anemic rave scene came the mohawked dude slinging his glow-sticks like numchucks, the guy in the sideways hat and “Make Love Not Babies” shirt, the skinny blondes sporting baby-doll T's and come-hither scowls, the pencil-bearded metrosexuals, the Velma with a black X on the back of her hand whose preferred dance stance was the downward dog, tail wagging. (The crustashioed guy in a camo hoodie and the portly dude in horizontal stripes also turned out, lest the party-goers foster any illusion of being in a posh metropolis.)

Joey Smoke spun the room into a slow boil that diminished after turns by a couple of other DJs accused by one attendee of being too clinical. But by the time Michael Shane (recognizable to locals as Discovery mainstay) layered in a couple of samples and changed up the beats, the patch of concrete in front of the stage had repopulated, densely, and a party had broken out.

When Jordan and Kirkland greeted the room, the revelers erupted, the speakers pulsed, bodies collided and generally the butts were in agreement: Life would indeed sound amazing inside a video game. But gradually the guy-on-girl-on-girl spooning abated, and there were as many people scooting wallward to wobble solo or slipping outside for smokes as there were bodies on the dance floor. Roughly an hour and a half into the set, when Kirkland thanked the crowd for “supporting (13-letter expletive) dance music,” it was a genuine thanks offered to a too-small contingent of people actually moving to that selfsame music. The cool kids had rendered a world-famous electronica duo into a spectator sport. Few cared to break a sweat — a real pity, because the democracy of dance requires a quorum.

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