Flawless

Being something of a pretentious chin-stroker , I am probably not the ideal critic for Flawless. If my natural antipathy for TV talent shows wasn’t enough, I am old enough to remember hip-hop as a street phenomenon and make an annual pilgrimage to Breakin’ Convention to catch up on the latest hip-hop crossovers. I enjoy an old school battle, like the one hosted during the Fringe by “the hardest working man in Scottish dance” Tony Mills at the Castle, and have tremendous affection for local crews – especially the Flying Jalapenos, who are really trying to break the mould, but a polished team in a packed Theatre Royal speak to me more of Broadway glamour than the defining twenty first culture of the African Diaspora. On the other hand, Flawless know how to please an audience.

Despite having my high art goggles firmly over my eyes, I can’t help but be entertained. The attempt at a narrative is clumsy, and the extended video sequence of the guys introducing themselves makes me cringe: it is inclusive and arrogant in the same measure of awkward sincerity and the parable of the tramp becoming a white suited superstar doesn’t seem to draw any meaningful conclusions. And the London accents and very British characterisation is marred by the appearance of one member as an obviously American cop: the costume is a little too male-stripper, and his policing has an unintended homoeroticism.

However, as a team, Flawless are as tight as the Bolshoi’s corps de ballet, and they refuse the easy option of constant head spinning set-pieces. They are trying to send across a clear message – live your dream – and have a brilliant parody of the commuter’s regimented life-style. And after the introduction, every dancer comes across as professional, passionate and winning. There is a genuine sense of joy in the funky jams, and a determination not just to be fodder for screaming children and mums enjoying topless and muscular men.

My frustration at Flawless is that their flashing, dynamic show strips away my veneer of cool, forcing me to admit that my sophisticated taste for European contemporary choreography are really a form of snobbery. I know that if Flawless did a show that I gave a rave review, they would be performing in the studio theatre of the Arches, sleeping on floors and paying some kind of dues that might eventually wangle them a grant. Instead, they have a national tour, a light show that would shame Pink Floyd – while irritatingly blinding me whenever anyone pulls a sharp move – and an adoring audience that they communicate with easily and directly. I am delighted that they appear to have grown since the fringe, and seem less controlled by the forces that made them famous. Even if the parable is rather confused, it is an attempt to link street dance with something more abstract. And their skill and enthusiasm is an inspiration to the crowd, except for a whining critic who was looking for something else.

That said, I came to bury them under a hipster’s barrage of intellectual critic, and they disarmed me. I am interested to see where their journey takes them.