Dandi Windat the Echo, March 4

For Dandi Wind’s show at Part Time Punks, the stage and its entire contents were draped with long strips of knotted fabric ropes, chaining everything together. It looked a little gross, like bleached intestines. Oh no, I thought, is this going to be one of those dark-core electro-punk shows that induce projectile vomiting? (You know, in a good way?) Either way, I had come too far; there would be no backing out.

Dandi Wind danced onstage looking like a neon shaman — a little Nina Hagen, a little Karen O, a little hypnotic, a little revolting. She wore a shaggy colorful headdress, matching leotard and tights in a hypercolor tie-dye print, and little swirls of paint on her face. She danced ferociously, doing a sort of hippie Jazzercize ballet punctuated with lots of hopping and arm choreography.

This was the thing, then. Dandi jumping, dancing, singing, wailing and squealing over eerie industrial/electro beats (courtesy of keyboardist Szam and drummer Evan). The intestinal rope came in handy when Dandi grabbed it, twirled it over her head, helicopter style, and then threw it at some kids in the audience who deserved it. They were making a gay-boy mosh pit.

The songs came at you hard but with a steady uniformity, giving Dandi lots of downtime to hop around and make faces. The scenesters gathered for this Montrealer’s L.A. debut were either dancing up a sweat or confused and exasperated. I found myself absently rubbing my temples. A friend turned away, needing a break. “She’s like Gloria Trevi’s granddaughter,” he huffed. But the trashy robot beat was too strong, Dandi’s savage antics too entrancing. “Fuck it, I’m gonna go dance.” And he went back in.

LA Weekly