SNAPSHOT

Snapshot:

Bonde do Role

by Joshua Valocchi

Nipping at the heels of Bonde do Role’s last Philly show—the already legendary jam-packed sweat-fest at Sal’s—their Johnny Brenda’s gig last week carried pretty high expectations. Padding the bill with a cavalcade of local faves (Plastic Little, Gang, Pink Skull) certainly didn’t hurt ticket sales, clearly evidenced by the “Sold Out” signs posted just about everywhere imaginable throughout the downstairs bar.

Slews of hopefuls and determined fans of baile funk packed JB’s lower level, banking on the off-chance they’d be let upstairs to witness it go down. Still, the claustrophobic downstairs couldn’t hold a candle to upstairs’ ridiculous clusterfuck. Lousy with legging-clad lasses and shaggily coiffed lads, it was nearly impassable.

About the time it reached critical mass an A-bomb called Plastic Little exploded. The local “rap” trio wasted little time doing their damndest to reinforce claims they’re “ruining hip-hop” (wink wink, 215hiphop.com groupies) by upstaging the headliners.

As Bonde Do Role hit the stage, the crowd erupted, and the night shifted into party overdrive. Hot. Cramped. Sweaty. Sexy. Floor buckling. Shit was downright dangerous.

The trio rocked through a gaggle of tunes off With Lasers, lead shreiker Marina Ribatski screaming her notoriously filthy Portugese lyrics no one in the crowd could or needed to understand.

When Ribatski broke out the English, it was to command the crowd—near fainting, but begging for more—to “put [your] hands up!” Not doing so would’ve been downright uncouth, a slap in the face of our Brazilian friends who’d come so far to help facilitate this freakout. Thus we obeyed.