4-13-09, Dan Deacon, Freeman Auditorium: I am holding hands with a shoeless girl in Freeman Auditorium on Tulane’s campus as Dan Deacon launches into another electronic dance anthem. There is no romance, however, at least not in the Shakespearean sense. She and I happened to end up across from each other in the human tunnel that Deacon compelled the audience to form. Our arms create an arch and, truthfully, mine are starting to ache. I still have my shoes on, though most of the kids here have dutifully removed them upon Deacon’s request.

Each song is a self-conscious ode to a time when people danced without irony. The music itself makes no grand statements. That would be too explicatory in an inexplicable world of human tunnels and monstrous projections of Jack Russell terriers (a video accompaniment). The dancing men with beards wearing neon headbands and short shorts are not here for a thesis on post-modern music. That’s why they left their laptops for the night.

Deacon’s songs find themselves through meticulously constructed percussion and synthesizers, with less of the pretension or procrastination of art rock. These songs make you want to dance and, maybe, participate in some corporal architecture. Some of them sound like Alvin and the Chipmunks swallowed your Nintendo; others like Ennio Morricone discovered the synthesizer.

After the body tunnel has broken apart, Deacon fans scramble back into the auditorium to resume gyrating and pumping their fists in the air. One guy without a shirt falls over. A girl, also shirtless – though the bra remains – stands on a chair. Most of them are without shoes, too. Bottles and cans litter the rugs.
Last time I was here, Ralph Nader was pushing for a three-party system in American government. He had to ask for applause at appropriate points. Tonight, our keynote speaker could tell the audience to do anything, and they would.

“Raise your hands in the air,” Deacon says. “Now open them wide. Now put one hand on your side. Now get down on one knee. Thank you.”

All of this seems to be executed in mimicry of some evangelist catharsis or, maybe, in mockery. Yet there is something religious about it. A flickering, multi-colored mountain peak graces the screen behind the band. The ensemble wears matching white body suits – the prophets. They play deep, almost soulful rhythms on loop that encourage even the most timid listeners to finally run in, remove their New Balances, and sweat it out with the others. And as Deacon starts in on the final song, I too begin to toe my right heel with my left foot – it’s time to flail about, I mean, to dance.