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.