We climbed into the back of the cab out front of my apartment, and I looked over at my friend Tyler; his perfectly manicured, long, black curls fell in front of his face, like a perfect, but very muscular, doll’s. “Tyler,” I said. “Yeah?” he responded as he pushed his hair back. “If this all goes well,” I told him, “I’m getting a triangle tattooed somewhere on my body.” We were in sync. “Wait, me too,” he said.

The lights were dark inside the Sinclair, except for a soft, subtle blue tinted the room. It was curiously quiet. Not was I was expecting of the crowd for the night’s headlining act, Yacht. The hall was half empty, and my harem of fabulous queens? looked around a little confused. Los Angeles duo, with their cutting electronic sound and clear, progressive vision, I was sure would draw a bigger crowd, even if it was a Monday in November.

Boston… and Cambridge… and even you, Somerville… I… am… very… disappointed

The lights flickered up, and androgynous beauty Claire L. Evans made her way onto the stage with her fellow band members. Her energy absorbed by the gaggle of awkward concert goers. The setting transformed itself, and suddenly, nothing, nothing mattered anymore.

The devoid venue, now only lie there in pro, rather than con. An empty space offered up itself as an expansive dance floor. The intensity enigmatic. Nothing felt awkward anymore.

Evans worked the stage and then the crowd, and then the stage again in a jaw-dropping, black pant suit, her bleach blonde, close-shaved head reflecting off of the contrasting and crisp splashes of blue and reds beaming across the ends of the Harvard Square rock club. She came with her own microphone in tow: a matte-red number, with a seemingly infinite in length, matching chord. As she sang into the head, the attached chord wrapped up and all over her — like somewhere, at the questionable end, that chord plugged into her heart. Her microphone took on it’s own persona; but, seemed somehow, a living, breathing part of Evans herself.

I closed my eyes and moved my body, bouncing like the little glyph in pong—hitting one invisible barrier and back to the other. The music derived in tenors of disco, meets pop, meets industrial, and funk, and back again. It blurs and brightens. It feels like the best soundtrack to the nightclubs of the late 1970s or ’80s, the ones I wish I was alive to see, and romanticize often.

“All are welcome to become members of Yacht,” says the group’s mission statement. And, while the band is out on tour promoting their recent release, I Thought The Future Would Be Cooler, Evans and co. seemed to be doing something much more than that.

Like quickly enlisting fans to not just revel in their sumptuous music, but to join something bigger then themselves: to breathe in new life and look at things with a more fluid lens. They or rather, we are “Young Americans Challenging Higher Technology.”

I looked up at the ceiling, and felt the pangs of imagined delta symbols, anchors, and smiley faces bounce from my cheeks. I spun and swung, laughed and in this explored new ends to my being through the sonic trends of Yacht. The light and sound technicians of the evening orchestrated an insatiable trip for the senses, while stand-out renditions of tracks like, “L.A. Plays Itself,” “I Wanna Fuck You Till I’m Dead,” and the classic banger “Psychic City” transcended time itself, leaving the audience in a whirlwind at end—and wanting, cliché or nay, more more more.

In the afterglow, I am currently referring back to the “Yacht tattoo policy” (found on the Team Yacht, trust section of the band’s webpage), trying to decide where exactly the perfect spot would be. Mom, please don’t kill me. It’s just one equilateral triangle, please.

Follow Madi Silvers on Twitter @MadiSilvers.

 

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