Somewhere between the bassline of “Now U Do” and the synchronized absurdity of Janet Planet and Sugar Bones strutting like they’ve been programmed by a disco-fuelled supercomputer, the walls of Brixton start sweating. Not metaphorically. Actually. Condensation forms, drips from the ceiling in little beads, collecting on shoulders, on hair, on outstretched hands clutching drinks that have long since ceased to be drinks and are now just accessories to the movement.
Confidence Man does not perform at O2 Academy Brixton. They hijack it. The stage is not a stage. It is a hyper-colored battleground where the laws of pop, dance, satire, and complete theatrical nonsense fight to the death, only to be resurrected seconds later by the sheer force of the next beat drop. Sugar Bones, limbs flailing with immaculate precision, is equal parts human and cartoon character—Jim Carrey if he was raised on 90s rave culture and never learned how to stand still. Janet Planet flickers between dominatrix, aerobics instructor, and celestial being with a side-hustle in pop domination. The masked ones—Reggie Goodchild and Clarence McGuffie—are the silent gods presiding over the chaos, static in their mystery, except for their hands, which manipulate the synths like they are recalibrating the universe.
Does it make you feel good? Of course, it does. How dare you even ask? The question lingers in the air like an inside joke as “Does It Make You Feel Good?” erupts, a burst of funky disco euphoria that lands somewhere between aerobic workout anthem and a call to arms for people who believe that dancing might actually change the world. Which, in this moment, it might.
The bass is too much and exactly the right amount at the same time. It pulses like a second heartbeat, synchronizing the crowd into a singular organism. No phones out. No stillness. No time for self-awareness, because the lights are flashing seizure-fast and the choreography is impossibly tight, and Janet Planet is looking directly at you—or at least you think she is, but you also think she might be looking at everyone, or at no one at all, because she exists on a different plane where eye contact is just another weapon in her arsenal of controlled chaos.
“C.O.O.L Party” descends like a cult ritual. Hands up. Hands higher. Sugar Bones, now shirtless, glistening, operates like a ringleader gone rogue. The song itself is an inside joke told at 130 BPM, a parody so airtight that it loops back around to sincerity. The entire room believes in it. Everyone here is at the coolest party. Nobody will ever be this cool again. Five minutes later, the thought has dissolved. New song. New mission. Keep moving.
“Holiday” slides in like a mirage—a sun-soaked fever dream that softens the room for just a second. Just long enough to remember the concept of breath. Just long enough to lull you into thinking that maybe, maybe, there will be a moment of reprieve. It is a lie. “Boyfriend (Repeat)” lands like a sonic brick to the skull, its insistence on its own existence defying physics. The choreography is militant now, the room a sweaty, throbbing organism chanting along like a hive mind on the verge of spiritual awakening.
The encore is inevitable. Confidence Man doesn’t leave you wanting more. They force you to need it. “3AM (LA LA LA)” is a farewell disguised as an escalation. A slow-build, dream-state anthem that swirls around the room, stretching time until nobody knows how long they’ve been dancing. Five minutes? Five hours? Was there ever life before this? There is no past, no future. Just this moment. This neon-soaked, rhythm-driven baptism. The final beat drops, and the crowd is still dancing, still shouting the chorus even as the band vanishes. Confidence Man has left the stage, but the party hasn’t ended. It never does. It just disperses, leaking out into Brixton, into the night, into every movement still thrumming with the bassline.
Somewhere, someone is still singing la la la under their breath. They won’t stop until the next time.
Words & photos – Richard Isaac
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