ON THE TOWN: Don’t take the reports...

ON THE TOWN: Don’t take the reports of the death of New York night life too seriously. Clubs here are like streetcars--if you miss one, there’ll be another along soon. The hip-hop crowd still hangs out at the World on Wednesdays, where you could’ve seen rap-gangsters the Jungle Brothers perform. And what a performance--they take the stage munching on bananas. If you’re looking for a more chic scene, try a new, unnamed downtown club at 428 Lafayette (known to locals as Undochine, since it’s underneath a restaurant named Indochine). Or you could stop off in SoHo at the Milk Bar, a tiny basement club that offers an odd assortment of in-crowd faves, perhaps the oddest being Edwige, a Parisian-born chanteuse who has been written up as a leading lady of the city’s underground in Vanity Fair, the Village Voice and the New Yorker. The latter magazine said that she sings “sad and beautiful” songs, noting that she compares herself to Marlene Dietrich “because she is lazy and I’m just like that.”

We’re always a bit skeptical of trendy New York icons--and our skepticism was amply rewarded by Edwige, a tall, slender woman who didn’t so much sing as talk over a series of weary Euro-disco instrumental tracks. It’s easy to see why she’s so popular in certain circles here--she’s sexy and monotonous. Her throaty whisper is striking--if she had a deeper voice and could gain about 200 pounds, she could be the Barry White of the Village. Wearing black slacks and a silk shirt, she seemed ill at ease, berating nearby patrons for talking and frequently rushing off into another room to complain about the sound. Fortunately, her sets were not of Springsteen-length duration. In fact, she only managed a total of nine songs in two sets, the best being a languid swing version of Sting’s “Moon Over Bourbon Street.” After her second show, Edwige was approached by a leather jacket-clad female admirer, who asked where she was from. “France, of course,” she said coolly. Her admirer moved closer. “But what part of France?” Edwige eyed her fan with boredom and contempt. “Paris,” she said. “The only part.”