In June 2006 Honkytonks rocked to new heights as Monsieur Paris cranked out his trademark sonic chic. It was one of those ‘Fuck off! I’m dancing!’ soirees – my companions and I didn’t exchange a single word all night, just inane grins and dancefloor devotion.

The promise of an encore rendezvous with Monsieur Paris puts a spring in my step. No jacket’s required on this balmy evening and Duckboard Place beckons with a knowing smile. I scale the familiar staircase. My steps are punctuated by relentless, driving beats. Gravitating towards a wall of sound, I kick myself for having missed a nanosecond.

It’s hard to see a centimetre in front of your face but who needs sight when you’ve got these sounds? Adding UV lights to the newly ‘derelict’ ambience of the-venue-formerly-known-as-Honkytonks, illuminates an assortment of dancing white T-shirts and Hollywood smiles. The bar staff don fluorescent war-paint which helps navigate thirsty souls to their salvation. Note to self; do not wear white underwear beneath sheer garments to this venue unless you fancy winding up like Jodie Foster in The Accused!

Lads are given the cold shoulder – blame it on the beats! A section of the floor gets a good working over as we are served up a portion of Hot Chip. My companion announces that a pizza is being delivered to Paris’ shady, grill-veneered booth but I think she’s just enjoying herself far too much! It is quite a sight seeing obliging aficionados light Paris’ cigarette through said lattice later in the set.

Unlike the star of One Night In Paris, Tim Paris possesses a certain je ne sais quoi. I fight off a moment of “Can you please tell me what this track is called?” in favour of wishing and hoping it is within his latest mix. I strongly suggest you treat your ears – www.marketingmusic.fr. I may or may not recognise the track but there was more than a puff of Alex Smoke genius in its production. Described on his myspace as the maestro of “Lounge/ Goth/ Glam”, Paris creates a symbiosis between your eardrums and your feet.

The disappointingly sparse crowd finds him impossible to resist and all couches remain vacant. We are in the zone. His gratifyingly long set has him grooving away behind the console in between fastidious vinyl selections and fervent tweaks. Earlier attempts to maintain composure are cast aside as I venture over to the booth to thank him for an evening of excellence (don’t worry I withheld my dodgy Year 8 French!) He blows kisses of gratitude my way – so Frenchy, so chic! For the sonic enlightenment, merci beaucoup!