And what's not to love? Of course, titles like "the most exciting musical force in Britain" fly liberally these days, being dispensed, coincidentally enough, at a frequency to match music rag publication. We cloaked ourselves in doubt--how could any DJ duo be that formidable? It was no good. They defeated Floyd to pack in hundreds of big-trousered, poker-hatted, UV-resplendent love-children of dance; our skepticism fell away at the drop of a beat.

Quel beat. It crept out of the warm-up DJ's competent hash in a sexy South American slouch and suddenly exploded into a cheer of whistles, bongos and absolute samba soccer hooliganery. And then the night just went all over the place from there. In the absence of DJ-as-God pretense, there was just hair-on-your-chest music to make you dance. It was feel-good, dressed-down, non-glam house music, hot and hasty in your joints like you haven't heard in a long time. The anchors of the show were definitely the celebrity pieces from Remedy (Astralwerks) like the flamer "Rendez-Vu" (which made vocodering a trip before Cher took it to hell), instant knees-up anthem "Yo-Yo" and totally berzerk "Jump N' Shout," all of which were lauded with cries and sky-jabs from the crowd. This is, after all, the stuff that won them love when they were still underground. Felix's love for latin fusion, jazz rock and New York house were all there, slapped with Simon Face of Stone's sleight-of-hand technical leaning and wedged in everywhere with disco, ragga, R&B, Chicago house, techno, jungle, flamenco, breakbeat, punk, garage and all their lovely bastard crossbreeds. It was a musical food fight at an all-you-can-eat: felt beats and loud bass pelted the idolating house fiends sore and silly.

By God, they were right. Basement Jaxx are the ludicrously good stuff--plus a bag of screams. Two skinny white Brit boys who started playing in the back of a Taco Joe's five years ago, they jacked it up in their basement to come up with a monthly night in Brixton that drove London's youth nuts. The twitching and the glittering alike frothed in the mouth to get in, and once inside, they foamed in the veins to get it on. Last March, Felix Buxton and Simon Ratcliffe dropped unsigned out of the continental sky into the Winter Music Conference in Miami, tearing up the Cameo with their irrepressible funk-house meltdown and rode their fat beat steed straight into a hot and hungry bidding war over what know-it's everywhere are dubbing the hottest thing to happen to house music this decade. Their freshly released debut album Remedy--everybody's favorite new album--has been hailed as the album of the year, and the eponymous cure to all the things that have gone wrong with house music. And this summer, they were all over Ibiza like a rash.

Five years, all that glam, and Mercury nomination rumors later, they can still raise the roof in a backroom. Which is what they like best.

--Phua Mei Pin

Backstreet Boys

September 21-22, Fleet Center

First of all, let me say that I make no apologies to those (oh-so-bitter) Harvard cynics who have forgotten the meaning of being a kid. I am verily aware of those who will scoff at my words and ridicule what I'm about to say. However, I refuse to build some expected Harvard facade that makes being a teenager--a nave teenager -- uncool. I refuse to forget (or ignore) the innocence of a dream. Because on Tuesday night, Sept. 21st at exactly 8:35 PM in the Fleet Center, my dream came true when the Backstreet Boys exploded onstage in galactic gear on flying skateboards, pelvic thrusting and grinding their way into my heart. Like their opening song, my vision of them became "larger than life."

So you hate me already, right? Well, then go back to your preordained cynicism, your instinctive mockery. I'll be the one who goes out on a limb. After all, I felt something deep and real when I looked up into the beautiful faces of Howie D., Brian, Kevin, Nick and AJ. Somehow, I found myself sucked into the real life desperation of the thousands of crying and hysterical teeny-boppers. I felt their pain (the screaming, oh the screaming!). I saw the faces of true love--so close yet so far. I was touching the stars, but could not quite reach them. I became a clich.

But never mind my personal suffering. Without any bias whatsoever (I'll try to be an honest reporter for a moment), the Backstreet Boys delivered an energetic and completely spellbinding show. The concert struck like an avalanche, as the boys emerged from the sky (they might as well been "gods" descending from the heavens to their shrieking fans) amidst smoke, light and thundering fireworks to the opening score of Star Wars. They followed their "Larger Than Life" opening with other Millennium debut material, each song displaying a harder and edgier sound than their older hits. Likewise, the choreographed dancing and effects were red-hot. The entire scene was mass hysteria--an electric visual thrill that ignited even the most bitter skeptic. Whoever thought the Backstreet Boys could be passionate?

Though the group raised some eyebrows with their pulsing rhythms and provocative moves, they nevertheless managed to balance their presentation with new romantic ballads such as "Show Me The Meaning of Being Lonely," "I Need You Tonight" and "Spanish Eyes" (which was specially dedicated to me). Clad in rose-colored Dick-Tracy-like suits, the group further established their intoxicatingly sweet presence by serenading the audience with classic hits like "Quit Playing Games With My Heart," "As Long As You Love Me" and "I'll Never Break Your Heart." At one point in the show, the boys brought up five mother-daughter couples and dedicated "The Perfect Fan" (a new song Brian wrote about his mother) to each mom present there with her daughter. Being the softie that I am, I cried. I actually didn't stop crying until I got home. More about that later.

After the romantic set, the concert's ending was fast-approaching, and the sudden thought of losing sight of these precious souls welled a knot of desperate sadness in my throat. I had to do something, I had to get closer. So I decided to relocate illegally towards the front row. As confetti rained down during the closing numbers, I pushed and shoved, paving my path towards five kindred spirits. Then disaster struck. Darkness fell upon me as I realized that the boys were bowing their final farewells as I had just reached the front. The lights went out and my heart sank. I lost them. I totally lost them. (The boat sinks, Celine Dion thumps her chest in the background, etc. etc.)

But wait! Suddenly, familiar notes rang out in the wailing darkness. "You are... my fire..." My heart pounded as I saw the Backstreet Boys re-emerge from the bottom of the stage to deliver their smash-hit single "I Want It That Way," giving themselves completely to the audience. Screaming with hysteria I looked up to see Kevin was standing right above me. I couldn't help but to wave and furiously proclaim my undying devotion. And then it happened--he looked at me. At me! (I wanted to make a last ditch run to the bathroom to check my hair and makeup....) If he hadn't been in the middle of his song, I'm pretty sure he would have proposed marriage. He waved, smiled and threw the teddy bear that he happened to be holding in his hand. I caught the teddy bear. My life was complete.

In utter awe, I stood inside the concert auditorium for a good ten minutes after the show. I then proceeded to collect the silver confetti lying on the stage in front of me. In silence, teddy-bear in hand, I walked towards the T, trying to avoid a flood of tears. They came anyway. I--a Harvard student (a premed for that matter!)--am a teenybopper. An unashamed, ecstatic teenybopper.