All the clubs are closed. A bunch of mates are still high. They go back to someone's joint, hang out and do weird shit together.
Watching Pose Band feels like we're witnessing the Go-Pro footage of it. There's 12 people 'dancing' on stage — they're out of time, but unexplainably in sync — holding our attention as they disappear and reappear in cloud-printed onesies, trackies and a tee, or Cheap Mondays and a pair of thongs. All sense is lost as they explore mimesis and narratives-within-narratives, chatting among themselves mid-dance or simply sticky-taping iPhones to their bodies. It's all a bit silly.
