We excuse ourselves from one table to another booth, another bar, in cabs and up streets. We have to be back at work in nine hours, but that is not what is to be thought of. Only this song is in the front of our mind, it's hoarse whisper in our ear since we stumbled into this place. It doesn't care where we work or the fact that we have to be back there whenever; it doesn't want to know who we know and it isn't introducing us to its friends. All it wants is us right now – right now. And we're up against the speakers with it.

Gramme put out this EP and then pretty much disappeared. Maybe it was too early for their distorted funk leanings or their broken snare and high hat drum claps, or the tiny voiced front-woman's dirty librarian demure. Of the six songs presented, a wrong note isn't hit once, though this, the second track stands out as the best of them. Filled with enough breaks and thudding bass to make the kids uprock but enough sexy enthusiasm to make them want to get down. On top of the clamor are the sultry, if not the slightest bit intoxicated, vocals that win us over, that get us in the corner with them. They come at us like an over-enthusiastic child, bounding, asking as if we trust them even though this is the first time we've met and before we answer the song wants us to follow it, take its hand. It tells us, with faint blurry eyes that it wants us, it wants to push our hair back behind our ears to take our face in both its hands and look at us. And when it does, not only does it see us, but we see the song for what it is, something usually restrained and disciplined, but that now, at one a.m., is unstrung and with out care, like it was a hardcore song until it ran into that Arthur Russell song from the beginning of the night. Now this song loves everyone it sees, which is good, because the song is looking us up and down.