Galactic @ the Showbox: The Sublime Pass-through

It's an art. Not as rehearsed or precise as a 5-man funky white band fronted by two energetic, percussive rappers, but not without technique lest you look a fool. No better environment than a feel-good southern-flavored party with room to move: a collage of hippies, frat boys, glittery waifs in floor-length skirts, and a whole lotta saxophone. No more respectable way to transition from dance floor to back-of-the-room bar than: the pass-through.

It starts with the internal decision: time for another drink. Boots Riley just bounced off stage after firing up the crowd, replaced by the lumbering bass of Chali Tuna. Everyone still bouncing to Galactic's infectious funk. To drop step and merely walk back to the bar would be the work of an amateur, the still interloper in a mosh pit. Keep the head nodding and bobbing, look around. Find your channel. A few well-placed steps, then swerve sideways with a sly smile, fists pumping in front with a little shrug of the shoulders. The channel closes in behind you, swallowing your spot. Squeeze the arms up, palms facing out as you weave them around like a snake charmer. Head still nodding, make the three stairs heading back towards the bar into a little Fred Astaire moment: skip, skip...glide! Keep it funky, not too giddy now. Almost at the bar, slow it down a bit; scan for your opening then slide up and wait, head barely nodding, a hint of waggle in the hips.

Photo of Galactic at the Filmore in San Francisco by Rob Lee.