Trippple Nippples at the Old Blue Last

26 August, 2011
by: Kix

Who needs double the fun when you can Trippple?

The Old Blue Last is a hot sauna. Jay Z is blasting in the background. The buzz of words floating, tongues clicking and eyes swimming makes the top floor even hotter and more cramped. Out of this heated bath of bodies a man covered in feathers emerges and mounts the stage. He looks like a giant peacock. Three tiny Japanese girls follow the trail of crazy outfits. They are small and ferocious, wearing a cheeky smile and carrying a naughty glint in their eyes. Their attire consists of DIY underwear and combat boots. The rest is left to the imagination.

We all gawp in curiosity for a second before Yuka Nippple suddenly attacks the stage like a samurai with her high-pitched voice and amphetamine-driven pop squeals and electro beats. The crowd sits still for one minute confused, in awe, in fascination, then, bang! Trippple Nippples' explosive energy infects us all. We're all jumping to crazily delivered lyrics.

For the next 45 minutes three mischievous girls scream at the audience in a haze of electro-pop that's slapped out with a fierce punk attitude. Irresistibly catchy and insanely messy, this is pop-tronica that transports you to a different world, maybe one made of gigantic lollipops and life-sized Tamagotchis and deliriously drunk Harajuku girls. It's good, deliriously good.

Suddenly all the glitchy disco beats and funky pop tunes die and Trippple Nippples stand still, looking out at the horizon. Mademoiselle Yulia and Qrea Nippple start filling Yuka Nippple's mouth with strawberries. Fists full of strawberries are bashed against teeth and trails of strawberry blood stream down Yuka's torso. The whole act spreads; soon it's Yula's mouth that's being stuffed and then it's Qrea's turn to be packed with oozing red fruit. Like dead dolls they stare at the floor and fall one by one on the floor. Strawberry silence.

We’re left waiting for what feels like a murderously long time until suddenly a bulldozing heavy metal vibe hits us in the face and the gig turns into a hardcore shindig. The crowd leaps into another level. These masterfully theatrical girls end the show with a tribal-infused pop tune. Holding up cardboard letters of LSD they chant “I like, I like, I like my L in front of my S. I Like, I like, I like my S in front of my D. I don't care what you see, I like my LSD.”

Delivering a truly revolutionary show where their spontaneity is just the initial spark to one hot mess that leaves me bruised but happy and – waking up the next day with a head like a cracked watermelon – craving a Friday morning fry-up, Trippple Nippples literally put the art in party.