“Fame is easy,” declared Fritz of Fritz Helder and the Phantoms after his Friday night concert at underground dance club Mr. Black. Silk Helder, Diego Superstar and Pastel Supernova—the front end of this six-person, Toronto-based electro-pop fashion performance outfit—nodded fiercely in agreement. “You don’t have to be famous to entertain,” Fritz said. And entertain they did, after a warm introduction from a flawless-looking Nelly Furtado. Most of the Phantoms were background dancers for Furtado, who signed the group to her new indie label, Nelstar music.
Their fist-pumping electro mixed in with some surprisingly decent rap breakdowns made for an unexpectedly good show.Visually, the extensive Vogue-style posing, sometimes asymmetrical eye makeup and high-concept outfits made for what felt like a 21st-century Prince cover band. The crowd was consistently wild—my plus-one “beard-for-the-evening” Sandy described them as a mix of the Black Eyed Peas and Of Montreal (although it might just be the Canadian thing, and the “Peas,” comparison is totally whack.) The only vocal critic was Johnny, a go-go boy wearing a sheer black mesh thong and an irregular square tattoo on his ass. “See, I make music too,” he explained while eagled-spread to the crowd,“and it all seemed, like, a little forced! The girl was beautiful but I wish she would actually sing!” “What’s that tattoo on your ass?” I asked sweetly. “Ohio!” he declared, grinning and shaking the Buckeye State in my face. In the upstairs VIP area I discovered that “none of us studied music at all,” according to Supernova, who claimed to be the youngest of the group at 23. “I lied to Fritz and said I could play guitar,” said Silk, a skinny white guy who didn’t bother to put a shirt on for our chat. The group said they would have no problem getting more naked for their shows.
“We have nothing to hide,” said Diego. “Our fashion blog already has a naked issue, so check it out.” Skipping around the lounge to try and get a word with Nelly, I was very apologetically told, five feet away from the miniscule Canuck, “She only has 10 minutes left and can’t answer any questions!” Back downstairs I lamented to Mr. Black party hostess Ladyfag—also a Toronto native and friend of the band—about Furtado’s silence.
“We are nice people, but don’t believe the hype,” she said while humping the air near her pelvis. “We’re not so polite.”
