How we embraced girl power, girl tunes, and girl armpit hair.
By: Kai Teo
Photos and video: César Ortiz
Event: Too Cute to Puke – Moriska Paviljongen, Norra Parkgatan 2
Date: Friday, 15 March ‘13
DJs: Daniel Too Tough with DJ Tyrannosaurus Bex
Genre: Female-fronted indiepop, punk, yé-yé, riot girl
Our rating: 4.5 / 5
If you’re one of those dirty little boys who hit the clubs just to rub your groin against an unsuspecting female on the dance floor, you’re out of luck here.
This is the ultimate girl power night. It’s a celebration of the female in all of us. Yes, even the big, burly bear in his chains and leather jacket. Whoever said boys can’t wear dresses and girls should shave their armpits would be stabbed here. Yes, this is how fascist, sexist pigs die.
Here’s where you ditch your gender stereotypes, wear whatever the fuck you want, and just dance your tits off. And that’s why this is Buddha Mag's personal favourite.
The night started at 11 and by the time we made it past the queue (we had our souls frozen out in the Swedish cold) and stumbled in, the fist-pumping, hand-clapping crowd were already starting to make out with one another.
We gulped down half our beer and accidentally spilled the other half on someone’s limited edition Dr. Martins. And then we got our groove on.
France Gall, The Slits and Talulah Gosh got our arms flailing wildly (our cameraman resisted) and we eventually succumbed to an uncontrollable urge to clap our hands and scream our joy into the ears of Venus and Athena. And at some point, I swear we were singing along to Roxette.
You see, we’ve all said things like “Oh, I was dancing with this guy, but the lighting was so bad in there, and when we came out, I was like wtf.” This doesn’t happen here. The dance floor’s perpetually bathed in a soft, warm light here, so you see everyone for who they are. And forget the thick makeup, it all gets smudged when the packed audience engages in some sort of ritualistic communal sweating. Depends on what you like, but we found it fucking sexy.
The crowd was an eclectic mix of checkered-shirt hipsters with ironic moustaches, 60s yé-yé girls, muscle-flexing vegan chicks with shaved heads, glamourous boys and the occasional out-of-place-too-posh-to-be-dancing rich kid. Everyone was beautiful, everyone was smiling, and everyone was too cute to puke.
At 3am, the music stopped. Everywhere legal, and good, kinda closes at this time in Malmö.
That’s when we scuttled off to an undisclosed location to carry on partying, with Poupée de Cire, Poupée de Son still ringing in our ears.