Private Dancer

Somewhere, deep in John Nash's most private journals, lies an arcane equation. It's lost on the layman, but it reduces all the variable thrills of attending a show to the pints of sweat that must be mopped from the stage afterward. In the deepest cloisters of the mathematical community, this is known as the Private Dancer Formula. Named for the Minneapolis rock five-piece, the equation is finding applications outside the world of advanced trigonometry—it comments effectively on the lopsided ratio of hands in pockets to hands in air, increased beer sales during their performances, and the undeniable catchiness that propels the band and their spectators into a dance-y free-for-all that would make even the most bespectacled chaos mathematician shut his notebook. Even if you flunked freshman algebra, Private Dancer's debut EP, dropping tonight at the Turf, rings with a sincere pop jingle that is too grand to be contained in a lowly integer. 21+.
Sat., Aug. 30, 9 p.m., 2008

 
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