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Contestants definitely had time to, ahem, boost their courage by the bar before the contest started. The kickoff time stretched later and later and the organizers tried to get the most people involved as possible. In New York, the numbers for Soul Clap reach 500. At the first S.F. edition, there were 30 contestants, and about 150 or so gawkers supporting them and egging them on. Around 12:30 it was finally time to see how many left feet these folks had between them before the judges crashed out from our collectively long weekends.

The dancers were far from sluggish, though. Toubin and MC Michelle Cable from Panache Booking announced the simple rules: groups of eight would hit the floor at a time, Toubin would spin a little James Brown, and the judges would have to come to a consensus about the winner of each round. The best guys and guys from each crew would dance it off at the very end.

Consensus was difficult because there were so many types of dancers out there. There was the sexy-dancing Burning Man looking couple who looked more like Ruby Skye regulars than oldies night followers--they had flair in both their moves and their mouthy interactions with the judges. But in the end it came down to two women, one of whom whipped her long dreads into a frenzy.

From that round on, the floor kinda belonged to the freaks.

A man we only knew as Number 14 was just flat out weird. He started out staring like a zombie at the floor, moving only his hips like he was delicately screwing an invisible glory hole. From there he moved into karate chops, stiff kicks, and ass tangos with random dance partners (earning the guy the nickname "The Fluffer" by the end, and he made good on fluffing both male and female contestants with a good pantomimed hump.)

As judges we tried to live up to our American Idol standards, but really Biafra took control of the comments section. When he wasn't castigating one dude for wearing all orange, he was telling Number 14 he should front a band because all the singers here suck and "the only good frontperson in this city is in Triclops! (a band on his label)." No mere dance contest with this lifelong lefty punk involved, the dancefloor battles turned into opportunities for Biafra to slam Gavin Newsom and Katznelson to call the Dead Kennedys legend a communist for hogging the mic.
 
In the end, it came down to style over spazz. Number (26 was it?) breezed past the others with a shimmy that didn't stop. The finale  comprised her and the Fluffer and Number 18b (who grew more dazed and confused looking as the night lingered on). Number 26 kicked up her game every time the guys kicked up theirs. The last round was a blur of under the legs moves, cartwheels, backflips, and, really, I barely remember what else. But it was ridiculous and fun and had me hoping Soul Clap returns on a weekend some day, so our city of fabulous freaks and music geeks can strut for cash without having to watch the clock.


Critic's Notebook

Personal Bias: Does being a judge count as having a bias? Ah, who cares. I love old soul music, and the club nights that cater to that crowd. Toubin, Primo, and Paul Paul all know their shit, and they're great DJs. (Turned out Primo can also be a skilled negotiator in breaking ties between judges).