The crowd was packed sardine-tight, fine for a club gig by Monky Pussy, but unfortunately the band was performing at old friend Véronique Branquinho s show in the Bourse, so the discomfort factor wasn t quite so tolerable. It did, however, unwittingly supply some of the rawness that Branquinho claimed she was after. Her resolutely drab collection had the thrown-together casualness of a Sunday morning visit to the corner store—you know it s unlikely you ll see anyone you recognize, so you chuck a jacket over your pajamas and slip on a pair of flip-flops (which reveals that, at some point in the evening s festivities, someone painted your toenails silver). That loosey-goosey morning-after-the-night-before vibe attached itself to the baggy silhouette, to trousers whose hems trailed on the floor, to stretched-out knits and T-shirts that looked like old band souvenirs. Branquinho said she wanted to mix real clothes with touches of the exotic, like the Mongolian closings on a shirt, or the kimono sleeves on a trench, but these details were too minor to infuse her shabby chic with much vim.
